Among the persons whom I used to see behind the scenes were two who, for
different reasons, attracted my attention: one was the Earl of W----,
and the other the Rev. A.F. C----. I was presented to Lord and Lady
W---- in society, and visited them more than once at their place near
Manchester. But before I had made Lord W----'s acquaintance, he was an
object of wondering admiration to me, not altogether unmixed with a
slight sense of the ridiculous, only because it passed my comprehension
how any real, live man could be so exactly like the description of a
particular kind of man, in a particular kind of book. There was no fault
to find with the elegance of his appearance and his remarkable good
looks; he certainly was the beau ideal of a dandy,--with his slender,
perfectly dressed figure, his pale complexion, regular features, fine
eyes, and dark, glossy waves of hair, and the general aristocratic
distinction of his whole person,--and was so like the Earl of So-and-So,
in the fashionable novel of the day, that I always longed to ask him
what he did at the end of the "third volume," and "whether he or Sir
Reginald married Lady Geraldine." But why this exquisite _par
excellence_ should always have struck me as slightly absurd, I cannot
imagine. The Rev. A.F. C---- was the natural son of William IV. and Mrs.
Jordan, and vicar of Maple Durham; when first I came out, this young
gentleman attended every one of my performances, first in one of the
stage boxes and afterward in a still nearer position to the stage, one
of the orchestra reserved seats. Thence, one night, he disappeared, and,
to my surprise, I saw him standing at one of the side scenes during the
whole play. My mother remarking at supper his non-attendance in his
usual place, my father said that he had come to him at the beginning of
the play, and asked, for his mother's sake, to be allowed occasionally
to present himself behind the scenes. My father said this reference to
Mrs. Jordan had induced him to grant the request so put, though he did
not think the back of the scenes a very proper haunt for a gentleman of
his cloth. There, however, Mr. F. C---- came, and evening after evening
I saw his light kid gloves waving and gesticulating about, following in
a sort of sympathetic dumb show the gradual development of my distress,
to the end of the play. My father, at his request, presented him to me,
but as I never remained behind the scenes or went into the green-room,
and as he could not very well follow me upon the stage, our intercourse
was limited to silent bows and courtesies, as I went on and off, to my
palace in Verona, or from Friar Laurence's cell. Mr. F. C---- appeared
to me to have slightly mistaken his vocation: that others had done so
for him was made more manifest to me by my subsequent acquaintance with
him. I encountered him one evening at a very gay ball given by the
Countess de S----. Almost as soon as I came into the room he rushed at
me, exclaiming, "Oh, do come and dance with me, that's a dear good
girl." The "dear good girl" had not the slightest objection to dancing
with anybody, dancing being then my predominant passion, and a chair a
perfectly satisfactory partner if none other could be come by. While
dancing, I was unpleasantly struck with the decidedly unreverend tone of
my partner's remarks. Clergymen danced in those days without reproach,
but I hope that even in those days of dancing clerks they did not often
talk so very much to match the tripping of the light fantastic toe. My
amazement reached its climax when, seeing me exchange signs of amicable
familiarity with some one across the room, Mr. F. C---- said, "Who are
you nodding and smiling to? Oh, your father. You are very fond of him,
ain't you?" To my enthusiastic reply in the affirmative, he said, "Ah,
yes; just so. I dare say you are." And then followed an expression of
his filial disrespect for the highest personage in the realm, of such a
robust significance as fairly took away my breath. Surprised into a
momentary doubt of my partner's sobriety, I could only say, "Mr. F.
C----, if you do not change your style of conversation I must sit down
and leave you to finish the dance alone." He confounded himself in
repeated apologies and entreaties that I would finish the dance with
him, and as I could not find a word to say to him, he went on eagerly to
excuse himself by a short sketch of his life, telling me that he had not
been bred to the Church and had the greatest disinclination to taking
orders; that he had been trained as a sailor, the navy being the career
that he preferred above all others, but that in consequence of the death
of a brother he had been literally taken from on board ship, and, in
spite of the utmost reluctance on his part, compelled to go into the
Church. "Don't you think it's a hard case?" reiterated he, as I still
found it difficult to express my opinion either of him or of his "case,"
both appearing to me equally deplorable. At length I suggested that,
since he had adopted the sacred calling he professed, perhaps it would
be better if he conformed to it at least by outward decency of language
and decorum of demeanor. To this he assented, adding with a sigh, "But,
you see, some people have a natural turn for religion; you have, for
instance, I'm sure; but you see I have not." This appeared to me
incontrovertible. Presently, after a pause, he asked me if I would write
a sermon for him, which tribute to my talent for preaching, of which he
had just undergone a sample, sent me into fits of laughter, though I
replied with some indignation, "Certainly not; I am not a proper person
to write sermons, and you ought to write your own!" "Yes," said he, with
rather touching humility, "but you see I can't,--not good ones, at
least. I'm sure you could, and I wish you would write one for me; Mrs.
N---- has." This statement terminated the singular conversation, which
had been the accompaniment to a quadrille. The vicar of Maple Durham is
dead; had he lived he would doubtless have become a bishop; his family
had already furnished its contingent to the army and navy, in Lord E.
and Lord A.F. C----, and the living of Maple Durham had to be filled and
he to be provided for; and whenever the virtues of the Established
Church system are under discussion, I try to forget this, and one or two
similar instances I have known of its vices as it existed in those days.
But that was near "fifty years since," and such a story as that of my
poor sailor-parson friend could hardly be told now. Nor could one often
now in any part of England find the fellow of my friend H. D----, who
was also the predestined incumbent of a family living. He was
passionately fond of hunting; and, clinging to his beloved "pink" even
after holy orders had made it rather indecorous wear, used to huddle on
his sacred garments of office at week-day solemnities of marrying or
burying, and, having accomplished his clerical duties, rapidly divest
himself of his holy robes, and bloom forth in unmitigated scarlet and
buckskins, while the temporary cloud of sanctity which had obscured them
was rapidly rolled into the vestry closet.
I confess to having heard with sincere sympathy the story of a certain
excellent clergyman of Yorkshire breeding, who, finding it impossible to
relinquish his hunting, carried it on simultaneously with the most exact
and faithful discharge of his clerical duties until, arriving at length
at the high dignity of the archbishopric of York, though neither less
able for, nor less devoted to, his favorite pursuit, thought it
expedient to abandon it and ride to hounds no more. He still rode,
however, harder, farther, faster, and better than most men, but
conscientiously avoided the hunting-field. Coming accidentally, one day,
upon the hounds when they had lost the scent, and trotting briskly away,
after a friendly acknowledgment of the huntsman's salutation, he
presently caught sight of the fox, when, right reverend prelate as he
was, he gave a "view halloo" to be heard half the county over, and fled
in the opposite direction at a full gallop, while the huntsman, in an
ecstasy, cheered on his pack with an exclamation of "That's gospel
truth, if ever I heard it!"
