on Wednesday, Belvidera; and last night, Portia, and Mary Copp in
"Charles II." This is pretty hard work. To-morrow we start for
Boston, which we shall reach on Sunday, and Monday our work begins
there.... I think four nights a week as much as either my father or
myself ought to work, and as much as we really can work profitably,
the rest being money taken from our capital--_i.e._, our health.
But in Boston we shall act for three weeks or a month every night
but the Saturdays. [The days when four or five performances a week
were considered a sufficient exertion for popular actors or singers
are far enough in the past, and now there seems to be no limit to
the capacity of such artists for earning money by the exercise of
their talents. Five and six performances a week are the normal
number now expected from great European stars, or rather those
which great European stars expect to give and to be paid for. Their
health is one invariable sacrifice to this over-work, and their
artistic excellence a still more grievous one. It has been asked
why artists invariably return to Europe comparatively coarse and
vulgar in the style of their performances, and the result is
attributed to the want of refined taste and critical judgment of
the American audiences--in my opinion very unjustly, for if want of
knowledge and nice perception in the public induces carelessness
and indifference in performers, the grasping greed of gain and
incessant over-exertion, mental and physical, for the sake of
satisfying it, is a far more certain cause of artistic
deterioration. During Madame Ristori's last visit to America, I
went to see a morning performance of "Elizabeta d'Inglterra" by
her. Arriving at the theater half an hour before the time announced
for the performance, I found notices affixed to the entrances,
stating that the beginning was unavoidably delayed by Madame
Ristori's non-arrival. The crowd of expectant spectators occupied
their seats and bore this prolonged postponement with
American--_i.e._, unrivaled--patience, good-temper, and civility.
We were encouraged by two or three pieces of information from some
official personage, who from the stage assured us that the moment
Madame Ristori arrived (she was coming by railroad from Baltimore)
the play should begin. Then came a telegram, she was coming; then
an announcement, she was come; and driving from the terminus
straight to the theater, tired and harassed herself with the delay,
she dressed herself and appeared before her audience, went through
a part of extraordinary length and difficulty and exertion--almost,
indeed, a monologue--including the intolerable fatigue and hurry of
four or five entire changes of costume, and as the curtain dropped
rushed off to disrobe and catch a train to New York, where she was
to act the next morning, if not the evening, of that same day. I
had seen Madame Ristori in this part in England, and was shocked at
the great difference in the merit of her performance. Every
particle of careful elaboration and fine detail of workmanship was
gone; the business of the piece was hurried through, with
reference, of course, only to the time in which it could be
achieved; and of Madame Ristori's once fine delineation of the
character, which, when I first saw it, atoned for the little merit
of the piece itself, nothing remained but the broad claptrap points
in the several principal situations, made coarse, and not nearly
even as striking, by the absence of due preparation and working up
to them, the careless rendering of everything else, and the
slurring over of the finer minutiæ and more delicate indications of
the whole character. It was a very sad spectacle to me.]
Besides your letter, the poor old _Pacific_ (the ship that brought
us to America) brought me something else to-day. While Washington
Irving was sitting with me, a message came from the mate of the
_Pacific_ with a large box of mould for me. I had it brought in,
and asking Irving if he knew what it was, "A bit of the old soil,"
said he; and that it was.... Washington Irving was sure to have
guessed right as to my treasure, and I was not ashamed to greet it
with tears before him.... He is so sensible, sound, and
straightforward in his way of seeing everything, and at the same
time so full of hopefulness, so simple, unaffected, true, and good,
that it is a privilege to converse with him, for which one is the
wiser, the happier and the better....
Here is Monday, April 15th, Boston, my dear H----. We arrived here
yesterday evening, and in the course of this morning I have already
received fourteen visitors, all of whom I shall have to go and
waste my time with in return for their kind waste of theirs upon
me.... To-morrow I begin my work with "Fazio" and go to a party
afterward....
Tuesday, 16th.
... This morning I have been to rehearsal, and out shopping, and
received crowds of strangers who come and call upon us.... To-night
I make my first appearance here in "Fazio," and we hear the theater
will be crammed, and I am going to a party after that dreadful
play; not by way of delight, but of duty, and a severe one it will
be. To-morrow I act Mrs. Haller, Thursday Lady Teazle, and Friday
Bianca again; Saturday is a blessed holiday.... I have finished
Smith's "Virginia," which I found rather tiresome toward the end. I
have finished Harriet Martineau's political-economy story, which I
liked exceedingly. I am reading a small volume of Brewster's on
"Natural Magic," which entertains me very much; but I am dreadfully
cramped for time, and my poor mind goes like a half-tended garden,
which every now and then makes me feel sad.
