My friend left us after a visit of a few weeks, taking my sister to
Ireland with her on a visit to Ardgillan.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, December 21st.
MY DEAREST H----,
My aunt Dall brought me home word that you wished me to send a
letter which should meet you on your arrival at Ardgillan; and I
would have done so, but that I had previously promised myself that
I would do nothing this day till I had copied out the fourth act of
"The Star of Seville," and you know unless I am steady at my work
this week, I shall break my word a second time, which is
_impossible_, as it ought to have been at first.
[A tragedy in five acts, called "The Star of Seville," at which I was
working, is here referred to. My father had directed my attention to the
subject by putting in my hands a sketch of the life and works of Lope de
Vega, by Lord Holland. The story of La Estrella de Seviglia appeared to
my father eminently dramatic, and he excited me to choose it for the
subject of a drama. I did so, and Messrs. Saunders and Ottley were good
enough to publish it; it had no merit whatever, either dramatic or
poetical (although I think the subject gave ample scope for both), and I
do not remember a line of it.]
However, it is nine o'clock; I have not ceased writing except to
dine, and my act is copied; and now I can give you an hour before
bedtime. How are you? and how is dear A----? Give her several good
kisses for me; she is by this time admirable friends with all your
circle, I doubt not, and slightly, superficially acquainted with
the sea. Tell her she is a careless little puss, though, for she
forgot the plate with my effigy on it for Hercules [Miss S----'s
nephew] which she was to have given my aunt to pack up. I am quite
sorry about it; tell him, however, he shall not lose by it, for I
will send him both a plate with the Belvidera and a mug with my own
natural head on it, the next time you return home.
I stood in the dining-room listening to your carriage wheels until
I believe they were only rolling in my imagination; you cannot
fancy how doleful our breakfast was. Henry was perfectly enraged at
finding that A---- was gone in earnest, and my father began to
wonder how it had ever come to pass that he had consented to let
her go. After breakfast, Dall and I walked to Mr. Cartwright's (the
dentist), who fortunately did not torture me much; for if he had,
my spirits were so exceedingly low that I am sure I should have
disgraced myself and cried like a coward. As soon as we came home I
set to work, and have never stopped copying till I began this
letter, when, having done my day's work, I thought I might tell you
how much I miss you and dear A----.
My father is gone to the theater upon business to-night; my mother
is very unwell, and Dall and Henry, as well as myself, are stupid
and dreary.
My dear H----, tell me how you bore the journey and the cold, and
how dear A---- fared on the road; how you found all your people,
and how the dell and the sea are looking. Write to me very _soon_
and _very_ long. You have let several stitches fall in one of the
muffetees you knit for me, and it is all running to ruin; I must
see and pick them up at the theater on Thursday night. You have
left all manner of things behind you; among others, Channing's two
essays; I will keep all your property honestly for you, and shall
soon have time to read those essays, which I very much wish to do.
A large supply of Christmas fare arrived from Stafford to-day from
my godmother, and among other things, a huge nosegay for me. I was
very grateful for the flowers; they are always a pleasure, and
to-day I thought they tried to be a consolation to me.
Now I must break off. Do you remember Madame de Sévigné's "Adieu;
ce n'est pas jusqu'à demain--jusqu'à samedi--jusqu' aujourd'hui en
huit; c'est adieu pour un an"? and yet I certainly have no right to
grumble, for our meeting as we have done latterly is a pleasure as
little to have been anticipated as the events which have enabled us
to do so, and for which I have so many reasons to be thankful. God
bless you, dear H----; kiss dear little A---- for me, and remember
me affectionately to all your people.
I am yours ever truly,
FANNY.
Dall sends her best love to both, and all; and Henry bids me tell
A---- that the name of the Drury Lane pantomime is "Harlequin and
Davy Jones, or Mother Carey's Chickens." Ours is yet a secret; he
will write her all about it.