A.F. C---- was pleasant-looking, though not handsome, like the royal
family of England, whose very noble _port de tête_ he had, with a
charming voice that, my father said, came to him from his mother.
I have spoken of my being allowed to take riding lessons, and of
purchasing a horse, which was not only an immense pleasure to me, but, I
believe, a very necessary means of health and renovation, in the life of
intense and incessant excitement which I was leading.
For some time after my first coming out I lost my sleep almost entirely,
and used to lie wide awake the greater part of the night. With more use
of my new profession this nervous wakefulness wore off; but I was
subject to very frequent and severe pains in the side, which any strong
emotion almost invariably brought on, and which were relieved by nothing
but exercise on horseback. The refreshment of this panacea for bodily
and mental ailments was always such to me, that often, returning from
balls where I had danced till daylight, I used to feel that if I could
have an hour's gallop in the fresh morning air, I should be revived
beyond all sleep that I could then get.
Once only I was allowed to test my theory, and I found that the result
answered my expectations entirely. I had been acting in Boston every
night for a whole week, and on Saturday night had acted in two pieces,
and was to start at one o'clock in the morning for New York, between
which and Boston there was no railroad in those days. I was not feeling
well, and was much exhausted by my hard work, but I was sure that if I
could only begin my journey on horseback instead of in the lumbering,
rolling, rocking, heavy, straw-and-leather-smelling "Exclusive Extra"
(that is, private stage-coach), I should get over my fatigue and the
rest of the journey with some chance of not being completely knocked up
by it. After much persuasion my father consented, and after the two
pieces of our farewell night, to a crowded, enthusiastic house, all the
excitement of which of course told upon me even more than the actual
exertion of acting, I had some supper, and at one o'clock, with our
friend, Major M----, and ----, got on horseback, and rode out of Boston.
Major M---- rode with us only about three miles, and then turned back,
leaving us to pursue our road to Dedham, seven miles farther, where the
carriage, with my father and aunt, was to meet us.
The thermometer stood at seventeen degrees below zero; it was the middle
of a Massachusetts winter, and the cold intense. The moon was at the
full, and the night as bright as day; not a stone but was visible on the
iron-hard road, that rang under our horses' hoofs. The whole country was
sheeted with snow, over which the moon threw great floods of yellow
light, while here and there a broken ridge in the smooth, white expanse
turned a sparkling, crystalline edge up to the lovely splendor. It was
wonderfully beautiful and exhilarating, though so cold that my vail was
all frozen over my lips, and we literally hardly dared utter a word for
fear of swallowing scissors and knives in the piercing air, which,
however, was perfectly still and without the slightest breath of wind.
So we rode hard and fast and silently, side by side, through the bright,
profound stillness of the night, and never drew rein till we reached
Dedham, where the carriage with my father and aunt had not yet arrived.
Not a soul was stirring, and not a sound was heard, in the little New
England village; the country tavern was fast shut up; not a light
twinkled from any window, or thread of smoke rose from any chimney;
every house had closed its eyes and ears, and gone to sleep. We had
ridden the whole way as fast as we could, and had kept our blood warm by
the violent exercise, but there was every danger, if we sat many minutes
on our saddles in the piercing cold, that we should be all the worse
instead of the better for that circumstance. Mr. ---- rode along the
houses, looking for some possible shelter, and at last, through the
chink of a shutter, spying a feeble glimmer of light, dismounted, and,
knocking, asked if it were possible for me to be admitted there for a
few minutes, till the carriage, which could not be far distant, came up.
He was answered in the affirmative, and I jumped down from my saddle,
and ran into the friendly refuge, while he paced rapidly to and fro
before the house, leading the horses, to keep himself and them alike
from freezing; a man was to come on the coach-box with the driver, to
take them back to Boston. On looking round I found myself in a miserable
little low room, heated almost to suffocation by an iron stove, and
stifling with the peculiar smell of black dye-stuffs. Here, by the light
of two wretched bits of candle, two women were working with the utmost
dispatch at mourning-garments for a funeral which was to take place that
day, in a few hours. They did not speak to me after making room for me
near the stove, and the only words they exchanged with each other were
laconic demands for scissors, thread, etc.; and so they rapidly plied
their needles in silence, while I, suddenly transported from the cold
brightness without into this funereal, sweltering atmosphere of what
looked like a Black Hole made of crape and bombazine, watched the
lugubrious occupation of the women as if I was in a dream, till the
distant rumbling of wheels growing more and more distinct, I took leave
of my temporary hostesses with many thanks (they were poor New England
workwomen, by whom no other species of acknowledgment would have been
received), and was presently fast asleep in the corner of the carriage,
and awoke only long after to feel rested and refreshed, and well able to
endure the fatigue of the rest of the journey. In spite of this
fortunate result, I do not now, after a lapse of forty years, think the
experiment one that would have answered with many young women's
constitutions, though there is no sort of doubt that the nervous energy
generated by any pleasurable emotion is in itself a great preservative
from unfavorable influences.
My riding-master was the best and most popular teacher in
London--Captain Fozzard--or, as he was irreverently called among his
young Amazons, "Old Fozzard." When my mother took me to the riding
school, he recalled, with many compliments, her own proficiency as an
equestrian, and said he would do his best to make me as fine a
horsewoman as she had been. He certainly did his best to improve a very
good seat, and a heavy, defective hand with which nature had endowed me;
the latter, however, was incorrigible, and so, though I was always a
fearless horsewoman, and very steady in my saddle, I never possessed the
finer and more exquisite part of the accomplishment of riding, which
consists in the delicate and skillful management of a horse's mouth.
Fozzard's method was so good that all the best lady riders in London
were his pupils, and one could tell one of them at a glance, by the
perfect squareness of the shoulders to the horse's head, which was one
invariable result of his teaching. His training was eminently calculated
to produce that result, and to make us all but immovable in our saddles.
Without stirrup, without holding the reins, with our arms behind us, and
as often as not sitting left-sided on the saddle, to go through violent
plunging, rearing, and kicking lessons, and taking our horses over the
bar, was a considerable test of a firm seat, and in all these special
feats I became a proficient.