You would have been pleased, dear H----, if you had heard
Washington Irving's answer to me the other day when, in talking
with him of my profession and my distaste for it, I complained of
the little leisure it left me for study and improving myself, for
reading, writing, and the occupations that were congenial to me.
"Well," he said, "you are living, you are seeing men and things,
you are seeing the world, you are acquiring materials and heaping
together observations and experience and wisdom, and by and by,
when with fame you have acquired independence and retire from these
labors, you will begin another and a brighter course with matured
powers. I know of no one whose life has such a promise in it as
yours." Oh! H----, I almost felt hopeful while he spoke so to
me....
[Alas! my kind friend was no prophet. Not many months after, sitting by
him at a dinner-party in New York, he said to me, "So I hear you are
engaged to be married, and you are going to settle in this country.
Well, you will be told that this country is like your own, and that
living in it is like living in England: but do not believe it; it is no
such thing, it is nothing of the sort; which need not prevent your being
very happy here if you make the best of things as you find them. Above
all, whatever you do, don't become a creaking door." "What's that?"
asked I, laughing. He then told me that his friend Leslie, the painter,
who was, I believe, like his contemporary and charming rival artist,
Gilbert Stewart Newton, an American by birth, had married an
Englishwoman, whom he had brought out to America, "but who," said
Irving, "worried and tormented his and her own life out with ceaseless
complaints and comparisons, and was such a nuisance that I used to call
her 'the creaking door.'"]
Good-by, and God bless you, dearest H----.
I am affectionately yours,
FANNY KEMBLE.
BOSTON, Sunday, April 21, 1833.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
There lies in my desk, and has lain, I am ashamed to say, for a
long time now, an unanswered letter of yours, which smites my
conscience every time I open that useful receptacle (desk, not
conscience), where it has, I am sorry to say, many companions in
its own predicament. My time is like running water, and the
quickest, but the rapids of Niagara, that ever ran, I think; and
every hour, as it flies away, is filled with so much that must be
done, letting alone so much that I would wish to do, that I am
fairly out of breath, and feel as if I were flying myself in a
whirling high wind, and if ever I stop for a moment, shan't be
surprised to find that I have gone crazy. I think I should like to
spend a few days entirely alone in a dark room, secluded from every
sight and sound, for my senses are almost worn out, and my sense
exhausted, with looking, hearing, feeling, going, doing, being, and
suffering. Our work is incessant; we never remain a month in any
one place, and we are scarce off our knees from putting things into
drawers than we are down on them again to take them out and put
them all back into trunks. My health has not suffered hitherto from
this constant exertion, but I am occasionally oppressed with the
dreadful unquietness of our life, and long for a few moments' rest
of body and of mind.
This is our first visit to this place, and I am enchanted with it.
As a town, it bears more resemblance to an English city than any we
have yet seen; the houses are built more in our own fashion, and
there is a beautiful walk called the Common, the features of which
strongly resemble the view over the Green Park just by Constitution
Hill. The people here take more kindly to us than they have done
even elsewhere, and it is delightful to act to audiences who appear
so pleasantly pleased with us....
Only think! a book was sent to me from Philadelphia the other day
which proved to be the "Diary of an Ennuyée." I have no idea who it
came from, or who made so good a guess at that old predilection of
mine. I fell to forthwith--for that book has always had a most
powerful charm for me--and read, and read on, though I have read it
many a time through before, and though I had been acting Bianca,
and my supper was on my plate before me.
I heard the other day mention of another work of yours, since the
Shakespeare book. If you are not weary of writing to me, with such
long intervals between your question and my reply, tell me
something of this new work in your next letter.
Our plans for the summer are yet unsettled.... I was much
disappointed on arriving here to find that Dr. Channing has left
Boston for the South. His health is completely broken, and the
bleak and bitter east wind that blows perpetually here is a
formidable enemy to life, even in stronger frames than his....