Mr. Cartwright, the eminent dentist, was a great friend of my father's;
he was a cultivated gentleman of refined taste, and an enlightened judge
and liberal patron of the arts. If anything could have alleviated the
half-hour's suspense before one obtained admission to his beautiful
library, which was on some occasions (of, I suppose, slight importance)
his "operating-room," it would have been the choice specimens of lovely
landscape painting, by the first English masters, which adorned his
dining-room. I have sat by Sir Thomas Lawrence at the hospitable
dinner-table, where Mr. Cartwright gave his friends the most agreeable
opportunity of using the teeth which he, preserved for them, and heard
in his house the best classical English vocal music, capitally executed
by the first professors of that school, and brilliant amicable rivalry
of first-rate piano-forte performances by Cramer, Neukomm, Hummel, and
Moscheles, who were all personal friends of their host.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 3, 1831.
MY DEAR H----,
I promised you, in the interesting P.S. I annexed to my aunt Dall's
letter, to write to you to-day, and I sit down this evening to
fulfill my promise. My father is gone out to dinner, my mother is
asleep on the sofa, Dall reclines dozing in that blissful armchair
you wot of, and Henry, happier than either, is extended snoring
before the fire on the softest, thickest, splendidest colored rug
(a piece of my mother's workmanship) that the most poetical canine
imagination could conceive; I should think an earthly type of those
heavenly rugs which virtuous dogs, according to your creed, are
destined to enjoy.
[My friend Miss S---- held (without having so eloquently advocated) the
theory of her and my friend Miss Cobbe, of the possible future existence
of animals; such animals at any rate as had formed literally a precious
part of the earthly existence of their owners, and in whom a certain
sense, so nearly resembling conscience, is developed, by their obedience
and attachment to the superior race, that it is difficult to consider
them unmoral creatures. Perhaps, however, if the choice were given our
four-footed friends to share our future prospects and present
responsibility, they might decline the offer, "Thankfu' they werena'
men, but dogs."]
Dear H----, the pleasant excitement of your society assisted the
natural contentedness or indifference of my disposition to throw
aside many reflections upon myself and others, the life I lead and
its various annoyances, which have been unpleasantly forced upon me
since your departure; and when I say that I do not feel happy, you
will not count it merely the blue-devilish fancy of a German brain
or an English (that is bilious) stomach.
I have a feeling, not of dissatisfaction or discontent so much as
of sadness and weariness, though I struggle always and sometimes
pretty successfully to rouse myself from it.
You say you wish to know what we did on Christmas Day. I'll tell
you. In the morning I went to church, after which I came home and
copied "The Star of Seville" till dinner-time. After dinner my
mother, who had proposed spending the evening at our worthy
pastor's, Mr. Sterky's, finding my father disinclined for that
exertion, remained at home and went to sleep; my father likewise,
Dall likewise, Henry likewise; and I copied on at my play till
bedtime: _voilà_. On Monday, contrary to my expectation, I had to
play Euphrasia before the pantomime. You know we were to spend
Christmas Eve at my aunt Siddons's; we had a delightful evening and
I was very happy. My aunt came down from the drawing-room (for we
danced in the dining-room on the ground floor) and sat among us,
and you cannot think how nice and pretty it was to see her
surrounded by her clan, more than three dozen strong; some of them
so handsome, and many with a striking likeness to herself, either
in feature or expression. Mrs. Harry and Cecy danced with us, and
we enjoyed ourselves very much; I wished for dear A----
exceedingly. Wednesday we dined at Mrs. Mayow's.
[My mother's dear friend, Mrs. Mayow, was the wife of a gentleman in a
high position in one of our Government offices. She was a West Indian
creole, and a singularly beautiful person. Her complexion was of the
clear olive-brown of a perfectly Moorish skin, with the color of a
damask rose in her cheeks, and lips as red as coral. Her features were
classically symmetrical, as was the soft, oval contour of her face; her
eyes and hair were as black as night, and the former had a halo of fine
lashes of the most magnificent length. She never wore any head-dress but
a white muslin turban, the effect of which on her superb dark face was
strikingly handsome, and not only its singularity but its noble and
becoming simplicity distinguished her in every assembly, amid the
various fantastic head-gear of each successive Parisian "fashion of the
day." As a girl she had been remarkably slender, but she grew to an
enormous size, without the increased bulk of her person disfiguring or
rendering coarse her beautiful face.]