One day, when I had gone to the school more for exercise than a lesson,
and was taking a solitary canter in the tan for my own amusement, the
little door under the gallery opened, and Fozzard appeared, introducing
a middle-aged lady and a young girl, who remained standing there while
he advanced toward me, and presently began to put me through all my most
crucial exercises, apparently for their edification. I was always
delighted to go through these particular feats, which amused me
excessively, and in which I took great pride. So I sat through them all,
till, upon a sign from the elder lady, Fozzard, with extreme deference,
opened the door and escorted them forth, and then returning to dismount
me, informed me that I had given a very satisfactory sample of his
teaching to the Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria, the latter of
whom was to be placed under his tuition forthwith.
This was the first time I ever saw the woman who holds the most exalted
position in the world, the Queen of England, who has so filled that
supreme station that her name is respected wherever it is heard abroad,
and that she is regarded by her own people with a loyal love such as no
earthly dignity but that of personal worthiness can command.
JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE.
DEAREST H----,
The kind exertion you made in writing to me so soon after leaving
London deserved an earlier acknowledgment; but when I tell you that
every day since Christmas I have fully purposed writing to you, and
have not been able to do so before to-day, I hope you will excuse
the delay, and believe me when I assure you that not only the
effort you made in going to the theater, but your seeing me at all,
are appreciated by me as very strong marks of your affection for
me.
Now let me say something to you about Lady C---- L----'s criticism
of my performance. In the first place, nothing is easier than to
criticise by comparison, and hardly anything much more difficult
than to form a correct judgment of any work of art (be it what it
may) upon the foundation of abstract principles and fundamental
rules of taste and criticism; for this sort of analysis is really a
study. Comparison is the criticism of the multitude, and I almost
wonder at its being resorted to by a woman of such ability as Lady
C----. I only say this by the way, for to be compared with either
Mrs. Siddons or Miss O'Neill is above my expectation. They were
both professional actresses, which I can hardly yet claim to be;
women who had for years studied the mechanical part of their art,
and rendered themselves proficients in their business; while
although I have certainly had many advantages, in hearing the stage
and acting constantly, tastefully, and thoughtfully discussed, I am
totally inexperienced in all the minor technical processes, most
necessary for the due execution of any dramatic conception. As to
my aunt Siddons--look at her, H----; look at her fine person, her
beautiful face; listen to her magnificent voice; and supposing that
I were as highly endowed with poetical dramatic imagination as she
was (which I certainly am not), is it likely that there can ever be
a shadow of comparison between her and myself, even when years may
have corrected all that is at present crude and imperfect in my
efforts?
This is my sole reply to her ladyship. To you, dearest H----, I can
add that I came upon the stage quite uncertain as to the possession
of any talent for it whatever; I do not think I am now deceived as
to the quantity I can really lay claim to, by the exaggerated
praises of the public, who have been too long deprived of any
female object of special interest on the boards to be very nice
about the first that is presented to them; nor am I unconscious of
the amount of work that will be requisite to turn my abilities to
their best use. Wait; have patience; by and by, I hope, I shall do
better. It is very true that to be the greatest actress of my day
is not the aim on which my happiness depends. But having embraced
this career, I think I ought not to rest satisfied with any degree
of excellence short of what my utmost endeavor will enable me to
attain in it....
My print, or rather the print of me, from Sir Thomas Lawrence's
drawing, is out. He has promised you one, so I do not. There are
also coming out a series of sketches by Mr. Hayter, from my Juliet,
with a species of _avant propos_ written by Mrs. Jameson; this will
interest you, and I will send you a copy of it when it is
published.
I will tell you a circumstance of much anxious hope to us all just
now, but as the result is yet uncertain, do not mention it. We have
a species of offer of a living for my brother John, who, you know,
is going into the Church. This is a consummation devoutly to be
wished, and I most sincerely hope we may not be disappointed. He is
still in Germany, very happy and very metaphysical; should we
obtain this living, however, I suppose he would return immediately.
Independently of my wish to see him again, I shall be glad when he
leaves Germany I think; but I have not time for what I think about
Germany to-day, and you must be rather tired of
Yours most affectionately,
F. A. K.
Mr. Hayter's graceful sketches of me in Juliet were lithographed and
published with Mrs. Jameson's beautifully written but too flattering
notice of my performance; the original drawings were purchased by Lord
Ellesmere. The second part assigned to me by the theater authorities was
Belvidera, in Otway's "Venice Preserved." I had never read the play
until I learned my part, nor seen it until I acted it. It is, I believe,
one of the longest female parts on the stage. But I had still my
school-girl capacity for committing quickly to memory, and learned it in
three hours. Acting it was a very different matter. I was no longer
sustained by the genius of Shakespeare, no longer stimulated by the
sublime passion and exquisite poetry. Juliet was a reality to me, a
living individual woman, whose nature I could receive, as it were, into
mine at once, without effort, comprehending and expressing it. Belvidera
seemed to me a sort of lay figure in a tragic attitude, a mere, "female
in general," without any peculiar or specific characteristics whatever;
placed as Belvidera is in the midst of sordidly painful and coarsely
agonizing circumstances, there was nothing in the part itself that
affected my feelings or excited my imagination; and the miserable
situations into which the poor creature was thrown throughout the piece
revolted me, and filled me with disgust for the men she had to do with,
without inspiring me with any sympathy for her. In this piece, too, I
came at once into the unfavorable light of full comparison with my
aunt's performance of the part, which was one of her famous ones. A
friend of hers and mine, my dear and excellent William Harness, said
that seeing me was exactly like looking at Mrs. Siddons through the
diminishing end of an opera glass. My personal likeness to her, in spite
of my diminutive size and irregular features, was striking, and of
course suggested, to those who remembered her, associations which were
fatal to my satisfactory performance of the part. I disliked the play
and the character of Belvidera, and I am sure I must have played it very
indifferently.
I remember one circumstance connected with my first performance of it
which proved how painfully the unredeemed horror and wretchedness of the
piece acted upon my nerves and imagination. In the last scene, where
poor Belvidera's brain gives way under her despair, and she fancies
herself digging for her husband in the earth, and that she at last
recovers and seizes him, I intended to utter a piercing scream; this I
had not of course rehearsed, not being able to scream deliberately in
cold blood, so that I hardly knew, myself, what manner of utterance I
should find for my madness. But when the evening came, I uttered shriek
after shriek without stopping, and rushing off the stage ran all round
the back of the scenes, and was pursuing my way, perfectly unconscious
of what I was doing, down the stairs that led out into the street, when
I was captured and brought back to my dressing-room and my senses.