The hotel in which we are lodging here is immediately opposite the
box-office, and it is a matter of some agreeable edification to me
to see the crowds gathering round the doors for hours before they
open, and then rushing in, to the imminent peril of life and limb,
pushing and pommeling and belaboring one another like madmen. Some
of the lower class of purchasers, inspired by the thrifty desire
for gain said to be a New England characteristic, sell these
tickets, which they buy at the box-office price, at an enormous
advance, and smear their clothes with treacle and sugar and other
abominations, to secure, from the fear of their contact of all
decently-clad competitors, freer access to the box-keeper. To
prevent, if possible, these malpractices, and secure, to ourselves
and the managers of the theater any such surplus profit as may be
honestly come by, the proprietors have determined to put the boxes
up to auction and sell the tickets to the highest bidders. It was
rather barbarous of me, I think, upon reflection, to stand at the
window while all this riot was going on, laughing at the fun; for
not a wretch found his way in that did not come out rubbing his
back or his elbow, or showing some grievous damage done to his
garments. The opposite window of my room looks out upon a
churchyard and a burial-ground; the reflections suggested by the
contrast between the two prospects are not otherwise than
edifying.... Good-by; God bless you!
I am ever yours, most truly,
FANNY KEMBLE.
NEW YORK, Friday, May 24, 1833.
MY DEAREST H----,
I received your last letter, dated the 22d March, a week ago, when
I was in Boston, which we have left, after a stay of five weeks, to
return here, where we arrived a few days ago....
Boston is one of the pleasantest towns imaginable. It is built upon
three hills, which give it a singular, picturesque appearance, and
I suppose suggested the name of Tremonte Street, and the Tremonte
Hotel, which we inhabited. The houses are many of them of fine
granite, and have an air of wealth and solidity unlike anything we
have seen elsewhere in this country. Many of the streets are
planted with trees, chiefly fine horse-chestnuts, which were in
full leaf and blossom when we came away, and which harmonize
beautifully with the gray color and solid handsome style of the
houses. They have a fine piece of ground, like a park, in one part
of the town, which, together with the houses round it, reminded me
a good deal of the Green Park and the walk at the back of Arlington
Street.
[The addition of the new part of Boston, stretching beyond the Common
and the public Gardens, has added immensely to the beauty of the city,
and the variety of the buildings and alternate views at the end of the
vistas of the fine streets, looking toward Dorchester Heights, and those
ending in the blue waters of the bay and Charles River, not unfrequently
reminded me both of Florence and Venice, under a sky as rich, and more
pellucid, than that of Italy.]
The country all round the neighborhood of Boston is charming. The
rides I took in every direction were lovely, and during the last
fortnight of our stay nothing could exceed the exquisite brightness
of the spring weather. The apple trees were all in bloom, the
lilacs in flower, and everything as sweet, fresh, and enchanting as
possible.... How I wish you could have seen the glorious Hudson
with me the other day, now that the woods on its banks are dark
with the shade of their thick and varied foliage! How you would
have rejoiced in the beautiful and noble river scenery! This is "a
brave new world," more ways than one, and we are every way bound to
like it, for our labor has been most amply rewarded in its most
important result, money; and the universal kindness which has
everywhere met us ever since we first came to this country ought to
repay us even for the pain and sorrow of leaving England. We are to
remain here about ten days longer, and then proceed to
Philadelphia, where we shall stay a fortnight, and then we start
for cool and Canada, taking the Hudson, Trenton Falls, and Niagara
on our way; act in Montreal and Quebec for a short time, and then
adjourn, I hope, to Newport in Rhode Island, to rest and recruit
till we begin our autumnal work.... And now I have done grumbling
at "the state of life into which it has pleased God to call me." My
dear H----, I began this letter yesterday, and am this moment
returned from a long visit to Dr. Channing.... The outward man of
the eloquent preacher and teacher is rather insignificant, and
produces no impression at first sight of unusual intellectual
supremacy; and though his eyes and forehead are fine, they did not
seem to me to do justice to the mind expressed in his writings; for
though Shakespeare says,
"There is no art to read the mind's construction in the face,"
I think the mental qualities are more often detected there than the
moral ones. He is short and slight in figure, and looks, as indeed
he is, extremely delicate, an habitual invalid; his eyes, which are
gray, are well and deeply set, and the brow and forehead fine,
though not, perhaps, as striking as I had expected. The rest of the
face has no peculiar character, and is rather plain.
