The theater is going on very ill, but negotiations are pending

between the partners, which it is hoped may eventually terminate in

some arrangement with the creditors about the property. I have been

acting Bianca again; I certainly am not jealous, and cannot imagine

being so, any more of my husband than of my friend. I doubt if I

have the power of loving which produces jealousy, in spite of which

that part tries me dreadfully. I can conceive no torment comparable

to that passion, which, however, I think is foreign to my own

nature. I am reading Daru's "History of Venice," and am rather

disappointed in the entertainment I expected to derive from it. It

is a pretty long undertaking, too.... Remember me to all your

people; and since you will have it that I am twin-sister to a

fountain, remember me to my cousin, the dear little spring in the

dell, which I love the more that it sometimes reflects your face

and figure, as well as the fairies who dance round it by night. Do

you hear that poor Lord Grey is said to be haunted by a vision of

Lord Castlereagh's head? It sounds like a temptation of the devil

to scare him into cutting his throat. Lord Brougham and the Duke of

Wellington seem to me the only two men likely to keep their heads

in these times of infinite political perturbation; but the one is

made of steel, and the other of india-rubber.

Yours, dearest, always,

F. A. K.

_Monday, 19th._--Went to Fozzard's, and had a pleasant, gossiping

ride with Lady Grey and Miss Cavendish. While I was still riding,

the Duchess of Kent and our little queen that is to be came down

into the school; I was presented to them at their desire, and

thought Princess Victoria a very unaffected, bright-looking girl.

Fozzard made me gallop round; I think he is rather proud of showing

me off.... My father is not so well again to-day. How dreadful

these alternations are! I read Daru all the afternoon, and then

sang in my own room to amuse Henry, till dinner-time. Colonel

Bailey sent me the mare's saddle and bridle, and after dinner the

boys put them on a chair for me, and gave me an absurd make-believe

ride.

_Wednesday, 21st_--Dear Mr. Harness called, and I received him. He

tells me that at the theater they want to do his tragedy ("The Wife

of Antwerp," was, I think, the name of the piece) without my

father; but this seems to me really sheer madness. The play is a

pretty, interesting, well-written piece, and, well propped and

sustained, may perhaps succeed for a few nights, but as to throwing

the whole weight, or rather weakness of it, upon my shoulders, or

any one pair of shoulders, it is folly to think of it. It is not a

powerful sort of monologue like "Fazio," where the interest centres

in one person and one passion, and therefore if that character is

well sustained the rest can shift for itself. It is no such matter;

it is a play of incident and not of character, and must be played

by people and not one person. What terrible bad management! But,

poor people! what can they do, with my father lying disabled there?

If it was not for their complete disregard for their own interest,

I should be inclined to quarrel with them for the way in which they

are ruining mine; and I sincerely hope, for the sake of everybody

concerned, that Mr. Harness will resist this senseless proposition.

I went with John in the afternoon to Angerstein's Gallery (M.

Angerstein's fine collection of pictures was not then incorporated

in the National Gallery, of which it subsequently became so

important a portion); there are some new pictures there. Unluckily,

we had only an hour to stay, but I brought away a great deal with

me for so short a time. Among the additions was a very singular old

painting, "The Holy Family," by one of the earliest masters, whose

name I forget, not being familiar with it. I looked long at the

glorious Titian, the "Bacchus and Ariadne," which always reminds me

of--

"Whence come ye, jolly Satyrs, whence come ye?

Like to a moving vintage down they came."

One of the most famous pictures here is "Our Saviour disputing with

the Doctors," by Leonardo da Vinci. I hardly ever receive pleasure

from his pictures; there is a mannerism in all that I have seen

that is positively disagreeable to me. How the later artists lost

the simple secret of earnest vigor of their predecessors, while

gaining in everything that was not that! Grace, finish, refinement,

accuracy of drawing, richness of coloring, all that merely tended

towards perfection and execution, while the simplicity and

single-heartedness of conception died away more and more. All art

seems by degrees to outgrow its strength, and certainly in painting

the archaic cradle touches one's imagination as neither the

graceful youth nor mature manhood do. "Le mieux c'est l'ennemi du

bien" in nothing more than the progress of art after a certain

period of its development, and when its mere mechanism is best

understood, and applied in the most masterly manner. The spirit has

tarried behind, and we have to return to seek it among the earlier

days, when the genius of man was like a giant, rude, naked, and

savage, but vigorous and free--unadorned indeed, but also

untrammeled. Only a certain proportion of excellence is allowed to

our race, but that is granted; and let us stretch it, expand it,

roll and beat it out as we will, it is still but the same square

inch made thin to cover a greater surface. For one good we still

must yield another; we have no gain that is not loss, no

acquisition but surrender, "exchange" which may perhaps be "no

robbery," though quantity does seem a poor substitute for quality

in matters of beauty. I wish I had lived in the times when the ore

lay in the ingot (and had been one of the few who owned a nugget),

instead of in these times of universal gold-leaf, glitter without

weight, and shining shallowness of mere surface. Vigor is better

than refinement, and to create better than to improve, and to

conceive better than to combine. I wonder if the world, or rather

the human mind, will ever really grow decrepit, and the fountain of

beauty in men's souls run dry to the dregs; or will the

manifestations only change, and the eternal spirit reveal itself in

other ways?...

On our way home I had a long and interesting talk with John about

the different forms of religious faith into which the gradual

development of the human mind has successively expanded; each, of

course, being the result of that very development, acting on the

original necessity to believe in and worship and obey something

higher and better than itself, implanted in our nature. It seems

strange that he has a leaning to Roman Catholicism, which I have

not. Our Protestant profession appears to me the purest

creed--form--that Christianity has yet arrived at; but, I suppose,

a less spiritual one, or perhaps I should say external

accompaniments, affecting more palpably the senses and imagination,

are wholesome and necessary to the cultivation and preservation of

the religious sentiment in some minds. Catholicism was the faith of

the chivalrous times, of the poetical times, of times when the

creative faculty of man poured forth in since unknown abundance

masterpieces of every kind of beauty, as manifestations of the

pious and devout enthusiasm. Protestantism is undoubtedly the faith

of these times; a denying faith, a rejecting creed, a questioning

belief, its evil seems essentially to coincide with the worst

tendency of the present age, but its good seems to me positive and

unconditional, independent of time or circumstance; the best, in

that kind, that the believing necessity in our nature has yet

attained. Rightly understood and lived up to, the only service of

God which is intellectual freedom, as all His service, lived up to,

under what creed soever, is moral freedom. And it is in some sort

in spite of myself that I say this, for my fancy delights in all

the devout and poetical legendary conceptions which the stern hand

of reason has stripped from our altars.

I found a letter at home from Emily Fitzhugh; she writes me word

she has been revising my aunt Siddons's letters; thence an endless

discussion as to the nature of genius, what it is. I suppose really

nothing but the creative power, and so it remains a question if the

greatest actor can properly be said to possess it. Again, how far

does the masterly filling out of an inferior conception by a

superior execution of it, such as really great actors frequently

present, fall short of creative power, properly so called? Is it a

thing positive, of individual inherent quality, or comparative, and

composed of mere respective quantity? Can its manifestation be

partial, and restricted to one faculty, or must it be a pervading

influence, permeating the whole mind? Certainly Mrs. Siddons was

what we call a great dramatic genius, and off the stage gave not

the slightest indication of unusual intellectual capacity of any

sort. Kean, the only actor whose performances have ever realized to

me my idea of the effect tragic acting ought to produce, acted part

of his parts rather than ever a whole character, and a work of

genius should at least show unity of conception. My father, whose

fulfilling of a particular range of characters is as nearly as

possible perfect, wants depth and power, and power seems to me the

core, the very marrow, so to speak, of genius; and if it is not

genius that gave incomparable majesty and terror to my aunt's Lady

Macbeth, and to Kean's Othello incomparable pathos and passion, and

to my father's Benedict incomparable spirit and grace, what is it?

Mere talent carried beyond a certain point? If so, where does the

one begin and the other end? Or is genius a precious,

inconvertible, intellectual metal, of which some people have a

grain and a half, and some only half a grain?... There is dreadful

news from Spain, and I fear it is too true. Torrijos has made

another attempt. Oh, how thankful we must be that John is returned

to us!

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, Monday, December 23.

DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

I owe you many excuses for not having sooner acknowledged your

letter, but you may have seen by the papers that we have been

bringing out a new piece, and that is always, while it goes on, an

engrossing of time and attention paramount to all other claims. It

is a play of Lord Francis Leveson's, and I know you will be glad to

hear that it has been successful and is likely to prove serviceable

to the theater. Another reason, too, for my silence is, that I have

been working very hard at "The Star of Seville," which, I am

thankful to say, has at length reached its completion. I have sent

it to the theater upon approbation, in the usual routine of

business; and am waiting very patiently the decision of the

management on its fitness or unfitness for their purposes.

I know not whether your party at Teddesley are good thermometers,

by which to judge of the state of political feeling here in London,

but at this moment the rumor is rife that the Ministry dare not

make the new batch of Peers, cannot carry the Bill, and must

resign. To whom? is the next question, and it seems a difficult one

to answer. One hardly sees, looking round the political ranks, who

are to be the men to come forward and take up this tangled skein

effectually. I write with rather a sympathetic leaning toward the

Tory side of this Reform question, and do not know whether in so

doing I am affronting you or not. In any case, I imagine, there can

be but one opinion as to the difficulty, and even danger, of the

present position of public affairs and public temper with regard to

them.

Do you not soon think of returning to Town? or are you so well

pleased with your present abode as to prolong your visit? London is

particularly full, I think, for the time of year, and people are

meeting in smaller numbers and a more sociable and agreeable way

than they do later in the season. I was at two parties last week,

each time, I am ashamed to say, after acting. I can't say that I

find society pleasant; it reminds me a good deal of a "Conversation

Cards," the insipid flippancy, of whose questions and answers seems

to me to survive in these meetings, miscalled occasionally

_conversaziones_. Dancing appears to me rational, and indeed highly

intellectual, in comparison with such talk; and that I am as fond

of as ever, but that has not begun yet, and I find these _soirées

causantes_ drearily unedifying.

Talking of stupid parties, your beautiful little picture of me and

my various costumes helped away two hours of such intolerably dull

people here the other night; I assure you we all voted you devout

thanks on the occasion.... We are all tolerably well; my father is

gradually recovering his strength, and though after such an attack

as his has been the progress must of necessity be slow, we are

inclined to hope, from that very circumstance, that it will be the

more sure.... If you do not return soon, perhaps I shall hear from

you again; pray recollect that it will give me great pleasure to do

so, and that I am very sincerely yours,

F. A. K.

I dressed my Juliet the last time I acted it, exactly after your

little sketch of her....

_Thursday._--Worked at "The Star of Seville." In the evening the

play was "Isabella;" the house very bad. I played very well. The

Rajah Ramahun Roy was in the Duke of Devonshire's box, and went

into fits of crying, poor man!

_Friday, 23d._--It is all too true; John has had a letter from

Spain; they have all been taken and shot. I felt frozen when I

heard the terrible news. Poor Torrijos! And yet I suppose it is

better so: he would only have lived to bitter disappointment, and

the despairing conviction that the spirit he appealed to did not

animate one human being in his deplorable and degenerate land. A

young Englishman, of the name of Boyd, John's sometime friend and

companion, was taken and shot with the rest: it choked me to think

of his parents, his brothers and sisters. Surely God has been most

merciful to us in sparing us such an anguish, and bringing our

wanderer home before this day of doom. How I thought of Richard

Trench and his people! John did not seem to me to be violently

affected, though his first exclamation was one of sharp and bitter

pain: I suppose he must, long ere this, have felt that there could

be no other end to this utterly hopeless attempt.... In the

afternoon I called on Mrs. Norton, who is always to me

astonishingly beautiful. The baby was asleep, and so I could not

see it, but Spencer has grown into a very fine child.

_Monday, 26th._--Went to see how the pantomime did. I did not think

it very amusing, but there was an enchanting little girl (Miss

Poole) who did Tom Thumb, and whose attitudes in her armor were

most of them copied from the antique, and really beautiful. Poor

dear, bright little thing!

My father was in bed when we returned; I went and saw him for a

minute, to tell him how the pantomime had succeeded; it ended with

some wonderful tight-rope dancing by an exceedingly steady,

graceful man; but it turned me perfectly sick, and I hate all those

sort of things.