The next piece in which I appeared was Murphy's "Grecian Daughter;" a
feeble and inflated composition, as inferior in point of dramatic and
poetical merit to Otway's "Venice Preserved," as that is to any of
Shakespeare's masterpieces. It has situations of considerable effect,
however, and the sort of parental and conjugal interest that infallibly
strikes sympathetic chords in the _pater familias_ bosom of an English
audience. The choice of the piece had in it, in my opinion, an
ingredient of bad taste, which, objectionable as it seemed to me, had
undoubtedly entered into the calculation of the management, as likely to
increase the effect and success of the play; I mean the constant
reference to Euphrasia's filial devotion, and her heroic and pious
efforts in behalf of her old father--incidents in the piece which were
seized upon and applied to my father and myself by the public, and which
may have perhaps added to the feeling of the audience, as they certainly
increased my dislike for the play. Here, too, I again encountered the
formidable impression which Mrs. Siddons had produced in the part, of
which, in spite of the turbid coldness and stilted emphasis of the
style, she had made a perfect embodiment of heroic grandeur and
classical grace. My Euphrasia was, I am sure, a pitiful picture of an
antique heroine, in spite of Macdonald's enthusiasm for the "attitude"
in the last scene, and my cousin Horace Twiss's comical verdict of
approbation, that it was all good, but especially the scene where "you
tip it the tyrant."
JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, January 17, 1830.
DEAREST H----,
Although my mind is much occupied just now with a new part in which
I appear to-morrow, I take advantage of the bodily rest this day
affords me to write you a few lines, which I fear I might not find
time for again as soon as I wish. There was enough in your last
letter, dear H----, to make me melancholy, independently of the
question which you ask respecting my picture in Juliet, and which
the papers have by this time probably answered to you.
Sir Thomas Lawrence is dead. The event has been most distressing,
and most sudden and unexpected to us. It really seemed as though we
had seen him but the day before we heard of it; and indeed, it was
but a few days since my mother had called on him, and since he had
written to me a long letter on the subject of my Belvidera, full of
refined taste and acute criticism, as all his letters to me were.
It was a great shock; indeed, so much so, that absolute amazement
for a little time prevented my feeing all the regret I have since
experienced about it. Nor was it till I sat down to write to
Cecilia, to request her to prevent any sudden communication of the
event to my aunt Siddons, that I felt it was really true, and found
some relief in crying. I had to act Belvidera that same night, and
it was with a very heavy heart that I repeated those passages in
which poor Sir Thomas Lawrence had pointed out alterations and
suggested improvements. He is a great loss to me, individually. His
criticism was invaluable to me. He was a most attentive observer;
no shade of feeling or slightest variation of action or inflection
of voice escaped him; his suggestions were _always_ improvements,
conveyed with the most lucid clearness; and, as you will easily
believe, his strictures were always sufficiently tempered with
refined flattery to have disarmed the most sensitive self-love. My
Juliet and Belvidera both owe much to him, and in this point of
view alone his loss is irreparable to me. It is some matter of
regret, too, as you may suppose, that we can have no picture of me
by him, but this is a more selfish and less important motive of
sorrow than my loss of his advice in my profession. I understand
that my aunt Siddons was dreadfully shocked by the news, and cried,
"And have I lived to see him go before me!" ... His promise to send
you a print from his drawing of me, dearest H----, he cannot
perform, but I will be his executor in this instance, and if you
will tell me how it can be conveyed to you, I will send you one.
This letter, my dearest H----, which was begun on Sunday, I now sit
down to finish on Tuesday evening, and cannot do better, I think,
than give you a full account of our last night's success; for a
very complete success it was, I am happy to say. Murphy's play of
"The Grecian Daughter" I suppose you know; or if you do not, your
state is the more gracious, for certainly anything more flat, poor,
and trashy I cannot well conceive. It had been, you know, a great
part of my aunt Siddons's, and nothing better proves her great
dramatic genius than her having clothed so meager a part in such
magnificent proportions as she gave to it, and filled out by her
own poetical conception the bare skeleton Mr. Murphy's Euphrasia
presented to her. This frightened me a great deal; Juliet and
Belvidera scarcely anybody can do ill, but Euphrasia I thought few
people could do well, and I feared I was not one of them. Moreover,
the language is at once so poor and so bombastic that I took double
the time in getting the part by rote I should have taken for any
part of Shakespeare's. My dress was beautiful; I think I will tell
it you. You know you told me even an account of hat and feathers
would interest you. My skirt was made immensely full and with a
long train; it was of white merino, almost as fine as cashmere,
with a rich gold Grecian border. The drapery which covered my
shoulders (if you wish to look for the sort of costume in
engravings, I give you its classical name, _peplum_) was made of
the same material beautifully embroidered, leaving my arms quite
free and uncovered. I had on flesh-colored silk gloves, of course.
A bright scarlet sash with heavy gilt acorns, falling to my feet,
scarlet sandals to match, and a beautiful Grecian head-dress in
gold, devised by my mother, completed the whole, which really had a
very classical effect, the fine material of which my dress was
formed falling with every movement into soft, graceful folds.
I managed to keep a good heart until I heard the flourish of drums
and trumpets, in the midst of which I had to rush on the stage, and
certainly when I did come on my appearance must have been curiously
in contrast with the "prave 'ords" I uttered, for I felt like
nothing but a hunted hare, with my eyes starting from my head, my
"nostrils all wide," and my limbs trembling to such a degree that I
could scarcely stand. The audience received me very kindly,
however, and after a little while I recovered my breath and
self-possession, and got on very comfortably, considering that,
what with nervousness and the short time they had had to study them
in, none of the actors were perfect in their parts. My father acted
Evander, which added, no doubt, to the interest of the situation.
The play went off admirably, and I dare say it will be of some
service to me, but I fear it is too dull and poor in itself,
despite all that can be done for it, to be of much use to the
theater. One of my great difficulties in the play was to produce
some striking effect after stabbing Dionysius, which was a point in
which my aunt always achieved a great triumph. She used to fall on
her knees as if deprecating the wrath of heaven for what she had
done, and her mode of performing this was described to me. But,
independently of my anxiety to avoid any imitation that might
induce a comparison that could not but be fatally to my
disadvantage, I did not (to you I may venture to confess it) feel
the situation in the same manner. Euphrasia had just preserved her
father's life by a deed which, in her own estimation and that of
her whole nation, entitled her to an immortal dwelling in the
Elysian fields. The only feeling, therefore, that I can conceive as
checking for a moment her exultation would be the natural womanly
horror at the sight of blood and physical suffering, the expression
of which seems to me not only natural to her, as of the "feminine
gender," but not altogether superfluous to reconcile an English
audience to so unfeminine a proceeding as stabbing a man. To
conciliate all this I adopted the course of immediately dropping
the arm that held the dagger, and with the other veiling my eyes
with the drapery of my dress, which answered better my own idea of
the situation, and seemed to produce a great effect. My dearest
H----, this is a long detail, but I think it will interest you and
perhaps amuse your niece; if, however, it wearies your spirits,
tell me so, and another time I will not confine my communications
so much to my own little-corner of life.
