'When in Boston, I saw the Kembles twice,--in "Much ado about
Nothing," and "The Stranger." The first night I felt much
disappointed in Miss K. In the gay parts a coquettish, courtly
manner marred the wild mirth and wanton wit of Beatrice. Yet,
in everything else, I liked her conception of the part; and
where she urges Benedict to fight with Claudio, and where she
reads Benedict's sonnet, she was admirable. But I received no
more pleasure from Miss K.'s acting out the part than I have
done in reading it, and this disappointed me. Neither did
I laugh, but thought all the while of Miss K.,--how very
graceful she was, and whether this and that way of rendering
the part was just. I do not believe she has comic power within
herself, though tasteful enough to comprehend any part. So
I went home, vexed because my "heart was not full," and my
"brain not on fire" with enthusiasm. I drank my milk, and went
to sleep, as on other dreary occasions, and dreamed not of
Miss Kemble.
'Next night, however, I went expectant, and all my soul was
satisfied. I saw her at a favorable distance, and she looked
beautiful. And as the scene rose in interest, her attitudes,
her gestures, had the expression which an Angelo could give
to sculpture. After she tells her story,--and I was almost
suffocated by the effort she made to divulge her sin and
fall,--she sunk to the earth, her head bowed upon her knee,
her white drapery falling in large, graceful folds about this
broken piece of beautiful humanity, _crushed_ in the very
manner so well described by Scott when speaking of a far
different person, "not as one who intentionally stoops,
kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a
man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible
force, which crushes him to the earth without power of
resistance." A movement of abhorrence from me, as her
insipid confidante turned away, attested the triumph of the
poet-actress. Had not all been over in a moment, I believe
I could not have refrained from rushing forward to raise the
fair frail being, who seemed so prematurely humbled in her
parent dust. I burst into tears; and, with the stifled,
hopeless feeling of a real sorrow, continued to weep till the
very end; nor could I recover till I left the house.
'That is genius, which could give such life to this play; for,
if I may judge from other parts, it is defaced by inflated
sentiments, and verified by few natural touches. I wish I had
it to read, for I should like to recall her every tone and
look.'
* * * * *
'I have been studying Flaxman and Retzsch. How pure, how
immortal, the language of Form! Fools cannot fancy they
fathom its meaning; witless _dillettanti_ cannot degrade it by
hackneyed usage; none but genius can create or reproduce it.
Unlike the colorist, he who expresses his thought in form is
secure as man can be against the ravages of time.'
* * * * *
'I went to the Athenæum in an agonizing conflict of mind, when
some high influence was needed to rouse me from the state
of sickly sensitiveness, which, much as I despise, I cannot
wholly conquer. How soothing it was to feel the blessed power
of the Ideal world, to be surrounded, once more with the
records of lives poured out in embodying thought in beauty!
I seemed to breathe my native atmosphere, and smoothed my
ruffled pinions.'
* * * * *
'No wonder God made a world to express his thought. Who, that
has a soul for beauty, does not feel the need of creating, and
that the power of creation alone can satisfy the spirit? When
I thus reflect, the Artist seems the only fortunate man. Had I
but as much creative genius as I have apprehensiveness!'
* * * * *
'How transcendently lovely was the face of one young angel by
Raphael! It was the perfection of physical, moral, and mental
life. Variegated wings, of pinkish-purple touched with green,
like the breasts of doves, and in perfect harmony with the
complexion, spring from the shoulders upwards, and against
them leans the divine head. The eye seems fixed on the centre
of being, and the lips are gently parted, as if uttering
strains of celestial melody.'
* * * * *
'The head of Aspasia was instinct with the voluptuousness of
intellect. From the eyes, the cheek, the divine lip, one might
hive honey. Both the Loves were exquisite: one, that zephyr
sentiment which visits all the roses of life; the other, the
Amore Greco, may be fitly described in these words of Landor:
"There is a gloom in deep love, as in deep water; there is a
silence in it which suspends the foot, and the folded arms and
the dejected head are the images it reflects. No voice shakes
its surface; the Muses themselves approach it with a tardy and
a timid step, with a low and tremulous and melancholy song."'
* * * * *
'The Sibyl I understood. What grace in that beautiful oval!
what apprehensiveness in the eye! Such is female Genius; it
alone understands the God. The Muses only sang the praises of
Apollo; the Sibyls interpreted his will. Nay, she to whom it
was offered, refused the divine union, and preferred remaining
a satellite to being absorbed into the sun. You read in the
eye of this one, and the observation is confirmed by the
low forehead, that the secret of her inspiration lay in the
passionate enthusiasm of her nature, rather than in the ideal
perfection of any faculty.
* * * * *
'A Christ, by Raphael, that I saw the other night, brought
Christianity more home to my heart, made me more long to
be like Jesus, than ever did sermon. It is from one of the
Vatican frescoes. The Deity,--a stern, strong, wise man, of
about forty-five, in a square velvet cap, truly the Jewish
God, inflexibly just, yet jealous and wrathful,--is at the
top of the picture, looking with a gaze of almost frowning
scrutiny down into his world. A step below is the Son.
Stately angelic shapes kneel near him in dignified
adoration,--brothers, but not peers. A cloud of more ecstatic
seraphs floats behind the Father. At the feet of the Son is
the Holy Ghost, the Heavenly Dove. In the description, by a
connoisseur, of this picture, read to me while I was looking
at it, it is spoken of as in Raphael's first manner, cold,
hard, trammeled. But to me how did that face proclaim the
Infinite Love! His head is bent back, as if seeking to
behold the Father. His attitude expresses the need of adoring
something higher, in order to keep him at his highest. What
sweetness, what purity, in the eyes! I can never express it;
but I felt, when looking at it, the beauty of reverence, of
self-sacrifice, to a degree that stripped the Apollo of his
beams.'