_Thursday, 29th._--After dinner worked at "The Star of Seville." I

really wonder I have the patience to go on with it, it is such

heavy trash. After tea my father begged me to sing to him. I am

always horribly frightened at singing before my mother; I cannot

bear to distress her accurate ear with my unsteady intonation, and

the more I think of it, the colder my hands grow and the hotter my

face, the huskier my voice and the flatter my notes; I bungle over

accompaniments that I have at my fingers' ends, and forget words I

know as well as my alphabet; in short, I feel like a wretch, and I

sing like a wretch, and I make wretched all my hearers. My mother's

own nervous terror when she had to sing on the stage, as a young

woman, was excessive, as she has often told me; and her mother

repeatedly but vainly endeavored to bribe her with the promise of a

guinea if she would sing as well in public any of the songs that

she sang perfectly well at home. I sang for some time, and by

degrees got more courage, till at last I managed to sing tolerably

in tune. My mother says I have more voice than A----. I am sorry to

hear her voice has grown thin--that sweet, melodious voice I did so

love to listen to; but perhaps it will recover its tone.

_Wednesday, 28th._--My dear, dear father came down to breakfast,

looking horribly thin and pale, poor fellow! but, thank God, he was

able to come once more among us. I am to act Euphrasia on Monday;

how I do hate it! Monday week my father talks of resuming his work

again with Mercutio. Dear me! how happy I shall be! once more

speaking the love poetry of Juliet after all these "meaner beauties

of the night" that I have been executing ever since he has been

ill. Juliet did very right to die; she would have become Bianca

when once she was Mrs. Romeo Montague.... I wrote to Lady Francis

about "Katharine of Cleves," (Lord Francis's translation of "Henri

Trois"), who is once more beginning to lift up her head. My father

thinks it may be done on Wednesday week.... It is now determined

that Henry should go into the army, and my mother wants me to

besiege Sir John through Lady Macdonald (the general's general)

about a commission for him. In the evening, not having to be

anybody tragical or heroical, I indulged in my own character, and

had a regular game of romps with the boys; my pensive public would

not have believed its eyes if it could have seen me with my hair

all disheveled, not because of my woes, but because of riotous fun,

jumping over chairs and sofas, and dodging behind curtains and

under tables to escape from my pursuers. "Is that Miss Kemble?" as

poor Mr. Bacon involuntarily exclaimed the first time he saw me.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, December 29, 1831.

MY DEAREST H----,

You shall not entreat in vain, neither shall you have a short

answer because you have an immediate one.... I should not have

answered you so instantaneously, but that my last account of my

dear father was so bad that I cannot delay telling you how much

better he is, and how grateful we all are for his restoration to

health. He is released from his bed, of which he must be heartily

sick, and comes down to breakfast at the usual time: of course he

is still weak and low, and wretchedly thin, but we trust a little

time will bring back good spirits and good looks, though after such

a terrible attack I fear it will be long before his constitution

recovers its former strength, if indeed it ever does. He talks of

resuming his labors at the theater next Monday week. Oh! my dear

H----, what a dreadful season of anxiety this has been! but, thank

God, it is past.

I had intended that this letter should go to you to-day, but you

will forgive the delay of a day in my finishing it when I tell you

that I have some hope of its producing a commission for Henry. Sir

John Macdonald, at whose house you dined in the summer with my

mother, is now adjutant-general, and I know not what besides; and

after my mother and myself had expended all our eloquence in

winding up my father's mind to resolve upon the army as Henry's

profession, she thought the next best thing I could do would be to

attack Lady Macdonald and secure the general's interest. They

happened to call this afternoon, and your letter, my dear H----,

has been left unfinished till past post-time, while I was

soliciting this favor, which I have every hope we shall obtain.

Lady Macdonald is extremely kind and good-natured, and I am sure

will exert herself to serve us, and if this can be accomplished I

shall be haunted by one anxiety the less.

Henry is too young and too handsome to be doing nothing but

lounging about the streets of London, and even if he should be

ordered to the Indies, it is something to feel that he is no longer

aimless and objectless in life--a mere squanderer of time, without

interest, stake, or duty, in this existence. I am sure this news

will pacify you, and atone for the day's delay in this letter

reaching you.

[My youngest brother Henry had a passionate desire to be a sailor, and

never exhibited the slightest inclination for any other career. Admiral

Lake, who was a very kind friend of my father's and mother's, knowing

this to be the lad's bent, offered, on one occasion, to take charge of

him, and have him trained for his profession under his own supervision.

Such, however, was my mother's horror of the sea, and dread of losing

her darling, if she surrendered him to be carried from her to Nova

Scotia, whither I think Admiral Lake was bound when he offered to take

my brother with him, that she induced my father to decline this most

friendly and advantageous offer. Henry never after that exhibited the

slightest preference for any other profession, and always said, "They

may put me at a plow-tail if they like." He went through Westminster

School, after a previous training at Bury St. Edmunds, not otherwise

than creditably; but a very modest estimate of his own capacity made him

beg not to be sent to Cambridge, where he said he was sure he should

only waste money, and do himself and us no credit. (The bitter

disappointment of my brother John's failure there had made a deep

impression upon him.) Finally it was decided that he should go into the

army, and the friendly interest of Sir John Macdonald and the liberal

price Mr. Murray gave me for my play of "Francis I." enabled me to get

him a commission; it was the time when they were still purchasable. My

poor mother, unable to refuse her consent to this second favorable

opportunity of starting him in life, acquiesced in his military, though

she had thwarted his naval, career, and was well content to see her

boy-ensign sent over with his troops to Ireland. But from Ireland his

regiment was ordered to the West Indies, and after his departure thither

she never again saw him in her life.]

I think it would be a wise thing if I were to go to America and

work till I have made 10,000_l._, then return to England and go the

round of the provinces, and act for a few nights' leave-taking in

London. Prudence would then, perhaps, find less difficulty in

adjusting my plans for the future. That is what I think would be

well for me to do, supposing all things remain as they are and God

preserves my health and strength. It will not do to verify all

Poitier's lugubrious congratulation to his children in the

Vaudeville on their marriage:

"Ji! Ji! mariez-vous,

Mettez-vous dans la misère!

Ji! Ji! mariez-vous,

Mettez-vous la corde au cou."

... Jealousy, surely, is a disposition to suspect and take umbrage

where there is no cause for suspicion or offense, which, to say the

least of it, is very unreasonable; but that a woman should break

her heart because her husband does love another woman better than

her, seems to me natural enough, and with regard to Bianca, her

provocations certainly warranted a very rational amount of misery;

and though, had she not been a woman of violent passions and a

jealous temperament, she probably would not have taken the means

she did of resenting Fazio's treatment of her, it appears to me

that nothing but divine assistance and the strongest religious

principle could preserve one under such circumstances from despair,

madness, suicide, perhaps; hardly, however, the murder of one's

husband. But assassinating other people seems a much more common

mode of relieving their feelings among Italians than destroying

themselves, which is rather a northern way of meeting, I should say

of avoiding, difficulties.

I have had a holiday this week, and every now and then have written

a word or two of "La Estrella;" it will never be done, and when it

is it will be the horridest trash that ever was done; but I will

let you have the pleasure of reading it, I promise you. On Monday I

play that favorite detestation of mine, Euphrasia; the Monday after

that my father hopes to be able for Mercutio, and I return to

Juliet. By the by, you say Bianca is my best part, and I think my

Juliet is better; I am not sure that there is not some kindred in

the characters. We are going to bring out a play of Lord Francis',

translated from the French, a sort of melodrama in blank verse, in

which I have to act a part that I cannot do the least in the world,

but of course that doesn't signify.

["Katharine of Cleves," translated from the French play of "Henri Trois

et sa Cour," and made the subject of one of Mr. Barham's inimitably

comical poems in the "Ingoldsby Legends." Mdlle. Mars acted the part of

the heroine in Paris, and it was one of several semi-tragical

characters, in which, at the end of her great theatrical career, she

reaped fresh laurels in an entirely new field, and showed the world that

she might have been one of the best serious, not to say tragic,

actresses of the French stage, as well as its one unrivaled female

comedian.]

We have spent a wretched Christmas, as you may suppose; a house

with its head sick all but to death, and all its members smitten

with the direst anxiety, is not the place for a merry one. God

bless you, my dear, and send you years of peace of mind and health

of body! this is, I suppose, what we mean when we wish for

happiness here, either for ourselves or others. Give my love and

kindest good wishes to your people.

Have you seen in the papers that poor Torrijos and his little band,

consisting of sixty men, several of whom John knew well, have been

lured into the interior of Spain, and there taken prisoners and

shot? This news has shocked us all dreadfully, especially poor

John. You may imagine how grateful we are that he is now among us,

instead of having fallen a victim to his chimerical enthusiasm. I

hardly know how to deplore the event for Torrijos himself: death

has spared him the bitter disappointment of at last being convinced

that the people he would have made free are willing slaves, and

that the time when Spain is to lift herself up from the dust has

not yet come.

I went the other day with John to the Angerstein Gallery.... The

delight I find in a fine painting is one of the greatest and most

enduring pleasures I have; my mind retains the impression so long

and so very vividly.... Good-by, my dearest H----.

Ever affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

_Saturday, 31st._--After breakfast went to the theater to rehearse

"The Grecian Daughter," and Mr. Ward, for whom the rehearsal was

principally given, never came till it was over. Pleasant

creature!...

The day seemed beautifully fine, and my father and mother took, a

drive, while Henry and I rode, that my father might see the horse I

had bought for him; but it was bitterly cold, and I could not make

my mare trot, so she cantered and I froze. Mr. Power was there, on

that lovely horse of his. I think the Park will become bad company,

it is so full of the player folk. Frederick Byng called, and I like

him, so I went and sat with him and my father and mother in the

library till time to dress for dinner. After dinner wrote "The Star

of Seville." I have got into conceit with it again, and so poor,

dear, unfortunate Dall coming in while I was working at it, I

seized hold of her, like the Ancient Mariner of the miserable

"Wedding Guest," and compelled her, in spite of her outcries, to

sit down, and then, though she very wisely went fast asleep, I read

it to her till tea-time.

My mother wished to sit up and see the New Year in, and so we

played quadrille till they sat down to supper, which had been

ordered for the vigil, and I went fast asleep. At twelve o'clock

kisses and good wishes went round, and we were all very merry, in

spite of which I once or twice felt a sudden rush of hot tears into

my eyes. All the hours of last year are gone, standing at the bar

of Heaven, our witnesses or accusers: the evil done, the good left

undone, the opportunities vouchsafed and neglected, the warnings

given and unheeded, the talents lent and unworthily or not

employed, they are gone from us for ever! forever! and we make

merry over the flight of Time! O Time! our dearest friend! how is

it that we part so carelessly from you, who never can return to

us?... A New Year....

A NEW YEAR, 1832.

_January 1st, Sunday._--When I came down my father wished me a

happy New Year, and I am sure we were both thinking of the same

thing, and neither of us felt happy.

_Thursday 5th._-- ... Wrote all the afternoon. Mr. Byng dined with

us and stayed till one o'clock, having reduced my mother to

silence, and my father to sleep, John to snuff, and Henry and I to

playing (_sotto voce_) "What's my thought like?" to keep ourselves

from tumbling off the perch.

_Monday, 9th._--Rehearsed "Romeo and Juliet" with all my heart. Oh,

light, life, truth, and lovely poetry! I sat on the cold stage,

that I might hear them even mumble over their parts as they do. My

father seemed to me very weak, and not by any means fit for his

work to-night. After dinner went over my part again, and went to

the theater at half past five. My new dress was very handsome,

though rather burly, in spite of which Dall said it made me look

taller, so its rather burliness didn't matter. John Mason played

Romeo for the first time; he was beautifully dressed, and looked

very well; he acted tolerably well, too. He has a good deal of

energy and spirit, but wants feeling and refinement; his voice,

unfortunately, is very unpleasant, wiry, harsh, and monotonous; of

the last defect he may cure by practice. I came to the side scene

just as my father was going on, to hear his reception; it was very

great, a perfect thunder of applause; it made the tears start into

my eyes. Poor father! They received me with infinite demonstrations

of kindness too. I thought I acted very well; I am sure I played

the balcony scene well. When the blood keeps rushing up into one's

cheeks and neck while one is speaking, I wonder if that ought to be

called acting. To be sure, Hamlet's player's face turned pale for

Hecuba; so Shakespeare thought acting might make one change color.

I cannot get over the _sensibleness_ of Henry Greville, who was in

the pit again to-night. Upon my word! he deserves to see good

acting. After the play dear William and Mary Harness came home to

supper with us, and we all got into a long discussion about

Shakespeare's character, John maintaining that his views of life

were gloomy and that he must himself have been an unhappy man. I

don't believe a bit of it; no one, I suppose, ever thinks this

world, and the life we live in it, absolutely pleasant or good, but

the poet's ken, which is as an angel's compared with that of other

men, must see more good and beauty, as well as more evil and

ugliness, than his short-sighted fellows, and the better elements

predominating over the worse (as they do, else the world would fall

asunder). The man who takes so wide a view as Shakespeare, whatever

his judgment of parts, must, upon the whole, pronounce the whole

good rather than bad, and rejoice accordingly. I was too tired and

sleepy to talk, or even to listen, much.