Cecilia dined with us on Sunday, but was very far from well. I have
not seen my aunt Siddons since Sir Thomas Lawrence's death. I
almost dread doing so: she must have felt so much on hearing it; he
was for many years so mixed up with those dearest to her, and his
memory must always recall theirs. I hear Campbell means to write
his life. His letters to me will perhaps be published in it. Had I
known they were likely to be so used, I would have preserved them
all. As it is, it is the merest chance that all of them are not
destroyed; for, admirable as they were in point of taste and
critical judgment, some of them seemed to me such mere specimens of
refined flattery that, having extracted the advice likely to be
profitable to me, I committed the epistles themselves to the
flames, which probably would have been the ultimate destination of
them all; but now they have acquired a sad value they had not
before, and I shall keep them as relics of a man of great genius
and, in many respects, I believe, a truly amiable person.
The drawing, which is, you know, my mother's property, is safe in
Mr. Lane's hands, and will be restored to us on Saturday. The
funeral takes place to-morrow; my father, I believe, will attend;
neither my mother nor myself can muster courage to witness it,
although we had places offered to us. It is to take place in St.
Paul's, for Westminster Abbey is full. All the beautiful unfinished
portraits which filled his rooms will be returned imperfect to
their owners, and I wonder who will venture to complete them, for
he has certainly not left his like behind him. Reports have been
widely spread that his circumstances were much embarrassed, but I
fancy when all his effects are sold there will be a small surplus.
He behaved with the utmost liberality about his drawing of me, for
he gave it to my mother, and would not accept of any remuneration
for the copyright of the print from Mr. Lane--who, it is said, made
three hundred pounds by the first impressions taken from it--saying
that he had had so much pleasure in the work that he would not take
a farthing for either time or trouble.
We are all tolerably well; I am quite so, and rejoice daily in that
strength of constitution which, among other of my qualifications,
entitles me to the appellation of "Shetland pony."
How are you all? How is E----? Tell her all about me, because it
may amuse her. I wish you could have seen me, dear H----, in my
Greek dress; I really look very well in it, and taller than usual,
in consequence of all the long draperies; moreover, I "stood
grandly" erect, and put off the "sidelong stoop" in favor of a more
heroic and statue-like deportment. Oh, H----, I am exceedingly
happy, _et pour peu de chose_, perhaps you will think: my father
has given me leave to have riding lessons, so that I shall be in
right earnest "an angel on horseback," and when I come to Ardgillan
(and it won't be long first) I shall make you mount upon a horse
and gallop over the sand with me; won't you, my dear? Believe me
ever your affectionate
FANNY.
The words in inverted commas at the end of this letter had reference to
some strictures Miss S---- had made upon my carriage, and to a family
joke against me in consequence of my having once said, in speaking of my
desire to ride, that I should not care to be an angel in heaven unless I
could be an "angel on horseback." My invariable description of a woman
riding was "a happy woman," and after much experience of unhappiness,
certainly not dissipated by equestrian exercise, I still agree with
Wordsworth that "the horse and rider are a happy pair." After acting the
Grecian Daughter for some time I altered my attitude in the last scene,
after the murder of Dionysius, more to my own satisfaction: instead of
dropping the arm that held the dagger by my side, I raised the weapon to
heaven, as if appealing to the gods for justification and tendering
them, as it were, the homage of my deed; of course I still continued to
vail my eyes and turn my head away from the sight of my victim.
JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, Saturday, February 20th.
DEAREST H----,
I need hardly apologize to you for my long silence, for I am sure
that you will have understood it to have proceeded from no want of
inclination on my part to answer your last, but from really not
having had half an hour at my command in which to do so. I have
thought, too (although that has not prevented my writing), much
upon the tenor of your letter, and the evident depression it was
written in, and I hardly know how to resolve: whether I ought not
to forbear wearying you with matters which every way are discordant
with your own thoughts and feelings, or whether it is better, by
inducing you to answer me, to give you some motive, however
trifling, for exertion. Dearest H----, if the effort of writing to
me is too painful to you, do not do it. I give you a most
disinterested counsel, for I have told you more than once how much
I prize your letters, and you know it is true. Still, I do not
think my "wish is father to my thought" when I say that I think it
is not good for you to lose entirely even such an interest as I am
to you. I say "even such an interest," because I believe your
trouble must have rendered me and my pursuits, for the present at
least, less likely than they have been to occupy a place in your
thoughts. But 'tis for you to decide; if my letters weary or annoy
you, tell me so, dear H----, and I will not write to you until you
can "follow my paces" better. If you do not like to make the
exertion of answering me, I will still continue to let you know my
proceedings, and take it for granted that you will not cease to
love me and think of me. Dear H----, I shall see you this summer
again; you, and yours, whom I love for your sake. I shall go on
with this letter, because if you are inclined for a gossip you can
read it; and if not, it may perhaps amuse your invalid. I have been
uncommonly gay, for me, this winter, and I dare say shall continue
to be so, as it does not disagree with me, and I am so fond of
dancing that a quadrille renders palatable what otherwise would be,
I think, disagreeable enough--the manner in which society is now
organized. I was at a very large party the other night, at the poet
Campbell's, where every material for a delightful evening--good
rooms, pretty women, clever men--was brought into requisition to
make what, after all, appeared to me nothing but a wearisome, hot
crowd. The apartments were overfilled: to converse with anybody for
five minutes was impossible. If one stood up one was squeezed to
death, and if one sat down one was stifled. I, too (who was the
small lioness of the evening), was subjected to a most disagreeable
ordeal, the whole night being stared at from head to foot by every
one that could pass within staring distance of me. You probably
will wonder at this circumstance distressing a young person who
three times a week exhibits herself on the stage to several hundred
people, but there I do not distinguish the individual eyes that are
fixed on me, and my mind is diverted from the annoyances of my real
situation by the distressful circumstances of my feigned one.
Moreover, to add to my sorrows, at the beginning of the evening a
lady spilled some coffee over a beautiful dress which I was wearing
for the first time. Now I will tell you what consolations I had to
support me under these trials; first, the self-approving
consciousness of the smiling fortitude with which I bore my gown's
disaster; secondly, a lovely nosegay, which was presented to me;
and lastly, at about twelve o'clock, when the rooms were a little
thinned, a dance for an hour which sent me home perfectly satisfied
with my fate. By the bye, I asked Campbell if he knew any method to
preserve my flowers from fading, to which he replied, "Give them to
me, and I will immortalize them." I did so, and am expecting some
verses from him in return.