Thursday I acted Lady Townley, and acted it abominably ill, and was
much mortified to find that Cecilia had got my cousin Harry to
chaperon her two boys to the play that night; because, as he never
before went to see me act, it is rather provoking that the only
time he did so I should have sent him to sleep, which he gallantly
assured me I did. I do not find cousins so much more polite than
brothers (one's natural born plagues). Harry's compliment to my
acting had quite a brotherly tenderness, I think. Friday, New
Year's Eve, we went to a ball at Mrs. G----'s, which I did not much
enjoy; and yesterday, New Year's Day, Henry and I spent the evening
at Mrs. Harry's. There was no one there but Cecy and her two boys,
and we danced, almost without stopping, from eight till twelve.
[The lads my cousin Cecilia called her boys were the two younger sons of
her brother George Siddons, Mrs. Siddons's eldest son, then and for many
years after collector of the port at Calcutta. These lads and their
sisters were being educated in England, and were spending their
Christmas holidays with their grandmother, Mrs. Siddons. The youngest of
these three schoolboys, Henry, was the father of the beautiful Mrs.
Scott-Siddons of the present day. It was in the house of my cousin
George Siddons, then one of the very pleasantest and gayest in Calcutta,
that his young nephew Harry, son of his sister-in-law, my dear Mrs.
Harry Siddons, was to find a home on his arrival in India, and
subsequently a wife in Harriet, the second daughter of the house.]
I am to act Juliet to-morrow, and Calista on Thursday; Friday and
Saturday I am to act Mrs. Haller and Lady Townley at Brighton. I
shall see the sea, that's one comfort, and it will be something to
live upon for some time to come. Next Wednesday week I am to come
out in Bianca, in Milman's "Fazio." Do you know the play? It is
very powerful, and my part is a very powerful one indeed. I have
hopes it may succeed greatly. Mr. Warde is to be my Fazio, for, I
hear, people object to my having my father's constant support, and
wish to see me act _alone_; what geese, to be sure! I wonder
whether they think my father has hold of strings by the means of
which he moves my arms and legs! I am very glad something likely to
strike the public is to be given before "Inez de Castro" (a tragedy
of Miss Mitford's), for it will need all the previous success of a
fine play and part to carry us safely through that.
I have not seen Mr. Murray again; I conclude he is out of town just
now.
We have made all inquiries about poor dear A----'s trunk, and of
course, as soon as we hear of it, it will be sent to her; I am very
sorry for her, poor dear little child, but I advise her, when she
does get them, to put on each of her new dresses for an hour by
turns, and sit opposite the glass in them. Good-by, dear H----.
Your affectionate
F. K.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, 6th January, 1831.
DEAREST H----,
I have only time to say two words to you, for I am in the midst of
preparations for our flight to Brighton, to-morrow. Thank you for
your last letter; I liked it very much, and will answer it at
length when we come back to town.
Mr. Murray has got my MSS., but I have yet heard nothing about it
from him. My fire is not in that economical invention, the
"miserable basket" [an iron frame fitting inside our common-sized
grate to limit the extravagant consumption of coal], but well
spread out in the large comfortable grate; yet I am sitting with my
door and windows all wide open; it is a lovely, bright, mild spring
day. I do not lose my time any more of a morning watching the fire
kindling, for the housemaid lights it before I get out of bed, so
my poetry and philosophy are robbed of a most interesting subject
of meditation.
With regard to what you say about A----, I do not know that I
expected her to love, though I was sure she would admire, nature;
she is very young yet, and her quick, observant mind and tendency
to wit and sarcasm make human beings more amusing, if not more
interesting, to her than inanimate objects. It is not the beauty of
nature alone, as it appeals merely to our senses, that produces
that passionate love for it which induces us to prefer communion
with it to the intercourse of our fellows. The elevated trains of
thought, and the profound and sublime aspirations which the
external beauty of the world suggests, draw and rivet our mind and
soul to its contemplation, and produce a sort of awful sense of
companionship with the Unseen, which cannot, I think, be an
experience of early youth. For then the volatile, vivid, and
various spirit, with its sympathizing and communicative tendency,
has a strong propensity to spend itself on that which can return
its value in like commodity; and exchange of thought and feeling is
a preponderating desire and necessity, and human fellowship and
intercourse is naturally attractive to unworn and unwearied human
nature. I suppose the consolatory element in the beautiful
_un_human world in which we live is not often fully appreciated by
the young, they want comparatively so little of it; youth is itself
so thoroughly its own consoler. Some years hence, I dare say A----
will love both the sea and sky better than she does now. To a
certain degree, too, the love of solitude, which generally
accompanies a deep love for nature, is a kind of selfishness that
does not often exist in early life.