_Wednesday, 11th._-- ... Lady Charlotte Greville and General Alaba

called. I am always grateful to him for the beautiful copy of

Schlegel's "Dramatic Lectures" which he gave me. Lady Charlotte was

all curiosity and anxiety about Lord Francis' play. I am afraid the

newspapers may not be much inclined to be good-natured about it. I

hope he does not care for what may be said of it. In the evening,

the boys went to the theater, and I stayed at home, industriously

copying "The Star of Seville" till bedtime.

_Thursday, 12th._--To the theater to rehearsal, after which I drove

to Hayter's (the painter), taking him my bracelets to copy, and

permission to apply to the theater wardrobe for any drapery that

may suit his purpose. I saw a likeness of Mrs. Norton he is just

finishing; very like her indeed, but not her handsomest look. I

think it had a slight, curious resemblance to some of the things

that have been done of me. I saw a very clever picture of all the

Fitzclarences, either by himself or his brother, George Hayter. The

women are very prettily grouped, and look picturesque enough; the

modern man's dress is an abominable object, of art or nature, and

Lord Munster's costume, holding, as he does, the very middle of the

canvas, is monstrous (which I don't mean for a rudeness, but a

pun). The Right Reverend Father in God (A.F.) is laughably like.

They have insisted on having a portrait of their mother introduced

in the room in which they are sitting, which seems to me better

feeling than taste. Their royal father is absent. I worked at "The

Star of Seville" till I went to the theater; as I get nearer the

end, I get as eager as a race-horse when in sight of the goal....

The piece was "The School for Scandal;" the house was very full. I

did not play well; I spoke too fast, and perceived it, and could

not make myself speak slower--an unpleasant sort of nightmare

sensation; besides, I was flat, and dull, and pointless--in short,

bad was the sum total. How well Ward plays Joseph Surface! The

audience were delightful; I never heard such pleasant shouts of

laughter.... My father says perhaps they will bring out "The Star

of Seville," which notion sometimes brings back my old girlish

desire for "fame." Every now and then I feel quite proud at the

idea of acting in a play of my own at two and twenty, and then I

look again at my "good works," this precious play, and it seems to

be no better than "filthy rags." But perhaps I may do better

hereafter. Hereafter! Oh dear! how many things are better than

doing even the best in this kind! how many things must be better

than real fame! but if one has none of those, fame might, perhaps,

be pleasant. No actor's fame, or rather celebrity, or rather

notoriety, would satisfy me; that is the shadow of a cloud, the

echo of a sound, the memory of a dream, nothing come of nothing.

The finest actor is but a good translator of another man's work; he

does somebody else's thought into action, but he creates nothing,

and that seems to me the test of genius, after all.

_Friday._--At eleven to the theater to rehearse "Katharine of

Cleves." ... We all went to the theater to see "Rob Roy," and I was

sorry that I did, for it gave me such a home-sick longing for

Edinburgh, and the lovely sea-shore out by Cramond, and the sunny

coast of Fife. How all my delightful, girlish, solitary rambles

came back to me! Why do such pleasant times ever pass? or why do

they ever come? The Scotch airs set me crying with all the

recollections they awakened. In spite, moreover, of my knowing

every plank and pulley, and scene-shifter and carpenter behind

those scenes, here was I crying at this Scotch melodrama, feeling

my heart puff out my chest for "Rob Roy," though Mr Ward is, alas!

my acquaintance, and I know when he leaves the stage he goes and

laughs and takes snuff in the green room. How I did cry at the

Coronach and Helen Macgregor, though I know Mrs. Lovell is thinking

of her baby, and the chorus-singers of their suppers. How I did

long to see Loch Lomond and its broad, deep, calm waters once more,

and those lovely green hills, and the fir forests so fragrant in

the sun, and that dark mountain well, Loch Long, with its rocky

cliffs along whose dizzy edge I used to dream I was running in a

whirlwind; the little bays where the sun touched the water as it

soaked into cushions of thick, starry moss, and the great tufts of

purple heather all vibrating with tawny bees! Beautiful wilderness!

how glad I am I have once seen it, and can never forget it; nor the

broad, crisping Clyde, with its blossoming bean-fields, its jagged

rocks and precipices, its gray cliffs and waving woods, and the

mountain streams of clear, bright, fairy water, rushing and

rejoicing down between the hills to fling themselves into its

bosom; and Dumbarton Castle, with its snowy roses of Stuart memory!

How glad I am that I have seen it all, if I should never see it

again! And "Rob Roy" brought all this and ever so much more to my

mind. If I had been a mountaineer, how I should have loved my land!

I wish I had some blood-right to love Scotland as I do.

Unfortunately, all these associations did not reconcile me to the

cockney-Scotch of our Covent Garden actors, and Mackay's Bailie

Nicol Jarvie was not the least tender of my reminiscences. [It was

at a public dinner in Edinburgh, at which Walter Scott and Mackay

were guests, that, in referring to the admirable impersonation of

the Bailie, Scott's habitual caution with regard to the authorship

of the Waverley Novels for a moment lost its balance, and in his

warm commendation of the great comedian's performances a sentence

escaped him which appeared conclusive to many of those present, if

they were still in doubt upon the subject, that he was their

writer.] Miss Inveraretie was a cruel Diana, but who would not

be?...

_Saturday, 14th._--I rode at two with my father. Passed Tyrone

Power; what a clever, pleasant man he is; Count d'Orsay joined us;

he was riding a most beautiful mare; and then James Macdonald, _cum

multus aliis_, and I was quite dead, and almost cross, with

cold.... After dinner I came up to my room, and set to work like a

little galley slave, and by tea-time I had finished my play. "Oh,

joy forever! my task is done!" I came down rather tipsy, and

proclaimed my achievement. After tea I began copying the last act,

but my father desired me to read it to them; so, at about half-past

nine, I began. My mother cried much; what a nice woman she is! My

father, Dall, and John agreed that it was beautiful, though I

believe the two first excellent judges were fast asleep during the

latter part of the reading, which was perhaps why they liked it so

much. At the end my mother said to me, "I am proud of you, my

dear;" and so I have my reward. After a little congratulatory

conversation, I came to bed at two o'clock, and slept before my

head touched the pillow. So now that is finished, and I am glad it

is finished. Is it as good as a second piece of work ought to be? I

cannot tell. I think so differently of it at different times that I

cannot trust my own judgment. I will begin something else as soon

as possible. I wonder why nowadays we make all our tragedies

foreign? Romantic, historical, knightly England had people and

manners once picturesque and poetical enough to serve her

play-writers' turn, though Shakespeare always took his stories,

though not his histories, from abroad; but people live tragedies

and comedies everywhere and all time. I think by and by I will

write an English tragedy. [I little thought then that I should

write a play whose miserable story was of my own day, and call it

"An English Tragedy."]

_Sunday, 15th._-- ... In the afternoon hosts of people called;

among others Lady Dacre, who stayed a long time, and wants us to go

to her on Thursday. Copied "The Star of Seville" all the evening.

At ten dear Mr. Harness came in, and stayed till twelve.

_Monday, 16th._--Rehearsed "Katharine of Cleves" at eleven, but as

Lord Francis did not come till twelve we had to begin it again, and

kept at it until two. The actors seem frightened about it. Mr.

Warde quakes about the pinching (an incident in the play taken, I

suppose, from Ruthven's proceeding toward Mary Stewart at

Lochleven). I am only afraid I cannot do anything with my part; it

is a sort of melodramatic, pantomimic part that I have no capacity

for. The fact is, that neither in the first nor last scenes are my

legs long enough to do justice to this lady. The Douglas woman who

barred the door with her arm to save King James's life must have

been a strapping lass, as well a heroine in spirit. I am not tall

enough for such feats of arms. Copied my play till time to go to

the theater. My aunt Victoire came to my dressing-room just as I

was going on, and persuaded dear Dall, who has never once seen me

act, to go into the front of the house. She came back very soon in

a state of great excitement and distress, saying she could not bear

it. How odd that seems! Dear old Dall! she cannot bear seeing me

make-believe miserable. The house was very good, and I played

fairly well.

_Tuesday, 17th._--Went to my mother's room before she was down,

with Henry. It is her birthday, and I carried her the black velvet

dress I have got for her, with which she seemed much pleased. Went

to rehearsal at twelve. Lord and Lady Francis were there, and we

acted the whole play, of course, to please them, so that I was half

dead at the end of the rehearsal. They want us to go to Lady

Charlotte's (Greville) to-morrow. My father said we would if we

were all well and _in spirits_ (_i.e._, if the play was not

damped).... I wonder how my dear old Newhaven fish-wife does. "Eh!

gude gracious, ma'am, it's yer ain sel come back again!" Poor body!

I believe I love the very east wind that blows over the streets of

Edinburgh.... After dinner Mrs. Jameson's beautiful toy-likeness of

me helped off the time delightfully till the gentlemen came up, and

then helped it off delightfully till everybody went away. What a

misfortune it is to have a broken nose, like poor dear Thackeray!

He would have been positively handsome, and is positively ugly in

consequence of it. John and his friend Venables broke the bridge of

Thackeray's nose when they were schoolboys playing together. What a

mishap to befall a young lad just beginning life! [I suppose my

friend Thackeray's injury was one that did not admit a surgical

remedy, but my father, late in life, fell down while skating, and

broke the bridge of his nose, and Liston, the eminent surgeon,

urged him extremely to let him raise it--"build it again," as he

used to say. My father, however, declined the operation, and not

only remained with his handsome nose disfigured, but suffered a

much greater inconvenience, which Liston had predicted--very

aggravated deafness in old age, from the stopping of the passages

in the nose, which helped to transmit sound to the brain.] After

all, I suppose, it does not much signify to a man whether he is

ugly or not. Wilkes, who was pre-eminently so, but brilliantly

agreeable, used always to say that he was only half an hour

behindhand with the handsomest man in England.

_Wednesday, 18th._--Went to the theater to rehearse "Katharine of

Cleves;" we were kept at it till half-past two. Drove home through

the park. The day was beautiful, but my poor father could not get

released from that hateful theater, and went without his ride.... I

had not felt at all nervous about to-night till the carriage came

to the door, and then I turned quite faint and sick with fright. At

the theater found Madame le Beau (the forewoman of the great

fashionable French milliner, Madame Dévy, by whom all my dresses

were made) waiting for me. All was in darkness in my dressing-room;

neither Mrs. Mitchell nor Jane were come (my two servants, or

dressers, as they are called at the theater). Presently in scuttled

the former, puffing, and whimpering apologies, and presently the

room was filled with the pleasant incense of eight candles that she

lighted, and blew out and relighted, and wondered that we didn't

enjoy the operation. Then Jane bounced breathless in, and made our

discomfort perfect. I sat speechless, terrified, and disconsolate.

My fright was increasing every instant, and by the time I was

dressed I shook like an aspen leaf from head to foot, and was as

sick as no heart could desire. My dresses were most beautiful, and

fitted me to perfection. The house was very fine. My poor dear

father, who was as perfect in his part as possible this morning,

did not speak three words without prompting; he was so nervous and

anxious about the success of the piece that his own part was driven

literally out of his head. I never saw anything so curious. To be

sure, his illness has shattered him very much, and all the worry he

has had this week has not mended matters. However, the play went

admirably, and was entirely successful, to assist which result I

thought I should have broken a blood-vessel in the last scene, the

exertion was so tremendous. My voice was weak with nervousness and

excitement, and at last I could hardly utter a word audibly. I

almost broke my arm, too, in good earnest, with those horrible iron

stanchions. However, it did be over at last, and "all's well that

ends well." I was so tired that I could scarcely stand; my mother

came down from her box and seemed much pleased with me. She went to

my father's room to see if I might not go home instead of to Lady

Charlotte's, but he seemed to think it would please them if we made

the effort of going for a few minutes; and so I dressed and set

off, and there we found a regular "swarry," instead of something to

eat and drink, and a chair to sit upon in peace and quiet. There

was a room full of all the fine folks in London; very few chairs,

no peace and quiet, and heaps of acquaintance to talk to.... All

the London world that is in London. Lord and Lady Francis took

their success very composedly. I don't think they would have cared

much if the play had failed. Henry Greville seemed to be much more

interested for them than they for themselves, and discussed it all

for a long time with me. I liked him very much.... At long last I

got home, and had some supper, but what with fatigue and

nervousness, and _it_--_i.e._, the supper--so late, I had a most

wretched night, and kept dreaming I was out in my part and jumping

up in bed, and all sorts of agonies. What a life! I don't steal my

money, I'm sure.