On Thursday next I come out in Mrs. Beverley; I am much afraid of
it. The play wants the indispensable attribute of all works of
art--imagination; it is a most touching story, and Mrs. Beverley is
a most admirable creature, but the story is such as might be read
in a newspaper, and her character has its like in many an English
home. I think the author should have idealized both his incidents
and his heroine a little, to produce a really fine play. Mrs.
Beverley is not one shade inferior to Imogen in purity, in conjugal
devotion, and in truth, but while the one is to all intents and
purposes a model wife, a poet's touch has made of the other a
divine image of all that is lovely and excellent in woman; and yet,
certainly, Imogen is quite as _real_ a conception as Mrs. Beverley.
The absence of the poetical element in the play prevents my being
enthusiastic about my part, and I am the more nervous about it for
that reason; when I am excited I feel that I can excite others, but
in this case--However, we shall see; I may succeed with it better
than I expect, and perhaps my audience may like to see me as a
quiet, sober lady, after the Belvideras and Juliets and Euphrasias
they have hitherto seen me represent. I will tell you my dress: it
is a silver gray silk, and a white crape hat with drooping
feathers. I think it will be very pretty. My father acts Beverley
with me, which will be a great advantage to me.
Oh! I must tell you of a delightful adventure which befell me the
other night while I was acting in "The Grecian Daughter." Mr.
Abbot, who personates my husband, Phocion, at a certain part of the
play where we have to embrace, thought fit to clasp me so
energetically in his arms that he threw me down, and fell down
himself. I fell seated, with all my draperies in most modest order,
which was very fortunate, but certainly I never was more frightened
or confused. However, I soon recovered my presence of mind, and
helped my better half on with his part, for he was quite aghast,
poor man, at his own exploit, and I do believe would have been
standing with his eyes and mouth wide open to this moment, if I had
not managed to proceed with the scene somehow and anyhow.
I gave the commission for your print of me, dear H----, to
Colnaghi, and I hope you will like it, and that the more you look
at it the stronger the likeness will appear to you. Was my brother
John returned from Germany, when last I wrote to you? I forget.
However, he has just left us to take his degree at Cambridge,
previous to being ordained. Henry, too, returned yesterday to
Paris, so that the house is in mourning for its liveliest inmates.
I continue quite well, and indeed I think my work agrees with me;
or if I am a little tired with acting, why, a night's dancing soon
sets me right again. T---- B---- is in town, and came to see me the
other day. I like her; she is a gentle, nice person; she is going
back in a week to Cassiobury. How I wish you and I had wings, and
that Heath Farm belonged to us! It is coming to the time of year
when we first became acquainted; and, besides all its associations
of kindly feeling and affectionate friendship, your image is
connected in my mind with all the pleasantest things in nature--the
spring, May blossoms, glow-worms, "bright hill and bosky dell;" and
it dates from somewhere "twixt the last violet and the earliest
rose," which is not a quotation, though I have put it in inverted
commas, but something that just came to the tip of my pen and looks
like poetry. I must leave off now, for I got leave to stay at home
to-night to write to you instead of going to the opera, with many
injunctions that I would go to bed early; so, now it is late, I
must do so. Good-by, dearest H----; believe me ever
Yours most affectionately,
F. A. K.
P.S.--This is my summer tour--Bath, Edinburgh, Dublin, Liverpool,
Manchester, and Birmingham. I am Miss _Fanny_ Kemble, because Henry
Kemble's daughter, my uncle Stephen's granddaughter, is Miss Kemble
by right of birth.
The lady who spoiled my pretty cream-colored poplin dress by spilling
coffee on the front of it, instantly, in the midst of her vehement
self-upbraidings and humble apologies for her awkwardness, adopted a
very singular method of appeasing my displeasure and soothing my
distress, by deliberately pouring a spoonful of coffee upon the front
breadth of her own velvet gown. My amazement at this proceeding was
excessive, and it neither calmed my wrath nor comforted my sorrow, but
exasperated me with a sense of her extreme folly and her conviction of
mine. The perpetrator of this singular act of atonement was the
beautiful Julia, eldest daughter of the Adjutant-General, Sir John
Macdonald, and the lady whom the Duke of Wellington pronounced the
handsomest woman in London; a verdict which appeared to me too
favorable, though she certainly was one of the handsomest women in
London. An intimate acquaintance subsisted between her family and ours
for several years, and I was indebted to Sir John Macdonald's
assistance, most kindly exerted in my behalf, for the happiness of
giving my youngest brother his commission in the army, which Sir John
enabled me to purchase in his own regiment; and I was indebted to the
great liberality of Mr. John Murray, the celebrated publisher, for the
means of thus providing for my brother Henry. The generous price
(remuneration I dare not call it) which he gave me for my play of
"Francis the First" obtained for me my brother's commission.
JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, March 9th.
DEAREST H----,
I have been so busy all this day, signing benefit tickets, that I
hardly feel as if I could write anything but "25th March, F.A.K."
Our two last letters crossed on the road, and yours was so kind an
answer to mine, which you had not yet received, that I feel no
further scruple in breaking in upon you with the frivolity of my
worldly occupations and proceedings.
I was sorry that the newspapers should give you the first account
of my Mrs. Beverley, but my time is so taken up with "an infinite
deal of nothing" that I have not had an hour to call my own till
this evening, and this evening is my only unengaged one for nearly
three weeks to come.
The papers will probably have set your mind at ease as to the
result of my appearance in "The Gamester;" but although they have
forestalled me in the sum total of the account, there are some
small details which may perhaps interest you, of which they can
give you no knowledge. I shall talk to you much of myself, dearest
H----, and hope it will not weary you; that precious little self is
just now so fully occupied with its own affairs that I have little
else to talk of. [I probably also felt much as our kind and most
comical friend Dessauer used, when he emphatically declared, "Mais,
je m'interesse extrêmement à ce qui me regarde."]
I do not think I ever spent a more miserable day than the one in
which I acted Mrs. Beverley for the first time. Stage nervousness,
my father and mother both tell me, increases instead of diminishing
with practice; and certainly, as far as my own limited experience
goes, I find it so. The first hazard, I should say, was not half so
fearful as the last; and though on the first night that I ever
stood upon the stage I thought I never could be more frightened in
my life, I find that with each new part my fear has augmented in
proportion as previous success would have rendered it more damaging
to fail. A stumble at starting would have been bad enough, and
might have bruised me; but a fall from the height to which I have
been raised might break my neck, or at any rate cripple me for
life. I do not believe that to fail in a part would make me
individually unhappy for a moment; but so much of real importance
to others, so much of the most serious interests and so much of the
feelings of those most dear to me, is involved in the continuance
of my good fortune, that I am in every way justified in dreading a
failure. These considerations, and their not unnatural result, a
violent headache and side-ache, together with no very great liking
for the part (interesting as it is, it is so perfectly prosaic),
had made me so nervous that the whole of the day was spent in fits
of crying; and when the curtain drew up, and I was "discovered,"
I'm sure I must have looked as jaded and tear-worn as poor Mrs.