I am desired to close this letter immediately; I have therefore
only time to add that I act Calista to-night here, Mrs. Haller
to-morrow at Brighton, and Saturday, also there, Lady Townley. On
Monday I act Juliet here, and on Wednesday Bianca in "Fazio"--when
pray for me! Now you know where to think of me. I will write to you
a _real_ letter on Sunday.
Kiss A---- for me, and do not be unhappy, my dear, for you will
soon see me again; and in the meantime I advise you, as you think
my picture so much more agreeable than myself, to console yourself
with that. Good-by.
Your affectionate
FANNY.
The fascination of sitting by a brook and watching the lapsing water,
or, on the sands, the oncoming, uprising, breaking, and melting away of
the white wave-crests, is, I suppose, matter of universal experience. I
do not know whether watching fire has the same irresistible attraction
for everybody. It has almost a stronger charm for me; and the hours I
have spent sitting on the rug in front of my grate, and watching the
wonderful creature sparkling and glowing there, have been almost more
than I dare remember. I was obliged at last, in order not to waste half
my day in the contemplation of this bewitching element, to renounce a
practice I long indulged in of lighting my own fire; but to this moment
I envy the servant who does that office, or should envy her but that she
never remains on her knees worshiping the beautiful, subtle spirit she
has evoked, as I could still find it in my heart to do.
I think I remember that Shelley had this passion for fire-gazing; it's a
comfort to think that whatever he could _say_, he could never _see_ more
enchanting things in his grate than I have in mine; but indeed, even for
Shelley, the motions and the colors of flames are unspeakable.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 9, 1831.
DEAR H----,
I promised you a letter to-day, and if I can do so now, at least I
will begin to keep my promise, though I think it possible my
courage may fail me after the first side of my sheet of paper. We
arrived in town from Brighton on this afternoon at four o'clock,
and though it is not yet ten I am so weary, and have so much to do
to-morrow (rehearsing "Fazio" and acting Juliet), that I think I
shall not sit up much longer to-night, even to write to you.
We found my mother tolerably well, and Henry, who had been out
skating all day, in great beauty and high spirits. I must now tell
you what I had not room for when I wrote you those few lines in
A----'s letter.
Mr. Barton, a friend of John's who traveled with him in Germany,
and whose sister has lately married John Sterling (of whom you have
often heard us speak), called here the other day, and during the
course of a long visit told us a great deal of the very beginning
of this Spanish expedition, and of the share Mr. Sterling and
Richard Trench [the present venerable archbishop of Dublin] had in
its launching.
It seems (though he would not say whence they derived them) that
they were plentifully supplied with funds, with which they
purchased and manned a vessel destined to carry arms and ammunition
to Spain for the purposes of the revolutionists. This ship they put
under command of an experienced _smuggler_, and it was actually
leaving the mouth of the Thames with Sterling and Mr. Trench on
board it, bound for Spain, when by order of Lord Aberdeen it was
stopped. Our two young gentlemen jumped into a boat and made their
escape, but Mr. Sterling, hearing that government threatened to
proceed against the captain of the captured vessel, came forward
and owned it as his property, and exonerated the man, as far as he
could, from any share of the blame attaching to an undertaking in
which he was an irresponsible instrument. Matters were in this
state, with a prosecution pending over John Sterling, when the
ministry was changed, and nothing further has been done or said by
government on the subject since.
My brother had gone off to Gibraltar previously to all this, to
take measures for facilitating their landing; he is now quietly and
I hope comfortably wintering there. Torrijos, it seems, is not at
all disheartened, but is waiting for the propitious moment, which,
however, from the appearance of things, I should not consider
likely to be at hand just yet. Mr. Sterling has, I understand, been
so seriously ill since his marriage that at one time his life was
despaired of, and even now that he is a little recovered he is
ordered to Madeira as soon as he can be moved. This is very sad for
his poor bride.