_Thursday, 19th._-- ... Henry and I rode in the park, and though

the day was detestable, it did me good. As we were walking the

horses round by Kensington Gardens, Lord John Russell, peering out

of voluminous wrappers, joined us. Certainly that small,

sharp-visaged gentleman does not give much outward and visible sign

of the inward and spiritual power he possesses and wields over this

realm of England just now. His bodily presence might almost be

described as St. Paul's. This turner inside out and upside down of

our body, social and political, this hero of reform, one of the

ablest men in England--I suppose in Europe--he rode with us for a

long time, and I thought how H---- would have envied me this

conversation with her idol.... In the evening, at the theater,

though I had gone over my part before going there, for the first

time in my play-house experience I was _out_ on the stage. I

stopped short in the middle of one of my speeches, thinking I had

finished it, whereas I had not given Mr. Warde the cue he was to

reply to. How disgraceful!... After the play, my mother called for

us in the carriage, and we went to Lady Dacre's, and had a pleasant

party enough.... C---- G---- was there, with her mother (the clever

and accomplished authoress of several so-called fashionable novels,

which had great popularity in their day). Miss G----, now Lady

E---- T----, used to be called by us "la Dame Blanche," on account

of the dazzling fairness of her complexion. She was very brilliant

and amusing, and I remember her saying to one of her admirers one

evening, when her snowy neck and shoulders were shining in all the

unveiled beauty of full dress, "Oh, go away, P----, you _tan_ me."

(The gentleman had a shock head of fiery-red hair.)

_Friday._-- ... I am horribly fagged, and after dinner fell fast

asleep in my chair. At the theater, in the evening, the house was

remarkably good for a "second night," and the play went off very

well.... My voice was much better to-night, though it cracked once

most awfully in the last scene, from fatigue.... I think Lord

Francis, or the management, or somebody ought to pay me for the

bruises and thumps I get in this new play. One arm is black and

blue (besides being broken every night) with bolting the door, and

the other grazed to the bone with falling in fits upon the floor on

my elbows. This sort of tragic acting is a service of some danger,

and I object to it much more than to the stabbing and poisoning of

the "Legitimate Drama;" in fact, "I do not mind death, but I cannot

bear pinching."

_Saturday._-- ... Rode in the park with my father. Lord John

Russell rode with us for some time, and was very pleasant. He made

us laugh by telling us that Sir Robert Inglis (most bigoted of Tory

anti-reformers) having fallen asleep on the ministerial benches at

the time of the division the other night, they counted him on their

side. What good fun! I never saw a man look so wretchedly worn and

harassed as Lord John does. They say the ministry must go out, that

they dare not make these new peers, and that the Bill will stick

fast by the way instead of passing. What frightful trouble there

will be!...

_Sunday, 22d._-- ... After church looked over the critiques in the

Sunday papers on "Katharine of Cleves." Some of them were too

good-natured, some too ill-natured. The _Spectator_ was exceedingly

amusing.

By far the best account and criticism of this piece is Mr. Barham's

metrical report of it in the "Ingoldsby Legends." Lord Francis

himself used to quote with delight, "She didn't mind death, but she

couldn't bear pinching." ...

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 22, 1832.

Thank you, my dearest H----, for your last delightful letter, which

I should have answered before, but for the production of a new

piece at Covent Garden, which has taken up all my time for the last

week in rehearsals, and trying on dresses and the innumerable and

invariable etceteras of a new play and part. It has been highly

successful, and I think is likely to bring money to our treasury,

which is _the_ consummation most devoutly to be wished. It is

nothing more than an interesting melodrama, with the advantage of

being written in gentlemanly (noblemanly?) blank verse instead of

turgid prose, and being acted by the principal instead of the

secondary members of the company. This will suffice to make you

appreciate my satisfaction, when I am complimented upon my acting

in it, and you will sympathize with the shout of laughter my father

and myself indulged in in the park the other day, when Lord John

Russell, who was riding with us, told us that a young lady of his

acquaintance had assured him that "Katharine of Cleves" (the name

of the piece) was vastly more interesting than any thing

Shakespeare had ever written.

The report is that there is to be no new creation of peers, and

that the Bill will not pass. Certainly poor Lord John looks worried

to death. He and Lord Grey have almost the whole weight and

responsibility of this most momentous question upon their

shoulders, and it must be no trifle to carry. As for the judicious

young lady's judgment about "Katharine of Cleves," it is just this

sort of thing that makes me _rub the hands of my mind_ with

satisfaction that I have never cared for my profession as my family

has done. I think if I had, such folly, or rather stupidity, would

have exasperated me too much. Besides, I should have been much less

useful to the theater, for I should have lived in an everlasting

wrangle with authors, actors, and managers on behalf of the

mythological bodies supposed to preside over tragedy and comedy,

and I should have killed myself (or perhaps been killed), and that

quickly, with ineffectual protests against half the performances

before the lamps, which are enough to make the angels weep and

laugh--in short, go into hysterics, if they ever come to the

play....

Do you know you have almost increased my very sufficient tendency

to superstition by your presentiment when you last left us that you

should never return to this house. There is some talk now of our

leaving it. My mother yearns for her favorite suburban haunts, the

scene of her courtship, and the spot where most of her happy

youthful associations abide, and has half persuaded my father to

let this house and take one in a particular row of "cottages of

gentility" called Craven Hill. It only consists of twelve houses,

in _five_ of which my mother has, at different periods of her life,

resided. This is all vague at present; I will let you know if it

assumes a more definite shape. Some time will elapse before it is

decided on, and more before it is done; and in any case, somehow or

other, you must be once more under this roof with us before we

leave it....

I quite agree with you that such books as Mr. Hope's (on the nature

and immortality of the soul, the precise title of which I have

forgotten) "may be useless," and sometimes, indeed, worse. If a

person has nothing better to do than count the sea sands or fill

the old bottomless tub of the Danaides, they may be excused for

devoting their time and wits to such riddles, perhaps. But when the

mind has positive, practical work to perform, and time keeps

bringing _all the time_ specific duties, or when, as in your case,

a predisposition to vague speculation is the intellectual besetting

sin, I think _addition_ to such subjects to be avoided. I suppose

all human beings have, in some shape or degree, the desire for that

knowledge which is still the growth of the forbidden tree of

Paradise, and the lust for which inevitably thrusts us against the

bars of the material life in which we are consigned; but to give up

one's time to writing and reading elaborate theories of a past and

future which we may conceive to exist, but of the existence of

which it is impossible we should achieve _any_ proof, much less any

detailed knowledge, appears to me an unprofitable and

unsatisfactory misuse of time and talent....

You are mistaken in supposing me familiar with the early history of

Poland. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it, and my zeal

for the cause of its people is an ignorant sentiment_alism_--partly,

perhaps, mere innate combativeness that longs to strike on the

weaker side, and partly, too, resentful indignation at the

cold-blooded neutrality observed by all the powers of Europe while

that handful of men were making so brave a stand against the

Russian giant.

That reminds me that Prince Zartoryski, who is in this country just

now, came to the play the other night, and was so struck with my

father that he sent round to him to say that he desired the honor

of his acquaintance, and begged he would do him the favor of dining

with him on some appointed day, which seemed to me a very pretty

piece of impulsive enthusiasm. I believe Prince Zartoryski is a

royal personage, and so above conventionalities....

My father is pretty well, though very far from having entirely

regained his strength, but he is making gradual progress in that

direction....

Always affectionately yours,

FANNY.

_Tuesday, 24th._-- ... Read over "The Star of Seville," as Mr.

Bartley (our worthy stage manager) has cut it, with a view to its

possible performance. He has cut it with a vengeance--what one may

call to the quick. However, I suppose they know their own business

(though, by the by, I am not always so sure of that). At any rate,

I shall make no resistance, but be silent while I am sheared....

I rode in the park with John. My mare was ill, and Mew (the

stable-keeper) had sent me one of his horses, a great awkward

brute, who, after jolting me well up Oxford Street, no sooner

entered the park than he bolted down the drive as fast as legs

could carry him, John following afar off. In Rotten Row we were

joined by young T----.... When I thought the devil was a little

worked out of my horse, I raised him to a canter again, whereupon

scamper the second--I like a flash of lightning, they after me as

well as they could. John would not force my father's horse, but Mr.

T----, whose horse was a thoroughbred hunter, managed to keep up

with me, but lamed his horse in so doing. We then walked soberly

round the park and saw our friends and acquaintances, and, turning

down the drive, I determined once more to try my horse's

disposition, whereupon off he went again, like a shot, leaving John

far behind. I flitted down Rotten Row like Faust on the demon

horse, and as I drew up and turned about I heard, "Well, that woman

does ride well," which was all, whoever said it, knew of the

matter; whereas, in my mad career, I had passed Fozzard, who shook

his head lamentably at John, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss Fanny! Miss

Fanny!" After this last satisfactory experiment I made no more, and

we cut short our ride on account of my unmanageable steed....

We had a dinner party at home, and in the evening additional

guests, among them Thackeray, who is very clever and delightful. We

had music and singing and pleasant, bright talk, and they departed

and left us in great good humor.

_Wednesday, 25th._--Read the "Prometheus Unbound." How gorgeous it

is! I do not think Shelley is read or appreciated now as

enthusiastically as he was, even in my recollection, some few years

ago. I went over my part, and at half-past five to the theater. The

play was "Katharine of Cleves," the house very good; and, to please

Henry Greville, I resumed the gold wreath I had discarded and

restored the lines I had omitted. After the play came home and

supped, and at eleven went to Lady F----'s.... A very fine party;

"everybody"--that is in town--was there, and Mrs. Norton looking

more magnificent than "everybody." Old Lady S---- like nothing in

the world but the mummy carried round at the Egyptian feasts, with

her parchment neck and shoulders bare, and her throat all drawn

into strings and cords, hung with a dozen rows of perfect precious

stones glittering in the glare of the lights with the constant

shaking of her palsied head. [This lady continued to frequent the

gayest assemblies in London when she had become so old and infirm

that, though still persisting daily in her favorite exercise on

horseback, she used to be tied into her saddle in such a manner as

to prevent her falling out of it. She had been one of the finest

riders in England, but used often, at the time when I knew her, to

go to sleep while walking the horse round the park, her groom who

rode near her being obliged to call to her "My lady! My lady!" to

make the poor old woman open her eyes and see where she was going.

At upward of eighty she died an unnatural death. Writing by

candle-light on a winter's evening, it is supposed that her cap

must have taken fire, for she was burnt to death, and had for her

funeral pile part of the noble historical house of Hatfield, which

was destroyed by the same accident.]

Lord Lansdowne desired to be introduced to me, and talked to me a

long time. I thought him very good-natured and a charming talker.

Mrs. Bradshaw (Maria Tree) was there, looking beautiful. Our

hostess's daughter, Miss F----, is very pretty, but just misses

being a beauty; in that case a miss is a great deal worse than a

mile. Just as the rooms were beginning to thin, and we were going

away, Lord O---- sat down to the piano. I had heard a great deal

about his singing, and was rather disappointed; he has a sweet

voice and a sweet face, but Henry Greville's bright, sparkling

countenance and expressive singing are worth a hundred such mere

musical sentimentalities. [Mr. Henry Greville was one of the best

amateur singers of the London society of his day. He was the

intimate personal friend of Mario, whom I remember he brought to

our house, when first he arrived in London, as M. de Candia, before

the beginning of his public career, and when, in the very first

bloom of youth, his exquisite voice and beautiful face produced in

society an effect which only briefly forestalled the admiration of

all Europe when he determined to adopt the profession which made

him famous as the incomparable tenor of the Italian stage for so

many years.] Then, too, those lads sing songs, the words of which

give one the throat-ache with strangled crying, and when they have

done you hear the women all round mincing, "Charming!--how

nice!--sweet!--what a dear!--darling creature!"

_Thursday, 26th._--Murray was most kind and good-natured and

liberal about all the arrangements for publishing "Francis I." and

"The Star of Seville." He will take them both, and defer the

publication of the first as long as the managers of Covent Garden

wish him to do so. [As there was some talk just then of bringing

out "The Star of Seville" at the theater, it was thought better not

to forestall its effect by the publication of "Francis I."]

At the theater the play was "The School for Scandal." A---- F----

was there, with young Sheridan; I hope the latter approved of my

method of speaking the speeches of his witty great-grandfather. I

played well, though the audience was dull and didn't help me. Mary

and William Harness supped with us....

_Friday, 27th._--A long discussion after breakfast about the

necessity of one's husband being clever. Ma foi je n'en vois pas la

nécessité. People don't want to be entertaining each other all day

long; _very_ clever men don't grow on every bush, and _middling_

clever men don't amount to anything. I think I should like to have

married Sir Humphry Davy. A well-assorted marriage, as the French

say, seems to me like a well-arranged duet for four hands; the

treble, the woman, has all the brilliant and melodious part, but

the whole government of the piece, the harmony, is with the base,

which really leads and sustains the whole composition and keeps it

steady, and without which the treble for the most part _runs to

tune_ merely, and wants depth, dignity, and real musical

importance.