Beverley ever did. However, all went well with me till the last
act, when my father's acting and my own previous state of
nervousness combined to make my part of the tragedy anything but
feigning; I sobbed so violently that I could hardly articulate my
words, and at the last fell upon the dead body of Beverley with a
hysterical cry that had all the merit of pure nature, if none
other, to recommend it. Fortunately the curtain fell then, and I
was carried to my dressing-room to finish my fit in private. The
last act of that play gives me such pains in my arms and legs, with
sheer nervous distress, that I am ready to drop down with
exhaustion at the end of it; and this reminds me of the very
difficult question which you expect me to answer, respecting the
species of power which is called into play in the act, so called,
of _acting_.
I am the worst reasoner, analyzer, and metaphysician that ever was
born; and therefore whatever I say on the subject can be worth very
little, as a reply to your question, but may furnish you with some
data for making a theory about it for yourself.
It appears to me that the two indispensable elements of fine acting
are a certain amount of poetical imagination and a power of
assumption, which is a good deal the rarer gift of the two; in
addition to these, a sort of vigilant presence of mind is
necessary, which constantly looks after and avoids or removes the
petty obstacles that are perpetually destroying the imaginary
illusion, and reminding one in one's own despite that one is not
really Juliet or Belvidera. The curious part of acting, to me, is
the sort of double process which the mind carries on at once, the
combined operation of one's faculties, so to speak, in
diametrically opposite directions; for instance, in that very last
scene of Mrs. Beverley, while I was half dead with crying in the
midst of the real grief, created by an entirely unreal cause, I
perceived that my tears were falling like rain all over my silk
dress, and spoiling it; and I calculated and measured most
accurately the space that my father would require to fall in, and
moved myself and my train accordingly in the midst of the anguish I
was to feign, and absolutely did endure. It is this watchful
faculty (perfectly prosaic and commonplace in its nature), which
never deserts me while I am uttering all that exquisite passionate
poetry in Juliet's balcony scene, while I feel as if my own soul
was on my lips, and my color comes and goes with the intensity of
the sentiment I am expressing; which prevents me from falling over
my train, from setting fire to myself with the lamps placed close
to me, from leaning upon my canvas balcony when I seem to throw
myself all but over it. In short, while the whole person appears to
be merely following the mind in producing the desired effect and
illusion upon the spectator, both the intellect and the senses are
constantly engrossed in guarding against the smallest accidents
that might militate against it; and while representing things
absolutely imaginary, they are taking accurate cognizance of every
real surrounding object that can either assist or mar the result
they seek to produce. This seems to me by far the most singular
part of the process, which is altogether a very curious and
complicated one. I am glad you got my print safe; it is a very
beautiful thing (I mean the drawing), and I am glad to think that
it is like me, though much flattered. I suppose it is like what
those who love me have sometimes seen me, but to the majority of my
acquaintance it must appear unwarrantably good-looking. The effect
of it is much too large for me, but when my mother ventured to
suggest this to Lawrence, he said that that was a peculiarity of
his drawings, and that he thought persons familiar with his style
would understand it.
My dearest H----, you express something of regret at my necessity
(I can hardly call it choice) of a profession. There are many times
when I myself cannot help wishing it might have been otherwise; but
then come other thoughts: the talent which I possess for it was, I
suppose, given to me for some good purpose, and to be used.
Nevertheless, when I reflect that although hitherto my profession
has not appeared to me attractive enough to engross my mind, yet
that admiration and applause, and the excitement springing
therefrom, may become necessary to me, I resolve not only to watch
but to pray against such a result. I have no desire to sell my soul
for anything, least of all for sham fame, mere notoriety. Besides,
my mind has such far deeper enjoyment in other pursuits; the
happiness of reading Shakespeare's heavenly imaginations is so far
beyond all the excitement of acting them (white satin, gas lights,
applause, and all), that I cannot conceive a time when having him
in my hand will not compensate for the absence of any amount of
public popularity. While I can sit obliviously curled up in an
armchair, and read what he says till my eyes are full of delicious,
quiet tears, and my heart of blessed, good, quiet thoughts and
feelings, I shall not crave that which falls so far short of any
real enjoyment, and hitherto certainly seems to me as remote as
possible from any real happiness.
This enviable condition of body and mind was mine while studying
Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," which is to be given on the
25th for my benefit. I shall be much frightened, I know, but I
delight in the part; indeed, Portia is my favoritest of all
Shakespeare's women. She is so generous, affectionate, wise, so
arch and full of fun, and such a true lady, that I think if I could
but convey her to my audience as her creator has conveyed her to
me, I could not fail to please them much. I think her speech to
Bassanio, after his successful choice of the casket, the most
lovely, tender, modest, dignified piece of true womanly feeling
that was ever expressed by woman.
I certainly ought to act that character well, I do so delight in
it; I know nothing of my dress. But perhaps I shall have some
opportunity of writing to you again before it is acted. Now all I
have to say must be packed close, for I ought to be going to bed,
and I have no more paper. I have taken two riding lessons and like
it much, though it makes my bones ache a little. I go out a great
deal, and that I like very much whenever there is dancing, but not
else. My own home spoils me for society; perhaps I ought not to say
it, but after the sort of conversation I am used to the usual
jargon of society seems poor stuff; but you know when I am dancing
I am "o'er all the ills of life victorious." John has taken his
degree and will be back with us at Easter; Henry has left us for
Paris; A---- is quite well, and almost more of a woman than I am;
my father desires his love to you, to which I add mine to your
eldest niece and your invalid, and remain ever your affectionately
attached
F. A. K.
BLACKHEATH.
MY DEAREST H----,
I was exceedingly glad to receive your letter. You ask me for my
own criticism on my Portia; you know that I think I am able to do
myself tolerably impartial justice, which may be a great mistake;
but whether it is or not, I request you will believe the following
account in preference to any other report, newspaper or letter,
public or private, whatever.
In the first place, on my benefit night (my first appearance in the
part) I was so excessively nervous about it, and so shaken with the
tremendous uproar the audience made with their applause, that I
consider that performance entirely out of the pale of criticism,
and quite unworthy of it. I was _frightened_ FLAT to a degree I
could hardly have believed possible after my previous experience.