Of our home circle I have nothing to tell you. My father, Dall, and
I had a very delightful day on Saturday at Brighton. After a lovely
day's journey, we arrived there on Friday. Our companion in the
coach luckily happened to be a son of Dr. Burney's, who was an old
and intimate friend of my father's, and they discoursed together
the whole way along, of all sorts of events and people: of my uncle
John and my aunt Siddons, in their prime; of Mrs. Jordan and the
late king; of the present one, Harlow, Lawrence, and innumerable
other folk of note and notoriety. Among other things they had a
long discussion on the subject of Hamlet's feigned or--as my father
maintains and I believe--real madness; all this formed a very
amusing accompaniment to the history of Sir Launcelot du Lac, which
I was reading with much delight when I was not listening to their
conversation.
I like all that concerns the love adventures of these valorous
knights of yore; but their deadly blows and desperate thrusts,
their slashing, gashing, mashing, mangling, and hewing bore me to
death. The fate of Guinevere interested me deeply, but Sir
Launcelot's warlike exploits I got dreadfully weary of; I prefer
him greatly in hall and bower rather than in tournament and
battle-field.
We got into Brighton at half-past four, and had just time to dine,
dress, and go to the theater, where we were to act "The Stranger."
The house was very full indeed, but my reception was not quite what
I had expected; for whether they were disappointed in my dress
(Mrs. Haller being traditionally clothed in droopacious white
muslin, and I dressing her in gray silk, which is both stiff and
dull looking, as I think it should be), or whether, which I think
still more likely, they were disappointed in my "personal
appearance," which, as you know, is neither tragical nor heroic, I
know not, but I thought their welcome rather, cold; but the truth
is, I believe my London audience spoils me for every other.
However, the play went off admirably, and I believe everybody was
satisfied, not excepting the manager, who assured me so full and
_enthusiastic_ a house had not been seen in Brighton for many
years.
Our rooms at the inn [the old Ship was then _the_ famous Brighton
hotel] looked out upon the sea, but it was so foggy when we entered
Brighton that although I perceived the _motion_ of the waves
through the mist that hung over them, their color and every object
along the shore was quite indistinct. The next morning was
beautiful. Dall and I ran down to the beach before breakfast; there
are no sands, unluckily, but we stood ankle-deep in the shingles,
watching the ebbing tide and sniffing the sweet salt air for a long
time with great satisfaction. After breakfast we rehearsed "The
Provoked Husband," and from the theater proceeded to take a walk.
All this was very fine, but still it was streets and houses; and
there were crowds of gay people parading up and down, looking as
busy about nothing and as full of themselves as if the great awful
sea had not been close beside them. In fact, I was displeased with
the levity of their deportment, and the contrast of all that
fashionable frivolity with the grandest of all natural objects
seemed to me incongruous and discordant; and I was so annoyed at
finding myself by the sea-side and _yet_ still surrounded with all
the glare and gayety of London, that I think I wished myself at the
bottom of the cliff and Brighton at the bottom of the sea. However,
we walked on and on, beyond the Parade, beyond the town, till we
had nothing but the broad open downs to contrast with the broad
open sea, and then I was completely happy. I gave my muff to my
father and my fur tippet to Dall, for the sun shone powerfully on
the heights, and I walked and ran along the edge of the cliffs,
gazing and pondering, and enjoying the solemn sound and the
brilliant sight, and the nervous excitement of a slight sense of
fear as I peeped over at the depth below me. From this diversion,
however, my father called me away, and, to console me for not
allowing me to run the risk of being dashed to pieces, offered to
run a race up a small hill with me, and beat me hollow.
We had walked about four miles when we halted at one of the
Preventive Service stations to look about us. The tide had not yet
come in, but its usual height when up was indicated, first by a
delicate, waving fringe of sea-weed, like very bright green moss,
and then, nearer in shore, by an incrustation of chalk washed from
the cliffs, which formed a deep embossed silver embroidery along
the coast as far as eye could see. The sunshine was dazzling, and
its light on the detached masses of milky chalk which lay far
beneath us made them appear semi-transparent, like fragments of
alabaster or carnelian. I was wishing that I _could but_ get down
the cliff, when a worthy sailor appeared toiling up it, and I
discovered his winding stair case cut in the great chalk wall, down
which I proceeded without further ado. I was a little frightened,
for the steps were none of the most regular or convenient, and I
felt as if I were hanging (and at an uncomfortable distance from
either) between heaven and earth. I got down safe, however, and ran
to the water's edge, danced a galop on one smooth little sand
island, waited till the tide, which was coming up, just touched my
toes, gave it a kick of cowardly defiance, and then showed it a
fair pair of heels and scrambled up the cliff again, very much
enchanted with my expedition.