In the afternoon went to Lady Dacre's.... She read me the first act

of a little piece she has been writing; while listening to her I

was struck as I never had been before with the great beauty of her

countenance, and its very varied and striking expression.... At

home spent my time in reading Shelley. How wonderful and beautiful

the "Prometheus" is! The unguessed heavens and earth and sea are so

many storehouses from which Shelley brings gorgeous heaps of

treasure and piles them up in words like jewels. I read "The

Sensitive Plant" and "Rosalind and Helen." As for the

latter--powerful enough, certainly--it gives me bodily aches to

read such poetry.

What extraordinary proceedings have been going on in the House of

Commons! Mr. Percival getting up and quoting the Bible, and Mr.

Hunt getting up and answering him by quoting the Bible too. It

seems we are to have a general fast--on account of the general

national misconduct, I suppose; serve us right.

_Sunday, 29th._--Went into my mother's room before going to church.

Henry Greville has sent her Victor Hugo's new book, "Notre Dame de

Paris," but she appears half undetermined whether she will go on

reading it or not, it is so painfully exciting. I took Mrs.

Montague up in the carriage on my way to church, and after service

drove her home, and went up to see Mrs. Procter, and found baby

(Adelaide Procter) at dinner. That child looks like a poet's child,

and a poet. It has something "doomed" (what the Germans call

"fatal") in its appearance--such a preternaturally thoughtful,

mournful expression for a little child, such a marked brow over the

heavy blue eyes, such a transparent skin, such pale-golden hair.

John says the little creature is an elf-child. I think it is the

prophecy of a poet. [And so, indeed, it was, as all who know

Adelaide Procter's writings will agree--a poet who died too early

for the world, though not before she had achieved a poet's fame,

and proved herself her father's worthy daughter.] ... In the

afternoon, I found my mother deep in her French novel, from which

she read me two very striking passages--the description of

Esmeralda, which was like a fine painting, and extremely beautiful,

and the sketch of Quasimodo's life, ending with his riding on the

great bell of the cathedral. Very powerful and very insane--a sort

of mental nightmare, giving one as much the idea of disorder of

intellect as such an image occurring to one in a dream would of a

disordered stomach. Harmony, order, the beauty of goodness and the

justice of God, are alike ignored in such works. How sad it is for

the future as well as for the present!

_Monday, 30th._--King Charles' martyrdom gives me a holiday

to-night. Excellent martyr! Victor Hugo has set my mother raving.

She didn't sleep all night, and says the book is bad in its

tendency and shocking in its details; nevertheless, she goes on

reading it....

_Tuesday, January 31st._-- ... Went to Turnerelli's. He is making a

bust of me, that will perhaps be like--the man in the moon. Dall

was kind enough to read to me Mrs. Jameson's "Christina" while I

sat. I like it extremely. After I came home, read Shirley's play of

"The Two Sisters." I didn't like it much. It is neither very

interesting, very witty, nor very poetical, and might almost be a

modern work for its general want of power and character. The women

appear to me a little exaggerated--the one is mad and the other

silly. At the theater in the evening the house was very good

indeed--the play, "Katharine of Cleves;" but poor Mr. Warde was so

ill he could hardly stand.

_Wednesday, February 1st._-- ... Drove out with Henry in the new

carriage. It is very handsome, but by no means as convenient or

capacious as our old rumble. Oh, these vanities! How we sacrifice

everything to them!

_Thursday, 2d._ ... Rode out with my father. The whole world was

abroad in the sunshine, like so many flies. My mother was walking

with John and Henry, and Henry Greville. I should like to tell him

two words of my mind on the subject of lending "Notre Dame de

Paris" about to women. At any rate, we vulgar females are not as

much accustomed to mental dram-drinking as his fine-lady friends,

and don't stand that sort of thing so well.... In the evening we

went to the theater to see "The Haunted Tower." Youth and first

impressions are wonderful magicians. (I forget whether the music of

this piece was by Storace or Michael Kelly.) This was an opera

which I had heard my father and mother talk of forever. I went full

of expectation accordingly, and was entirely disappointed. The

meagerness and triteness of the music and piece astonished me.

After the full orchestral accompaniments, the richly harmonized

concerted pieces and exquisite melodies lavished on us in our

modern operas, these simple airs and their choruses and mean

finales produce an effect from their poverty of absolute musical

starvation.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 31, 1832.

MY DEAREST H---- G----,

You are coming to England, and you will certainly not do so again

without coming to us. My father and mother, you know, speak by me

when I assure you that a visit from you would give us all the

greatest pleasure.... Do not come late in the season to us, because

at present we do not know whether June or July may take us out of

town.... With my scheme of going to America, I think I can look the

future courageously in the face. It is something to hold one's

fortune in one's own hands; if the worst comes to the worst it is

but another year's drudgery, and the whereabouts really matters

little.... We hear that the cholera is in Edinburgh. I cannot help

thinking with the deepest anxiety of those I love there, and I

imagine with sorrow that beautiful, noble city, those breezy hills,

those fresh, sea-weedy shores and coasts breathed upon by that dire

pestilence. The city of the winds, where the purifying currents of

keen air sweep through every thoroughfare and eddy round every

corner--perched up so high upon her rocky throne, she seems to sit

in a freer, finer atmosphere than all the world beside! (I appear,

in my enthusiastic love for Edinburgh, to have forgotten those

Immonderraze, the wynds and closes of the old town.) I hope the

report may not prove true, though from a letter I have received

from my cousin Sally (Siddons) the plague is certainly within six

miles of them. She writes very rationally about it, and I can

scarce forbear superstitiously believing that God's mercy will

especially protect those who are among His most devoted and dutiful

children....

You speak of my love of nature almost as if it were a quality for

which I deserve commendation. It is a blessing for which I am most

grateful. You who live uninclosed by paved streets and brick walls,

who have earth, sea, and sky _à discrétion_ spread round you in all

their majestic beauty, cannot imagine how vividly my memory recalls

and my mind dwells upon mere strips of greensward, with the shadows

of trees lying upon them. The colors of a patch of purple heather,

broken banks by roadsides through which sunshine streamed--often

mere effects of light and shade--return to me again and again like

tunes, and _to shut my eyes and look at them_ is a perfect delight

to me. I suppose one is in some way the better as well as the

happier for one's sympathy with the fair things of this fair world,

which are types of things yet fairer, and emanations from the great

Source of all goodness, loveliness, and sublimity. Whether in the

moral or material universe, images and ideas of beauty must always

be in themselves good. Beauty is one manifestation and form of

truth, and the transition seems to me almost inevitable from the

contemplation of things that are lovely to one's _senses_ to those

which are _lovable_ by one's spirits' higher and finer powers of

apprehension. The mind is kept sunny and calm, and free from ill

vapors, by the influence of beautiful things; and surely God loves

beauty, for from the greatest to the smallest it pervades all His

works; and poetry, painting, and sculpture are not as beautiful as

the things they reproduce, because of the imperfect nature-of their

creator--man; though _his_ works are only good in proportion as he

puts his soul--_i.e._, the Spirit of God--inspiration into them.

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, February 17, 1832.

MY DEAREST H----,

"Francis I." will come out on the 1st of March, so your starting on

the 25th will do quite well for that; but it is right I should tell

you what may possibly deter you from coming. A report prevails that

the cholera is approaching London, and though I cannot say that I

feel nervous upon the subject, perhaps, under these circumstances,

you had rather or better not come.

There have been many assertions and contradictions about it, of

course, and I know nothing but that such a rumor is prevalent, and

if this should cause you or (what is more likely) yours an

instant's hesitation, you must give up your visit. I know our

disappointment will be mutual and equal, and I am sure you will not

inflict it either upon yourself or me without adequate reason, so I

will say no more about it.

The reason for bringing out "Francis I." now is that Milman has

undertaken to review it in the next _Quarterly_, and Murray wishes

the production of the play at the theater to be simultaneous with

the publication of the _Review_.

My wrath and annoyance upon the subject have subsided, and I have

now taken refuge with restored equanimity in my "cannot help it."

Certainly I said and did all I could to hinder it.

I do not feel at all nervous about the fate of the play--no English

public will damn an attempt of that description, however much it

may deserve it; and paradoxical as it may sound, a London audience,

composed as it for the most part is of pretty rough, coarse, and

hard particles, makes up a most soft-hearted and good-natured

whole, and invariably in the instance of a new actor or a new

piece--whatever partial private ill will may wish to do--the

majority of the spectators is inclined to patience and indulgence.

I do not mean that I shall not turn exceedingly sick when I come to

set my foot upon the stage that night; but it will only be with a

slight increase of the alarm which I undergo with every new part.

My poor mother will be the person to be pitied; I wish she would

take an opiate and go to bed, instead of to the theater that

night....

I was at a party last night where I met Lord Hill (then commander

of the forces), who had himself presented to me, and who renewed in

person the promise he had sent me through Sir John Macdonald (who

was adjutant-general), to exert and interest himself to the utmost

of his power about Henry's commission.

John has finished his Anglo-Saxon book, and Murray has undertaken

to publish it for him, offering at the same time to share with him

whatever profits may accrue from it. The work is of a nature which

cannot give either a quick or considerable return; but the offer,

like all Mr. Murray's dealings with me, is very kind and liberal,

for a publisher is not easily found any more than readers for such

matter. (The book was the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf.) He asked me

to let him publish "Francis I.," as it is to be acted, without the

fifth act, but this I would not consent to. I have rather an

affection for my last scene in the Certoso at Pavia, with the monks

singing the "De Profundis" while the battle was going on, and the

king being brought in a prisoner and making the response to the

psalm--which is all historically true....

I must bid you good-by, dear, as I am going to the Angerstein

Gallery with the Fitzhughs....

Yours ever affectionately,

F. A. K.

_Saturday, 4th._--I was obliged to send an excuse to Turnerelli. I

could not sit to him this morning, as it is now determined that

"Francis I." is to be brought out, and received official notice

that it was to be read in the greenroom to-day. We went to the

theater at eleven, and all the actors were there. I felt very

uncomfortable and awkward; but, after all, writing a play is not a

sin, so I plucked up my courage and sat down with the rest. My

father read it beautifully, but even cut as it is, it is of an

_unendurable_ length. They were all very kind and civil, and

applauded it very much; but I do not love the sound of clapping of

hands, and did not feel on this occasion as if I had done the sort

of thing that deserves it....

At half-past five went to the theater; it was the first night of

the opera, and rained besides, both which circumstances thinned our

house; but I suspect "Katharine of Cleves" has nearly lived her

life. Driving to the theater, my father told me that they had

entirely altered the cast of "Francis I." from what I had

appointed, and determined to finish the play with the fourth act. I

felt myself get very red, but I didn't speak, though I cannot but

think an author has a right to say whether he or she will have

certain alterations made in their work. My position is a difficult

one, for did I not feel bound to comply with my father's wishes I

would have no hand in this experiment. I would forfeit fifty--nay,

a hundred--pounds willingly rather than act in this play, which I

am convinced ought not to be acted at all. Any other person might

do this, but with me it is a question of home duty, instead of a

mere matter of business between author, actress, and manager. They

couldn't act the play without me, and but for my father I should

from the first have refused to act in it at all. I do not think

that they manage wisely; it is a mere snatch at a bit of profit by

a way of catchpenny venture, to secure which they are running the

risk of injuring me more ways than one, and through me their own

interests. It seems to me shortsighted policy, but I cannot help

myself. After the play came home to supper, and at eleven went to

Lady Dacre's. Sidney Smith, Rogers. Conversation sharp. Lots of

people that I knew, in spite of which, in consequence, I suppose,

of my own state of spirits, I did not enjoy myself. Mrs. Norton was

there; she sang "My Arab Steed," and "Yes, Aunt," and "Joe Hardy;"

the latter I do not think very good. They made me sing; I was

horribly frightened. Julian Young was there; his manner and

appearance are not very good, but his voice is beautiful and he

sang very well.

_Sunday, 5th._-- ... When I came back from church I found Campbell

with my mother, scraping up information about Mrs. Siddons for his

and her "life." I left him with her, and when I came back he was

gone, and in his place, as if he had turned into her, sat Mrs.

Fitzgerald in a green velvet gown trimmed with sables, which

excited my admiration and envy. I should like to have been living

in the days and countries where persons, as a mark of favor, took

off their dress and threw it on your shoulders. How pleasant it

would have been!...

Just before going to bed I spoke of writing a preface to "Francis

I.," which brought on a discussion with my mother on the subject of

that ill-fated piece, in the middle of which my father came in, and

I summoned up courage to say something of what I felt about it, and

how disagreeable it was to me to act in it, feeling as I did. I do

not think I can make them understand that I do not care a straw

whether the piece dies and is damned the first night, or is cut up

alive the next morning, but that I do care that, in spite of my

protestations, it should be acted at all, and should be cut and

cast in a manner that I totally disapprove of.