I am happy to think that I improve in the part, and sincerely hope
that I shall continue to do so for some time. The principal defect
of my acting in it is that it wants point--brilliancy. I do not do
the trial scene one bit better or worse than the most mediocre
actress would, and although the comic scenes are called delightful
by people whose last idea of comedy was borrowed from Miss C---- or
Miss F----, my mother says (and I believe her) they are very
_vapid_. The best thing I do in the play (and I think it is the
best thing I do at all, except Juliet's balcony scene) is the scene
of the caskets, with Bassanio, and this I think I do _well_. But
the scene is of so comparatively subdued, quiet, and uneffective a
nature that I think the occupants of the stage boxes and the first
three rows of the pit must be the only part of the audience who
know anything about my acting of that portion of the play. I like
the part better than any I have yet played. I delight in the
poetry, and my heart goes with every sentiment Portia utters. I
have a real satisfaction in acting it, which is more than I can say
for anything else I have yet had to do. Juliet, with the exception
of the balcony scene, I act; but I feel as if I _were_ Portia--and
how I wish I were! It is not a part that is generally much liked by
actresses, or that excites much enthusiasm in the public; there are
no violent situations with which to (what is called) "bring the
house down." Even the climax of the piece, the trial scene, I
should call, as far as Portia is concerned, rather grand and
impressive than strikingly or startlingly effective; and with the
exception of that, the whole character is so delicate, so nicely
blended, so true, and so free from all exaggeration, that it seems
to me hardly fit for a theater, much less one of our immense
houses, which require acting almost as _splashy_ and coarse in
color and outline as the scene-painting of the stage is obliged to
be. Covent Garden is too large a frame for that exquisite,
harmonious piece of portrait painting. This is a long lecture, but
I hope it will not be an uninteresting one to you; and now let me
tell you something of my dresses, which cost my poor mother sad
trouble, and were really beautiful. My first was an open skirt of
the palest pink levantine, shot with white and the deepest
rose-color (it was like a gown made of strawberries and cream), the
folds of which, as the light fell upon them, produced the most
beautiful shades of shifting hues possible. The under-dress was a
very pale blue satin, brocaded with silver, of which my sleeves
were likewise made; the fashion of the costume was copied from
sundry pictures of Titian and Paul Veronese--the pointed body, cut
square over the bosom and shoulders, with a full white muslin shirt
drawn round my neck, and wide white sleeves within the large blue
and silver brocade ones. _Comprenez-vous_ all this? My head was
covered with diamonds (_not real_; I'm anxious for my character),
and what delighted me much more was that I had jewels in the roses
of my shoes. I think if I had been Portia I never would have worn
any ornaments but two large diamonds in my shoe bows. You see, it
shows a pretty good stock of diamonds and a careless superiority to
such possessions to wear them on one's feet. Now pray don't laugh
at me, I was so enchanted with my fine shoes! This was my first
dress; the second was simply the doctor's black gown, with a
curious little authentic black velvet hat, which was received with
immense applause when I put it on; I could hardly keep my
countenance at the effect my hat produced. My third dress, my own
favorite, was made exactly like the first, the ample skirt gathered
all round into the stomacher body; the material was white satin,
trimmed with old point lace and Roman pearls, with a most beautiful
crimson velvet hat, a perfect Rubens, with one sweeping white
feather falling over it....
We are spending our holiday of Passion week here for the sake of a
little quiet and fresh air; we had intended going to Dover, but
were prevented. You ask me after my mother: she is pretty well now,
but her health is extremely uncertain, and her spirits, which are
likewise very variable, have so much influence over it that her
condition fluctuates constantly; she has been very well, though,
for the last few days. London, I think, never agrees with her, and
we have been racketing to such a degree that quiet had become not
only desirable but necessary. Thank you for wishing me plenty of
dancing. I have abundance of it, and like it extremely; but I fear
I am very unreasonable about it, for my conscience smote me the
other day when I came to consider that the night before, although
my mother had stayed at a ball with me till three in the morning, I
was by no means gracious in my obedience to her request that I
should spare myself for my work. You see, dear H----, I am much the
same as ever, still as foolishly fond of dancing, and still, I
fear, almost as far from "begetting a temperance in all things" as
when you and I wandered about Heath Farm together.
We met with a comical little adventure the other evening. We were
wandering over the common, and encountered two gypsies. I always
had desired to have my fortune told, so A---- and I each seized
hold of a sibyl and listened to our fates.
After predicting to me all manner of good luck and two lovers, and
foretelling that I should marry blue eyes (which I will not), the
gypsy went up to my father, and began, "Pray, sir, let me tell your
fortune: you have been much wronged, sir, kept out of your rights,
sir, and what belonged to you, sir,--and that by them as you
thought was your friends, sir." My father turned away laughing, but
my mother, with a face of amazed and amazing credulity, put her
hand in her pocket, exclaiming, "I must give her something for
that, though!" Isn't that delicious?
Oh, H----! how hard it is to do right and be good! But to be sure,
"if to do were as easy as to know what were good to be done," etc.
How I wish I could have an hour's talk with you! I have so much to
say, and I have neither time nor paper to say it in; so I must
leave off.
Good-by, God bless you; pray look forward to the pleasure of seeing
me, and believe me ever
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
The house where I used to visit at Lea, in the neighborhood of
Blackheath, was a girls' school, kept by ladies of the name of Grimani,
in which my aunt Victoire Decamp was an assistant governess. These
ladies were descended from a noble Venetian family, of which the
Reverend Julian Young, their nephew, has given an account in his
extremely interesting and amusing memoir of his father; his mother,
Julia Grimani, being the sister of my kind friends, the directresses of
the Blackheath school. One of these, Bellina Grimani, a charming and
attractive woman, who was at one time attached to the household of the
ill-fated and ill-conducted Caroline of Brunswick, Princess of Wales,
died young and single. The elder Miss Grimani married a Mr. H---- within
a few years. Though I have never in the intervening fifty years met with
them, I have seen two ladies who were nieces of Miss Grimani, and pupils
in her school when I was a small visitor there. My principal
recollections connected with the place were the superior moral
excellence of one of these damsels, E---- B----, who was held up before
my unworthy eyes as a model of school-girl virtue, at once to shame and
encourage me; Bellina Grimani's sweet face and voice; some very fine
cedar trees on the lawn, and a picture in the drawing-room of Prospero
with his three-year-old Miranda in a boat in the midst of a raging sea,
which work of art used to shake my childish bosom with a tragical
passion of terror and pity, invariably ending in bitter tears. I was
much spoiled and very happy during my visits to Lea, and had a blissful
recollection of the house, garden, and whole place that justified my
regret in not being able, while staying at Blackheath fifteen years
after, to find or identify it.