I think a fight with smugglers up that steep staircase at night,
with a heavy sea rolling and roaring close under it, would be
glorious! When I reached the top my father said it was time to go
home, so we returned. The Parade was crowded like Hyde Park in the
height of the season [Thackeray called Brighton London-super-Mare],
and when once I was out of the crowd and could look down upon it
from our windows as it promenaded up and down, I never saw anything
gayer: carriages of every description--most of them
open--cavalcades of ladies and gentlemen riding to and fro, throngs
of smart bonnets and fine dresses; and beyond all this the high
tide, with one broad crimson path across it, thrown by the sun,
looking as if it led into some enchanted world beyond the waters.
I thought of dear A----; for though she is seeing the sea--and I
think the sea at Ardgillan, with its lovely mountains on one side
and Skerries on the other, far more beautiful than this--I am sure
she would have been enchanted with the life, the bustle, and
brilliancy of the Parade combined with its fine sea view, for I,
who am apt rather selfishly to wish myself alone in the enjoyment
of nature, looked at the bright, moving throng with pleasure when
once I was out of it.
Our house at the theater at night was very fine; and now, as you
are perhaps tired of Brighton, you will not be sorry to get home
with me; but pray communicate the end of our "land sorrow" to
A----. We were to start for London Sunday morning at ten [a journey
of six hours by coach, now of less than two by rail], and my father
had taken three inside places in a coach, which was to call for us
at our inn. I ran down to the beach and had a few moments alone
there. It was a beautiful morning, and the fishing boats were one
by one putting out into the calmest sleepy sea. I longed to ask to
be taken on board one of them; but I was summoned away to the
coach, and found on reaching it that, the fourth place being
occupied by a sickly looking woman with a sickly looking child
nearly as big as herself in her lap, my father, notwithstanding the
coldness of the morning, had put himself on the outside. I went to
sleep; from which blessed refuge of the wretched I was recalled by
a powerful and indescribable smell, which, seizing me by the nose,
naturally induced me to open my eyes. Mother and daughter were each
devouring a lump of black, strong, greasy plum cake; as a specific,
I presume, against (or for?) sickness in a stage-coach.
The late Duke of Beaufort, when Marquis of Worcester, used
frequently to amuse himself by driving the famous fast Brighton
coach, the Highflyer. One day, as my father was hastily depositing
his shilling gratuity in his driver's outstretched hand, a shout of
laughter, and a "Thank ye, Charles Kemble," made him aware of the
gentleman Jehu under whose care he had performed the journey.
WEDNESDAY, January 12, 1831.
DEAREST H----,
I received your letter dated the 7th the night before last, and
purposed ending this long epistle yesterday evening with an answer
to it, but was prevented by having to go with my mother to dine
with Mrs. L----, that witty woman and more than middle-aged beauty
you have heard me speak of. I was repaid for the exertion I had not
made very willingly, for I had a pleasant dinner. This lady has a
large family and very large fortune, which at her death goes to her
eldest son, who is a young man of enthusiastically religious views
and feelings; he has no profession or occupation, but devotes
himself to building chapels and schools, which he himself
superintends with unwearied assiduity; and though he has never
taken orders, he preaches at some place in the city, to which
crowds of people flock to hear him; none of which is at all
agreeable to his mother, whose chief anxiety, however, is lest some
one of the fair Methodists who attend his exhortations should
admire his earthly expectations as much as his heavenly prospects,
and induce this young apostle to marry her for her soul's sake; all
which his mother told mine, with many lamentations over the godly
zeal of her "serious" son, certainly not often made with regard to
young men who are likely to inherit fine fortunes and estates. One
of this young gentleman's sisters is strongly imbued with the same
religious feeling, and I think her impressions deepened by her very
delicate state of health. I am much attracted by her gentle manner,
and the sweet, serious expression of her face, and the earnest tone
of her conversation; I like her very much.