_Monday, 6th._-- ... On our way to the theater my father told me

that the whole cast of "Francis I." is again turned topsy-turvy.

Patience of me! I felt very cross, so I held my tongue. Mr. and

Miss Harness came home to supper with us, and had a long talk about

"Francis I.," my annoyance about which culminated, I am ashamed to

say, in a fit of crying.

_Tuesday, 7th._--So "Francis I." is in the bills, I see....

_Wednesday, 8th._-- ... At eleven "The Provoked Husband" was

rehearsed in the saloon, and Mr. Meadows brought Carlo to see me.

[Carlo was a splendid Newfoundland dog, which my friend, Mr.

Drinkwater Meadows, used to bring to the theater to see me. His

solemnity, when he was desired to keep still while the rehearsal

was going on, was magnificent, considering the stuff he must have

thought it.] ... After dinner went to the theater. The house was

bad; the play, "The Provoked Husband." I played ill in spite of my

pink gauze gown, which is inestimable and as fresh as ever. After

supper dressed and off to Mrs. G----'s, and had a very nice

ball....

_Friday, 10th._-- ... I wrote to H---- to beg her to come to me

directly; I wish her so much to be here when my play comes out.

Went to the theater at a quarter to six. The house was bad; the

play, "Katharine of Cleves." I acted pretty well, _though_ my

dresses are getting shockingly dirty, and in one of the scenes my

wreath fell backward, and I was obliged to take it off in the

middle of all my epistolary agony; and what was still worse, after

my husband had locked me in one room and my wreath in another, it

somehow found its way back upon my head for the last scene. At the

end of the play, which has now been acted ten nights, some people

began hissing the pinching incident. It was always considered the

dangerous passage of the piece, but a reasonable public should know

that a play must be damned on its first night, or not at all.

_Saturday, 11th._-- ... A long walk with my mother, and a long talk

about Shakespeare, especially about the beauty of his songs....

_Tuesday, 14th._-- ... Read the family my prologue. My mother did

not like it at all; my father said it would do very well. John

asked why there need be any prologue to the play, which is

precisely what I do not understand. However, I was told to write

one and I did, and they may use it or not just as they please. I am

determined to say not another word about the whole vexatious

business, and so peace be with them.... In the evening a charming

little dinner-party at Mr. Harness's. The G----s, Arthur K----,

Procter (Barry Cornwall), who is delightful, Sir William Millman,

and ourselves.... Dear Mr. Harness has spoken to Murray about

John's book, and has settled it all for him. On my return home, I

told John of the book being accepted, at which he was greatly

pleased. [The book in question was my brother's history of the

Anglo-Saxons, of which Lord Macaulay once spoke to me in terms of

the highest enthusiasm, deploring that John had not followed up

that line of literature to a much greater extent.]

_Wednesday, 15th._-- ... My father went to the opening dinner of

the Garrick Club.... After tea I read Daru, and copied fair a

speech I had been writing for an imaginary member of the House of

Peers, on the Reform Bill. John Mason called, and they sat down to

a rubber, and I came to my own room and read "King Lear." ...

_Thursday, 16th._-- ... While I was at the Fitzhughs' Miss Sturges

Bourne came in, and she and Emily had a very interesting

conversation about books for the poor. Among other things Emily

said that Lady Macdonald had written up to her from the country, to

say that she wanted some more books of sentiment, for that by the

way in which these were thumbed it was evident that they alone

would "go down." Upon inquiry, I found that these "sentimental"

books were religious tracts, highly flavored with terror or pathos,

and in one way or another calculated to convey the strongest

excitement upon the last subject with which excitement ought to

have anything to do. Pious stimulants, devout drams, this is trying

to do good, but I think mistaking the way....

In the evening we went to Lady Farquhar's; this was a finer party,

as it is called, than the last, but not so pleasant. All the world

was there. Mrs. Norton the magnificent, and that lovely sister of

hers, Mrs. Blackwood (afterwards Lady Dufferin), crowned like

Bacchantes with grapes, and looking as beautiful as dreams. Heaps

of acquaintance and some friends....

_Sunday, 10th._-- ... In the evening I read Daru. What fun that

riotous old Pope Julius is! Poor Gaston de Foix! It was young to

leave life and such well-begun fame. The extracts from Bayard's

life enchant me. I am glad to get among my old acquaintance again.

Mr. Harness came in rather late and said all manner of kind things

about "The Star of Seville," but I was thinking about his play all

the while; it does not seem to me that the management is treating

him well. If it does not suit the interests of the theater to bring

it out now, he surely should be told so, and not kept in a state of

suspense, which cannot be delightful to any author, however little

of an egotist he may be.

_Monday, 20th._--Went to Kensington Gravel Pits to see Lady

Calcott, and sat with her a long time. That dying woman, sitting in

the warm spring sunlight, surrounded with early-blowing hyacinths,

the youngest born of the year, was a touching object. She is a

charming person, so full of talent and of goodness. She talked with

her usual cheerfulness and vivacity. Presently Sir Augustus came

down from the painting-room to see me.... I could hardly prevent

myself from crying, and I am afraid I looked very sad. As I was

going away and stooped to kiss her, she sweetly and solemnly bade

"God bless me," and I thought her prayer was nearer to heaven than

that of most people....

_Tuesday, 21st._-- ... After tea dropped John at Mr. Murray's in

Albemarle Street, and went on to the theater to see the new opera;

our version of "Robert the Devil." The house was very full. Henry

Greville was there, with the Mitfords and Mrs. Bradshaw. What an

extraordinary piece, to be sure! I could not help looking at the

full house and wondering how so many decent Englishmen and women

could sit through such a spectacle.... The impression made upon me

by the subject of Meyerbeer's celebrated opera appears to have

entirely superseded that of the undoubtedly fine music; but I never

was able to enjoy the latter because of the former, and the only

shape in which I ever enjoyed "Robert the Devil" was in M.

Levassor's irresistibly ludicrous account of it in the character of

a young Paris _badaud_, who had just come from seeing it at the

theater. His version of its horrors was laughable in the extreme,

especially when, coming to the episode of the resurrection of the

nuns, he contrived to give the most comical effect of a whole

crowd--gibbering, glissading women greeting one another with the

rapid music of the original scene, to which he adapted the words--

"Quoi c'est moi c'est toi,

Oui c'est toi c'est moi;

Comme nous voila bien dégommés."

Mendelssohn's opinion of the subjects chosen for operas in his day

(even such a story as that of the Sonnambula) was scornful in the

extreme.

_Friday, 24th._-- ... Dined with the Fitzhughs, and after dinner

proceeded to the Adelphi, where we went to see "Victorine," which I

liked very much. Mrs. Yates acted admirably the whole of it, but

more particularly that part where she is old and in distress and

degradation. There was a dreary look of uncomplaining misery about

her, an appearance as of habitual want and sorrow and suffering, a

heavy, slow, subdued, broken deportment, and a way of speaking that

was excellent and was what struck me most in her performance, for

the end is sure to be so effective that she shares half her merit

there with the situation. Reeve is funny beyond anything; his face

is the most humorous mask I ever saw in my life. I think him much

more comical than Liston. The carriage was not come at the end of

the first piece, so we had to wait through part of "Robert the

Devil" (given at last, such was its popularity, at every theater in

London). Of course, after our own grand _diablerie_, it did not

strike me except as being wonderfully well done, considering the

size and means of their little stage. [Yates made a most capital

fiend: I should not like a bit to be Mrs Yates after seeing him

look that part so perfectly.]

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, February 24, 1832.

DEAREST H----,

I have this moment received your letter, and though rather

disappointed myself, I am glad you are to see Dorothy as well as

we, so that your visit southward is to be two pleasures instead of

one. The representation of "Francis I." is delayed until next

Wednesday, 7th March; not on account of cholera, but of scenery and

other like theatrical causes of postponement....

I am greatly worried and annoyed about my play. The more I see and

hear of it the stronger my perception grows of its defects, which,

I think, are rendered even more glaring by the curtailments and

alterations necessary for its representation; and the whole thing

distresses me as much as such a thing can. I send you the cast of

the principal characters for the instruction of my Ardgillan

friends, by whose interest about it I am much gratified. My father

is to be De Bourbon; John Mason, the king; Mr. Warde, the monk; Mr.

Bennett, Laval. These are the principal men's parts. I act the

queen-mother; Miss Taylor, Margaret de Valois; and Miss Tree,

Françoise de Foix.

I am reading Cooper's novel of "The Borderers." It is striking and

powerful, and some of it I think very beautiful, especially all

that regards poor Ruth, which, I remember, is what struck you so

much. I like the book extremely. There is a soft sobriety of color

over it all that pleases me, and reminds me of your constant

association of religion and the simple labors of an agricultural

life. It is wonderful how striking the description of this

neutral-tinted existence is, in which life, love, death, and even

this wild warfare with the savage tribes, by which these people

were surrounded, appear divested of all their natural and usual

excitements. Religion alone (and this, of course, was inevitable)

is the one imaginative and enthusiastic element in their existence,

and that alone becomes the source of vehement feeling and

passionate excitement which ought least to admit of fanciful

interpretations and exaggerated and morbid sentiment. But the

picture is admirably well drawn, and I cannot help sometimes

wishing I had lived in those days, and been one of that little

colony of sternly simple and fervently devout Christian souls. But

I should have been a furious fanatic; I should have "seen visions

and dreamed dreams," and fancied myself a prophetess to a

certainty.

That luckless concern, in which you are a luckless shareholder

(Covent Garden), is going to the dogs faster and faster every day;

and, in spite of the Garrick Club and all its noble regenerators of

the drama, I think the end of it, and that no distant one, will be

utter ruin. They have been bringing out a new grand opera, called

"Robert the Devil," which they hope to derive much profit from, as

it is beyond all precedent absurd and horrible (and, as I think,

disgusting); but I am almost afraid that it has none of these good

qualities in a sufficient degree to make it pay its own enormous

cost. I have seen it once, and came home with such a pain in my

side and confused chaos in my head that I do not think I shall ever

wish to see it again. Write me a line to say when I may look for

you.

Ever affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

_Saturday, 25th._-- ... Finished Fenimore Cooper's interesting and

pathetic novel, "The Borderers." ... I came down into the

drawing-room with a headache, a sideache, a heartache, and swollen

red eyes, and my mother greeted me with the news that the theater

was finally ruined, that at Easter it must close, that we must all

go different ways, and I probably to America. I was sobered from my

imaginary sorrow directly; for it is astonishing what a different

effect real and fictitious distress has upon one. I could not

answer my mother, but I went to the window and looked up and down

the streets that were getting empty and dark and silent, and my

heart sank as I thought of leaving my home, my England.... After

dinner Madame le Beau came to try on my Louisa of Savoy's dress; it

is as ugly and unbecoming, but as correct, as possible....

_Wednesday, 23d._--At eleven went to the theater to rehearse

"Francis I." The actors had most of them been civil enough to learn

their parts, and were tolerably perfect. Mr. Bennett will play his

very well indeed, if he does not increase in energy when he comes

to act. Miss Tree, too, I think, will do her part very nicely. John

Mason is rather vulgar and 'prentice-like for Francis, that mirror

of chivalry. After rehearsal I went to Dévy, to consult about my

dress. I have got a picture of the very woman, Louisa of Savoy,

queen-mother of France, and, short of absolute hideousness, I will

make myself as like her as I can....

Arthur Hallam dined with us. I am not sure that I do not like him

the best of all John's friends. Besides being so clever, he is so

gentle, charming, and winning. At half-past ten went to Mrs.

Norton's. My father, who had received a summons from the Court of

Chancery, did not come.... It was a very fine, and rather dull,

party.... Mrs. Norton looks as if she were made of precious stones,

diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires; she is radiant with beauty.

And so, in a different way, is that vision of a sister of hers

(Georgiana Sheridan, Lady St. Maur, Duchess of Somerset, and Queen

of Beauty), with her waxen, round, white arms, and eyes streaming

with soft brilliancy, like fountains by moonlight. To look at two

such creatures for an hour is enough to make the world brighter for

several hours.

_Thursday, 24th._--At eleven went to rehearsal. While we were

rehearsing Mr. Bartley came and told me that the play, "Francis

I.," would not be done for a fortnight, and afterward my father

told me he did not think it was right, or fitting, or doing me

justice to bring out my play without some little attention to

scenery, decorations, etc. I entreated him to go to no expense for

it, for I am sure it will not repay them. Moreover, they have given

their scenery, and finery, and dressing, and decoration, and

spectacle in such profusion to "Robert the Devil" that I am sure

they cannot afford a heavy outlay upon anything else just now.

However, I could not prevail, and probably the real reason for

putting off "Francis I." is the expediency of running the new opera

as long as it will draw before bringing out anything else, which,

of course, is good policy....

_Wednesday, 29th._--H---- has gone to York. What a disappointment!

After all, it's only one more added to the budget. Yet why do I say

that? One scores one's losses, and takes no reckoning of one's

gains, which is neither right nor fair to one's life....

I rode with Henry, and after I got home told my father that his

horse was quite well, and would be fit for his use on Saturday. He

replied sadly that his horse must be sold, for that from the first,

though he had not liked to vex me by saying so, it was an expense

he could not conscientiously afford. I had expected this, and

certainly, when from day to day a man may be obliged to declare

himself insolvent, keeping a horse does seem rather absurd. He then

went on to speak about the ruin that is falling upon us; and dismal

enough it is to stand under the crumbling fabric we have spent

having and living, body, substance, and all but soul, to prop, and

see that it must inevitably fall and crush us presently. Yet from

my earliest childhood I remember this has been hanging over us. I

have heard it foretold, I have known it expected, and there is no

reason why it should now take any of us by surprise, or strike us

with sudden dismay. Thank God, our means of existence lie within

ourselves; while health and strength are vouchsafed to us there is

no need to despond. It is very hard and sad to be come so far on in

life, or rather so far into age, as my father is, without any hope

of support for himself and my mother but toil, and that of the

severest kind; but God is merciful. He has hitherto cared for us,

as He cares for all His creatures, and He will not forsake us if we

do not forsake Him or ourselves.... My father and I need scarcely

remain without engagements, either in London or the provinces....

If our salaries are smaller, so must our expenses be. The house

must go, the carriage must go, the horses must go, and yet we may

be sufficiently comfortable and very happy--unless, indeed, we have

to go to America, and that will be dreadful.... We are yet all

stout and strong, and we are yet altogether. It is pitiful to see

how my father still clings to that theater. Is it because? the art

he loves, once had its noblest dwelling there? Is it because his

own name and the names of his brother and sister are graven, as it

were, on its very stones? Does he think he could not act in a

smaller theater? What can, in spite of his interest, make him so

loth to leave that ponderous ruin? Even to-day, after summing up

all the sorrow and care and toil, and waste of life and fortune

which that concern has cost his brother, himself, and all of us, he

exclaimed, "Oh, if I had but £10,000, I could set it all right

again, even now!" My mother and I actually stared at this

infatuation. If I had twenty, or a hundred thousand pounds, not one

farthing would I give to the redeeming of that fatal millstone,

which cannot be raised, but will infallibly drag everything tied to

it down to the level of its own destruction. The past is past, and

for the future we must think and act as speedily as we may. If our

salaries are half what they are now we need not starve; and, as

long as God keeps us in health of body and mind, nothing need

signify, provided we are not obliged to separate and go off to that

dreadful America.

_Thursday, March 1st._-- ... After dinner I read over again

Knowles's play, "The Hunchback," and like it better than ever. What

would I not give to have written that play! He cannot agree with

Drury Lane about it, and has brought it back to us, and means to

act Master Walter himself. I am so very glad. It will be the most

striking dramatic exhibition that has been seen since Kean's

_début_. I wish "Francis I." was done, and done with, and that we

were rehearsing "The Hunchback."

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 1, 1832.

... As for any disappointment of mine about anything, dear H----,

though some things are by no means light to me, I soon make up my

mind to whatever must be, and I think those who do not endure well

what cannot be avoided are only less foolish than those who endure

what they can avoid. "Francis I." will not, I think, interfere with

your visit to us. Murray wishes it to be postponed till after the

publication of the _Quarterly_, which will come out about the 11th

or 12th. Lockhart, and not Milman, has reviewed it very favorably,

I hear, and Murray expects to sell one edition immediately upon the

publication of the article in the _Quarterly_. So that you can stay

at Fulford some time yet; and should the play be given before you

wish to leave it, I shall not expect you in person, but feel sure

that you are with me in spirit; and the next day I will write you

word of the result.

Dearest H----, I am just now much burdened with anxiety. I will

tell you more of this when we meet. Thank God, though not of a

sanguine, I am not of a desponding nature; and though I never look

forward with any great satisfaction to the future, I seldom find it

difficult to accept the present with tolerable equanimity.... I

spent the evening on Wednesday with Mrs. Jameson. She is just

returned to town, and came immediately, thinking you were here, to

engage us for the next evening; and as you did not come I went, and

spent three hours very pleasantly with her. She knows so much, and

I am so very ignorant, that her conversation is delightfully

instructive as well as amusing, full of interest and information.

Poor woman! she left Tedsley and a very agreeable party to come up

to town upon a false alarm of "Francis I.'s" coming out. I think I

have told you of the work upon Shakespeare she is engaged with; she

has been teaching herself to etch, and has executed some charming

designs, with which she means to illustrate it. I have not an idea

what our plans for this summer are to be; whether America, or the

provinces, or the King's Bench; but I suppose we shall see a little

more clearly into the future by the time you come to us; and if we

do not, abundantly "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof"

with us just now.... I have been reading nothing but Daru's

"History of Venice" lately. How could you tell me to read that sad

story, "The Borderers"! I half killed myself with crying over it,

and did not recover from the effect it had upon me for several

days.

Dearest H----, I am writing nonsense, and with an effort, for I am

very low; and so I will leave off.

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

_Friday, March 2d._--I read Shirley's "Gentleman of Venice," and

did not like it much.... While I was riding in the park with John,

Mr. Willett came up to us, and told me, as great good news, that

they were out of Chancery, and had obtained an order to have their

money out of court. I thought this indeed good news, and we

cantered up the drive in hopes of meeting my mother in the

carriage; but she had gone home. On reaching home, I ran to look

for her, but thought she would like better to hear the news from my

father.

I told Dall of it, however; and she, who had just seen my father,

said that he considered what had happened a most unfortunate thing

for him; and so my bright, new joy fell to the ground, and was

broken all to pieces. Upon further explanation, however, it seems

that it is an advantage to the other proprietors, though not to

him; no part of the recovered money returning to him, because he

had borrowed his share of it from Mr. Willett; and the only

difference is that he will not have to pay the interest on it any

more, and so far it is a small advantage to him. But it is a great

one to them, poor men! and therefore we ought to be glad, and not

look only at our own share of the business, though naturally that

is the most interesting to us. I sometimes doubt, after all, if we

have really by any means a clear and comprehensive view of the

whole state of that concern, receiving our impressions from my

father, who naturally looks at it only from the side of his own

personal stake in it.... After dinner John read me a letter he had

just received from Richard Trench--a most beautiful letter. What a

fine fellow he is, and what a noble set of young men these friends

of my brother's are! After tea read Arthur Hallam's essay on the

philosophical writings of Cicero. It is very excellent; I should

like to have marked some of the passages, they are so admirably

clear and true; but he has only lent it to me. His Latin and Greek

quotations were rather a trial, but I have no doubt his English is

as good as anything he quotes. Surely England twenty years hence

should be in a higher state of moral and intellectual development

than it is now: these young heads seem to me admirably good and

strong, and some score years hence these fine spirits will be

influencing the national mind and soul of England; and it pleases

me much to think so. [Alas! as far as dear Arthur Hallam was

concerned, my prophetic confidence was vain.] After finishing

Hallam's essay, I took up "King Lear," and read the end of that,

"and my poor fool is hanged!" O Lord, what an agony! In reading

"Lear," one of Mr. Harness's criticisms on my "Star of Seville"

recurred to me. In the scene where Estrella deplores her brother's

death, I have used frequent repetition of the same words and

exclamations. I wrote upon impulse, without deliberation, and

simply as my conception of sorrow prompted me, such words as grew

from my heart and not my understanding. But in reading "King Lear,"

the iteration in the expression of deep grief confirms me in the

opinion that it is natural to all men, and not peculiar to myself,

for Shakespeare has done it. In the scene where Gloster tells

Cornwall and Regan of Edgar's supposed wickedness, the wretched old

father uses frequent repetition, as, "Oh, madam, my old heart is

cracked; it's cracked!" "Oh, lady, lady, shame would have it hid!"

"I know not, madam: 'tis too bad, too bad!" and in the last scene,

that most piteous and terrible close that story ever had, the poor

old king, in his moanings over Cordelia, repeats his words over and

over again. I defend my conception, not my execution of it; and

true and touching as these repetitions of Shakespeare's are, mine

may be "damnable iteration," and nothing else. Heart-broken sorrow

has but few words; utter bereavement is not eloquent; and David,

when the darling of his soul was dead, did but cry, "O Absalom, my

son, my son! would God I had died for thee, my son!" A vastly

different expression of a vastly different grief from that which

poured itself out in the sad and noble dirge, "The beauty of Israel

is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!"

_Saturday, 3d._--Henry has obtained his commission; one great piece

of good fortune amid all the bad, for which God be thanked. [The

liberal price given me by Mr. Murray for my play of "Francis I."

enabled me to purchase my brother's commission, which, however, the

money would not have obtained without the extremely kind interest

exerted in his favor by Lord Hill, then commander, and Sir John

Macdonald, adjutant-general of the forces.]

_Sunday, 4th._-- ... My father is in deplorable spirits, and seems

bowed down with care. I believe all that befalls us is right. I

know we must bear it; all I pray for is health, strength and

courage to bear it well. In the evening the Harnesses drank tea

with us.

_Monday, 5th._--Got ready things for the theater, and went over my

part.... In the afternoon, I hoped to hear the result of the

meeting that had been held by the creditors of the theater; but my

father had been obliged to leave it before anything was settled,

and did not know what had been the termination of the consultation.

At the theater the house was not good, neither was my acting. My

father acted admirably, to my amazement: for he has been in a most

wretched state of depression for the last week, and to-day at

dinner his face looked drawn and haggard and absolutely

lead-colored.

_Tuesday, 6th._--After breakfast went with Henry and my father to

Cox and Greenwood's, the great army agents, to pay for his

commission. Oh, what a good job, to be sure! Then to the Horse

Guards, to thank dear Sir John Macdonald; then to Stable Yard, to

call upon Lord Fitzroy Somerset; and then home, much happier than I

had been for a long time.... Madame le Beau brought my dress for

Louisa of Savoy; it is very handsome, but I look hideous, and as

grim as Queen Death in it. However, it is a precise copy of the

woman's own picture, and I must comfort myself with that. In the

evening we went to a pleasant party at the Basil Montagues', where

for an hour I recovered my love of dancing, which has rather

forsaken me of late. The Rajah Ramohun Roy had himself introduced

to me, and we presently began a delightful nonsense conversation,

which lasted a considerable time, and amused me extremely. His

appearance is very striking; his picturesque dress and color make

him, of course, a remarkable object in a London ball-room; his

countenance, beside being very intellectual, has an expression of

great sweetness and benignity and his remarks and conversation are

in the highest degree interesting, when one remembers what mental

energy and moral force and determination he must have exerted to

break through all the trammels which have opposed his becoming what

he is. I was turning away from him for a few moments, to speak to

Mr. Montague, who had begun a very interesting discourse on the

analysis of the causes of laughter, when the Rajah recalled my

attention to himself by saying, "I am going to quote the Bible to

you: you remember that passage, 'The poor ye have always with you,

but Me ye have not always.' Now, Mr. Montague you have always with

you, but me you have not always." So we resumed our conversation

together, and kept up a brief interchange of persiflage which made

us both laugh very much, and in which he showed a very ready use of

English language for a stranger.

Mrs. Procter talked to me a great deal about her little Adelaide,

who must be a most wonderful creature. The profound and

unanswerable questions put to us by these "children of light"

confound us with the sense of our own spiritual and mental

darkness. I often think of Tieck's lovely and deep-meaning story of

"The Elves." How little we know of the hidden mysterious springs

from which these crystal cups are filled, or of the unseen

companions that may have strayed with their fellow to the threshold

of this earth, and walk with it while it yet retains its purity and

innocence; but, as it journeys on, turn back and forsake it, and

return to their home, leaving their sister-soul to wander through

the world with sin and sorrow for companions.

_Wednesday, 7th._--I sent "The Merchant of Venice" to Ramohun Roy,

who, in our conversation last night, expressed a great desire to

read it....

_Thursday, 8th._-- ... In the evening acted Beatrice. The house was

very good, which I was delighted to see. The Harnesses supped with

us. While we were at supper, the _Quarterly Review_ came from

Murray's, and I read the article on "Francis I." aloud to them. It

is very "handsome," and I should think must satisfy my most

unreasonable friends. It more than satisfied me, for it made me out

a great deal cleverer than ever I thought I was, or ever, I am

afraid, shall be.

_Friday, 9th._--Rehearsed "Francis I." When I came home found a

charming letter and some Indian books, from that most amiable of

all the wise men of the East, Ramohun Roy. Mrs. Jameson and Mr.