My mother is reading Moore's "Life of Byron," and has fallen in
love with the latter and in hate with his wife. She declares that
he was originally good, generous, humble, religious--indeed,
everything that a man can be, short of absolute perfection. She
thinks me narrow-minded and prejudiced because I do not care to
read his life, and because, in spite of all Moore's assertions, I
maintain that with Byron's own works in one's hand his character
cannot possibly be a riddle to anybody. I dare say the devil may
sometimes be painted blacker than he is; but Byron has a fancy for
the character of Lucifer, and seems to me, on the contrary, _très
pauvre diable_. I have no idea that Byron was half fiend, half man
(at least, no more so than all of us are); I dare say he was not at
all really an atheist, as he has been reputed; indeed, I do not
think Lord Byron, in spite of all the fuss that has been made about
him, was by any means an uncommon character. His genius was indeed
rare, but his pride, vanity, and selfishness were only so in
degree. You know, H----, nobody was ever a more fanatical worshiper
of his poetry than I was: time was that I devoured his verses
(poison as they were to me) like "raspberry tarts;" I still know,
and remember with delight, their exquisite beauty and noble vigor,
but they don't agree with me. And, without knowing anything of his
religious doubts or moral delinquencies, I cannot at all agree with
Mr. Moore that upon the showing of his own works Byron was a "good
man." If he was, no one has done him such injustice as himself; and
if _he_ was _good_, then what was Milton? and what genial and
gentle Shakespeare?
Good-by, dear H----; write me along "thank you" for this longest of
mortal letters, and believe that I am your ever affectionate
F. A. K.
I began living upon my allowance on New Year's Day, and am keeping
a most rigorous account of every farthing I spend. I have a
tolerable "acquisitiveness" among my other organs, but think I
would rather get than keep money, and to earn would always be
pleasanter to me than to save. I act in "Fazio" to-night, Friday,
and Monday next, so you will know where to find me on those
evenings.
MONDAY, 27th.
DEAR H----,
Horace Twiss has been out of town, and I have been obliged to delay
this for a frank. You will be glad, I know, to hear that "Fazio"
has made a great hit. Milman is coming to see me in it to-night; I
wish I could induce him to write me such another part.
We are over head and ears in the mire of chancery again. The
question of the validity of our--the great theater--patents is now
before Lord Brougham; I am afraid they are not worth a farthing. I
am to hear from Mr. Murray some day this week; considering the
features of my handwriting, it is no wonder it has taken him some
time to become acquainted with the MSS.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 29, 1831.
MY DEAR H----,
All our occupations have been of a desultory and exciting kind, and
all our doings and sayings have been made matter of surprise and
admiring comment; of course, therefore, we are disinclined for
anything like serious or solid study, and naturally conclude that
sayings and doings so much admired and wondered at _are_ admirable
and astonishing. A---- is possessed of strong powers of ridicule,
and the union of this sarcastic vein with a vivid imagination seems
to me unusual; their prey is so different that they seldom hunt in
company, I think. When I heard that she was reading "Mathilde"
(Madame Cottin), I was almost afraid of its effect upon her. I
remember at school, when I was her age, crying three whole days and
half nights over it; but I sadly overrated her sensibility. Her
letter to me contained a summary, abusive criticism of "Mathilde"
as a book, and ended by presenting to me one of those ludicrous
images which I abhor, because, while they destroy every serious or
elevated impression, they are so absurd that one cannot defend
one's self from the "idiot laughter" they excite, and leave one no
associations but grinning ones with one's romantic ideals. Her
letters are very clever and make me laugh exceedingly, but I am
sorry she has such a detestation of Mrs. Marcet and natural
philosophy. As for her letters being shown about, I am not sorry
that my indiscretion has relieved A---- from a restraint which, if
it had only been disagreeable to her, would not have mattered so
much, but which is calculated to destroy all possibility of free
and natural correspondence, and inevitably renders letters mere
compositions and their young authors vain and pretentious. I have
always thought the system a bad one, for under it, if a girl's
letters are thought dull, she feels as if she had made a failure,
and if they are laughed at and passed from hand to hand with her
knowledge, the result is much worse; and in either case, what she
writes is no longer the simple expression of her thoughts and
feelings, but samples of wit, ridicule, and comic fancy which are
to be thought amusing and clever by others than those to whom they
are addressed.