Harness called.

_Saturday, 10th._--Rehearsed "Francis I." Tried on my dresses for

"The Hunchback;" they will be beautiful. The rehearsal was over

long before the carriage came for me; so I went into my father's

room and read the newspaper, while he and Mr. Bartley discussed the

cast of Knowles's play. It seems my father will not act in it. I am

sorry for that; it is hardly fair to Knowles, for no one else can

do it. My poor father seemed too bewildered to give any answer, or

even heed, to anything, and Mr. Bartley went away. My father

continued to walk up and down the room for nearly half an hour,

without uttering a syllable; and at last flung himself into a

chair, and leaned his head and arms on the table. I was horribly

frightened, and turned as cold as stone, and for some minutes could

not muster up courage enough to speak to him. At last I got up and

went to him, and, on my touching his arm, he started up and

exclaimed, "Good God, what will become of us all!" I tried to

comfort him, and spoke for a long time, but much, I fear, as a

blind man speaks of colors. I do not know, and I do not believe any

one knows, the real state of terrible involvement in which this

miserable concern is wrapped. What I dread most of all is that my

father's health will break down. To-day, while he was talking to

me, I saw him suddenly put his hand to his side in a way that sent

a pang through my heart. He seems utterly prostrated in spirit, and

I fear he will brood himself ill. God help us all! I came home with

a heavy heart, and got ready my things for the theater, and went

over my part. Emily called.... She brought me my aunt Siddons's

sketches of Constance and Lady Macbeth. They are simply written,

and though not analytically deep or powerful, are true, clear, and

good, as far as their extent reaches. She thinks Constance more

motherly than queenly, and I do not altogether agree with her. I do

not think the scene after Arthur is taken prisoner alone

establishes my aunt's position; the mother's sorrow there sweeps

every other consideration away. It is before that that I think her

love for her child is in some measure mixed with the feeling of the

sovereign for his heir; a love of power, in fact, embodied in the

boy who was to continue the dominion of a race of princes. He was

her royal child, and that I do not think she ever forgot till he

was, in her imagination, her dead child. She says she could endure

his being thrust from all his rights if he had been a less gracious

creature, and goes on--

"But thou art fair, dear boy: and at thy birth

Nature and fortune joined to make thee great;"

and then bursts forth into her furious vituperation of those whose

treachery has frustrated his natural claim to greatness. The woman,

too, who in the utmost bitterness of disappointment, in the utter

helplessness and desolation of betrayal, and the prostration of

anguish and despair, calls on the earth, not for a shelter, not for

a grave, or for a resting-place, but for a throne, is surely

royally ambitious, a queen more than anything else. Mrs. Siddons's

conception of Lady Macbeth is very beautiful, and I was

particularly struck by her imagination of her outward woman: the

deep blue eyes, the fair hair and fair skin of the northern woman

(though, by the by, Lady Macbeth is a Highlander--I suppose a Celt;

and they are a dark race); the frail feminine form and delicate

character of beauty, which, united to that undaunted mettle which

her husband pays homage to in her, constituted a complex spell, at

once soft and strong, sweet and powerful, and seemed to me a very

original idea. My aunt makes a curious suggestion, supported only

by her own conviction, for which, however, she demonstrates no

grounds, that in the banquet scene Lady Macbeth sees Banquo's ghost

at the same time Macbeth does. It is very presumptuous in me to

differ from her who has made such a wonderful study of this part,

but it seems to me that this would make Lady Macbeth all but

superhuman; and in the scene with her husband that precedes the

banquet, Macbeth's words to her give me to understand that she is

entirely innocent of the knowledge even of his crime.

_Monday, 12th._--Went to the theater to rehearse "Francis I." Miss

Tree and Mr. Bennett will act their parts admirably, I think....

When I got home got ready my things for the theater, and went over

my part. The play was "Much Ado about Nothing," and I played as ill

as usual. The house was pretty good.

[Here occurs an interruption of some weeks in my journal.]

My friend, Miss S----, came and paid me a long visit, during which my

play of "Francis I." and Knowles's play of "The Hunchback" were

produced, and it was finally settled that Covent Garden should be let to

the French manager and entrepreneur, Laporte, and that my father and

myself should leave England, and go for two years to America.

[The success of "Francis I." was one of entirely indulgent forbearance

on the part of the public. An historical play, written by a girl of

seventeen, and acted in it by the authoress at one and twenty, was, not

unnaturally, a subject of some curiosity; and, as such, it filled the

house for a few nights. Its entire want of real merit, of course, made

it impossible that it should do anything more; and, after a few

representations, it made way for Knowles's delightful play, which had a

success as great and genuine as it was well deserved, and will not fail

to be a lasting favorite, alike with audiences and actors.]

_Thursday, June 14th._--A long break in my journal, and what a

dismal beginning to it again! At five o'clock H---- started for

Ireland.... Poor dear Dall cried bitterly at parting from her (my

aunt was to accompany me to America, and it was uncertain whether

we should see Miss S---- again before we sailed).... When I

returned, after seeing her off, I went disconsolately to my own

room. As I could not sleep, I took up the first book at hand, but

it was "Tristram Shandy," and too horribly discordant with my frame

of mind; besides, I don't like it at any time; it seems to me much

more coarse even than witty and humorous.

_Friday, 15th._-- ... Almost at our very door met old Lady Cork,

who was coming to see us: We stopped our carriages, and had a

bawling conversation through the windows respecting my plans, past,

present, and to come, highly edifying, doubtless, to the whole

neighborhood, and which ended by her ladyship shrieking out to me

that I was "a supernatural creature" in a tone which must have made

the mummies and other strange sojourners in the adjacent British

Museum jump again.... In the evening, at the theater, the play was

"The Hunchback," for Knowles's benefit, and the house was not good,

which I do think is a shame. I played well, though Miss Taylor

disconcerted me by coming so near me in her second scene that I

gave her a real slap in the face, which I was very sorry for,

though she deserved it. After the play, Mr. Harness, Mrs. Clarke,

and Miss James supped with us; and after supper, I dressed for a

ball at the G----s', ... and much I wondered what call I had to be

at a ball, except that the givers of this festival are kind and

good friends of ours, and are fond of me, and I of them. But I was

not very merry at their ball for all that. We came home at half

past two, which is called "very early." Mr. Bacon was there (editor

of the _Times_, who married my cousin, Fanny Twiss), but I had no

chance to speak to him, which I was sorry for, as I like his looks,

and I liked his books: the first are good, and the latter are

clever. I cried all the way home, which is a cheerful way of

returning from a ball.

_Saturday, 16th._-- ... Mrs. Clarke, Miss James, the Messrs. M----,

and Alfred Tennyson dined with us. I am always a little

disappointed with the exterior of our poet when I look at him, in

spite of his eyes, which are very fine; but his head and face,

striking and dignified as they are, are almost too ponderous and

massive for beauty in so young a man; and every now and then there

is a slightly sarcastic expression about his mouth that almost

frightens me, in spite of his shy manner and habitual silence. But,

after all, it is delightful to see and be with any one that one

admires and loves for what he has done, as I do him. Mr. Harness

came in the evening. He is excellent, and I am very fond of him.

They all went away about twelve.

_Monday, 18th._-- ... At the theater, in the evening, the house was

good, and I played pretty fairly.... At supper my father read us

his examination before the committee of the House of Commons about

this minor theater business. Of course, though every word he says

upon the subject is gospel truth, it will only pass for the partial

testimony of a person deeply interested in his own monopoly.

_Thursday, 21st._--Called on Mrs. Norton, ... and on Lady Dacre, to

bid her good-by. At the theater, in the evening, the house was

good, and I played very well. How sorry I shall be to go away! The

actors, too, all seem so sorry to have us go, and it will be so

hard to see none of the accustomed faces, to hear none of the

familiar voices, while discharging the tasks that are often so

irksome to me. John Mason came home after the play and supped with

us.

_Friday, 22d._-- ... In the afternoon I called upon the Sotherbys,

to bid them good-by; afterward to the Goldsmiths', on the same

cheerless errand. Stopped at dear Miss Cottin's to thank her for

the beautiful bracelet she had sent me as a farewell present; and

then on to Lady Callcott's, with whom I spent a few solemn

moments--solemnity not without sweetness--and I scarcely felt

sorrowful when she said, "I shall never see you again." She is

going to what we call heaven, nearer to God (that is, in her own

consciousness, nearer to God)....

In the evening to the theater. I only played pretty well, except

the last scene, which was better than the rest. At the end of the

play Mr. Bartley made the audience a speech, mentioning our

departure, and bespeaking their good will for the new management.

The audience called for Knowles, and then clamored for us till we

were obliged to go out. They rose to receive us, and waved their

hats and handkerchiefs, and shouted farewell to us. It made my

heart ache to leave my kind, good, indulgent audience; my friends,

as I feel them to be; my countrymen, my English folk, my "very

worthy and approved good masters;" and as I thought of the

strangers for whom I am now to work in that distant strange country

to which we are going, the tears rushed into my eyes, and I hardly

knew what I was doing. I scarcely think I even made the

conventional courtesy of leave-taking to them, but I snatched my

little nosegay of flowers from my sash, and threw it into the pit

with handfuls of kisses, as a farewell token of my affection and

gratitude. And so my father, who was very much affected, led me

off, while the house rang with the cheering of the audience. When

we came off my courage gave way utterly, and I cried most bitterly.

As my father was taking me to my dressing-room Laporte ran after

us, to be introduced to me, to whom I wished success very

dolorously from the midst of my tears. He said he ought to cry at

our going away more than any one; and perhaps he is right, but we

should be better worth his while when we come back, if ever that

day comes. I saw numbers of people whom I knew standing behind the

scenes to take leave of us.

I took an affectionate farewell of poor dear old Rye (the

property-man), and Louis, his boy, gave me two beautiful nosegays.

It was all wretched, and yet it was a pleasure to feel that those

who surrounded and were dependent on us cared for us. I know all

the servants and workpeople of the theater were fond of me, and it

was sad to say good-by to all these kind, civil, cordial, humble

friends; from my good, pretty little maid, who stood sobbing by my

dressing-room door, to the grim, wrinkled visage of honest old

Rye....

[That was the last time I ever acted in the Covent Garden my uncle John

built; where he and my aunt took leave of the stage, and I made my first

entrance upon it. It was soon after altered and enlarged, and turned

into an opera-house; eventually it was burnt down, and so nothing

remains of it.]

The Harnesses and their friend Mr. F---- supped with us. Mr.

Harness talked all sorts of things to try and cheer me; he labored

hard to prove to me that the world was good and happy, but only

succeeded in convincing me that he was the one, and deserved to be

the other.

_Friday, 29th._--On board the Scotch steamer for Edinburgh.... We

passed Berwick and Dunbar, and the Douglases' ancient hold

Tantallon, and the lines from "Marmion" came to my lips. Poor

Walter Scott! he will never sail by this lovely coast again, every

bold headland and silver creek of which lives in his song or story.

He has given of his own immortality to the earth, which must ere

long receive the whole of his mortality....

_Saturday, 30th._--Went to rehearsal.... After dinner Mary Anne, my

maid, knowing my foible, came in with her arms full of two of the

most beautiful children I ever saw in my life.... [These beautiful

children were the daughters of the Duc de Grammont, and were

sharing with their parents the exile of the King of France, Charles

X., who had found in his banishment a royal residence as ruined as

his fortunes in the old Scottish palace of Holyrood. Ida de

Grammont, the eldest of my angels, fulfilled the promise of her

beautiful childhood as the lovely Duchesse de Guyche.] We spent a

pleasant evening at Mrs. Harry Siddons's. Mr. Combe and Macdonald

(the sculptor) were there.

_Sunday, July 1st._-- ... We dined at Mr. Combe's, and had a very

pleasant dinner, but unluckily, owing to a stupid servant's

mistake, my old friend Mr. McLaren, who had been invited to meet

me, did not come. After dinner there was a tremendous discussion

about Shakespeare, but I do not think these men knew anything about

him. I talked myself into a fever, and ended, with great modesty

and propriety, by disabling all their judgments, at which piece of

impertinence they naturally laughed very heartily.

EDINBURGH, July 1, 1832.

DEAREST H----,

We left London on Wednesday at eight o'clock. The parting between

my mother and Dall (who never met again; my dear aunt died in

America, in the second year of our stay there), and myself and my

dear little sister, was most bitter.... John came down to Greenwich

with us, but would not come on board the steamboat. He stood on the

shore and I at the ship's side, looking at what I knew was him,

though my eyes could distinguish none of his features from the

distance. My poor mother stood crying by my side, and bade me send

him away. I gave him one signal, which he returned, and then ran up

the beach, and was gone!--gone for two years, perhaps more; perhaps

gone from me forever in this world!...