You say my mother in her note to you speaks well of my acting in
Bianca. It has succeeded very well, and I think I act some of it
very well; but my chief pleasure in its success was certainly her
approbation. She is a very severe critic, and, as she censures
sharply, I am only too thankful when I escape her condemnation. I
think you will be pleased with Bianca. I was surprised when I came
to act it at finding how terribly it affected me, for I am not
naturally at all jealous, and in this play, while feigning to be
so, it seemed to me that it must be really the most horrible
suffering conceivable; I am almost sorry that I can imagine it well
enough to represent it well.
You say that we love intellect, but I do not agree with you; I do
not think intellect excites love. I do not even think that it
increases our love for those we do love, though it adds admiration
to our affection. I certainly do admire intellect immensely; mental
power, which allied to moral power, goodness, is a force to uphold
the universe.
I have forsworn all discussions about Byron; my mother and I differ
so entirely on the subject that, as I cannot adopt her view of his
character, I find it easier to be silent about my own. Perhaps her
extreme admiration of him may have thrown me into a deeper
disapprobation than I should otherwise have expressed. He has many
excuses, doubtless: the total want of early restraint, the
miserable influence of the injudicious mother who alternately
idolized and victimized him, the bitter castigation of his first
plunge into literature, and then the flattering, fawning, fulsome
adoration of his habitual associates, of course were all against
him; but, after all, one cannot respect the man who strikes colors
to the enemy as one does the one who comes conqueror out of the
conflict. I now believe that there is a great deal of unreality in
those sentiments to which the charm of his verses lent an
appearance of truth and depth; in fact, his poetical feelings will
sometimes stand the test of sober reflection quite as little as his
grammar will that of a severe application of the rules of syntax.
He has written immensely for mere effect, but all young people read
him, and young people are not apt to analyze closely what they feel
strongly, and, judging by my own experience, I should think Byron
had done more mischief than one would like to be answerable for.
When I said this the other day to my mother, she replied by
referring to his "Don Juan," supposing that I alluded to his
profligacy; but it is not "Don Juan" only or chiefly that I think
so mischievous, but "Manfred," "Cain," "Lucifer," "Childe Harold,"
and through them all Byron's own spirit--the despondent, defiant,
questioning, murmuring, bitter, proud spirit, that acts powerfully
and dangerously on young brains and throws poison into their
natural fermentation.
Since you say that my perpetual quotation of that stupid song, "Old
Wilson is Dead," worries you, I will renounce my delight in teasing
you with it. The love of teasing is, of course, only a base form of
the love of power. Mr. Harness and I had a long discussion the
other night about the Cenci; he maintains your opinion, that the
wicked old nobleman was absolutely mad; but I argued the point
stoutly for his sanity, and very nearly fell into the fire with
dismay when I was obliged to confess that if he was not mad, then
his actuating motive was simply _the love of power_. Do you know
that that play was sent over by Shelley to England with a view to
Miss O'Neill acting Beatrice Cenci? If it were ever possible that
the piece could be acted, I should think an audience might be half
killed with the horror of that entrance of Beatrice when she
describes the marble pavement sliding from beneath her feet.
Did my mother tell you in her note that Milman was at the play the
other night, and said I had made Bianca exactly what he intended? I
wish he would write another tragedy. I think perhaps he will, from
something Murray said the other day. That eminent publisher still
has my MSS. in his possession, but you know I can take things
easily, and I don't feel anxious about his decision. I act in
"Fazio" Monday and Wednesday, and Friday and Saturday Mrs. Beverley
and Belvidera at Brighton.
I was inexpressibly relieved by receiving a letter from my brother, and
the intelligence that if I answered him he would be able to receive my
reply, which I made immediate speed to send him.
GREAT RUSSELL STREET.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
My brother John is alive, safe and well, in Gibraltar. You deserve
to know this, but it is all I can say to you. My mother has
suffered so much that she hardly feels her joy; it has broken her
down, and I, who have borne up well till now, feel prostrated by
this reprieve. God be thanked for all his mercies! I can say no
more.
F. A. K.