He talked to me a great deal about the stage, acting, the dramatic
art; and, professing to know nothing about it, maintained some
theories which proved he did not, indeed, know much. As far as
knowledge of the stage and acting goes, of course this was not
surprising, his studies, observation, and experience certainly not
having lain in that direction; indeed, if they had, he might not
have shown more comprehension of the subject. Sir Thomas Lawrence
is the only unprofessional person I ever heard speak upon it whose
critical opinion and judgment seemed to me worth anything; but it
appeared to me that, in the course of the discussion, some of Dr.
Channing's opinions (with all respect be it spoken) betrayed an
ignorance of human nature itself, upon which, after all, dramatic
literature and dramatic representation are founded. He asked me if
at the present day, and in our present state of civilization, such
a character as Juliet could be imagined possible; so that I believe
I was a little disappointed, in spite of his greatness, his
goodness, and my reverence and admiration for him.
I went to call on him with a Miss Sedgwick, a person of
considerable literary reputation here, and whose name and books you
may perhaps have heard of. One of them, "Hope Leslie," is, I think,
known in England. Though she is a good deal older than myself, I
have formed a great friendship with her; she is excellent, as well
as very clever and charming. She knows Dr. Channing intimately, and
is a member of his church....
It is now Monday morning, dear H----, and I am presently going to
set off to the races. American races! only think of that! I who
never saw but one in my own country, and was totally uninterested
by it! But I am going chiefly to please a nice little woman who is
just married, and whose husband has several horses that are to run,
so perhaps I shall find these more exciting than I did the races I
attended at home. They are very little supported or resorted to
here; the religious and respectable part of the community
disapprove of them. There is a general prejudice against them, and
they are even preached against; so that they are entirely in the
hands of a few gentlemen of fortune, who keep them up, partly for
their amusement, and partly with a view to the improvement of the
breed of horses in this country. The running is said to be very
good, the show is nothing.... However, I am going, and therefore
you may look hereafter to hear--what you shall hear now--because
I'm just come back, and am happy to inform you that my friend's
husband's horse won the race. The stake was only £2000--no very
great matter--but still enough to make the result interesting, if
not important; though I think the hazard we ran of our lives at
starting was the most exciting part of the day.
The racecourse is on Long Island, and, to reach it, one crosses the
arm of the sea that divides that strip of land from New York in a
steam ferryboat. All these transports were so thronged to-day with
carriages, horses, and a self-governed, enlightened, and very free
people, that in all my life I never saw anything so frightful as
the confusion of the embarking and disembarking....
Dr. Channing was talking to me the other day of Harriet Martineau's
writings, and has sent me "Ella of Garvelock," recommending it
highly as an interesting story, though he does not seem to think
Miss Martineau's principles of political economy sufficiently sound
to make her works as useful upon that subject, or to do all the
good which she herself evidently hopes to produce by these
tales....
God bless you, dear friend! I am ever most truly yours,
F. A. K.
NEW YORK, Sunday, June 24, 1833.
Great was my surprise, dear Mrs. Jameson, to find accompanying your
letter of April 9th a card of Mr. Jameson's. My father called upon
him almost immediately, but had not the good fortune to find him at
home, and I presume he is now gone on to Canada, whither we are
ourselves proceeding, and where we may very possibly meet him. Our
spring engagements are all over, and we are now going away from the
hot weather to Niagara, into which, if all tales be true, I expect
to fall headlong, with sheer surprise and admiration; after which I
shall accompany my father to Montreal and Quebec, where we shall
resume our professional labors....
I am very sorry you have been ill. You do not speak of your eyes,
from which I argue that you were not painfully conscious of the
existence of those valuable luminaries at the time you wrote....
The accounts, public and private, that we receive of the state of
England are not encouraging, and the trouble seems such as neither
Tory, Whig, nor even Radical, can cure. You talk of bringing out a
colony to this country; bring out half of England, and those who
starve at home will have to eat, and to spare, here. How I do wish
our poor laboring people could be made to know how easily they
might exchange their condition for a better one!
I wish you could have heard what my father was reading to us this
morning out of Stewart's "North America;" not Utopian dreams of
some imaginary land of plenty and fertility, but sober statements
of authentic fact, telling of the existence of unnumbered leagues
of the richest soil that ever rewarded human industry an
hundredfold; wide tracts of lovely wilderness, covered with
luxuriant pasture, and adorned profusely with the most beautiful
wild flowers; great forests of giant timber, and endless rolling
prairies of virgin earth, untouched by ax or plow; a world of
unrivaled beauty and fertility, untenanted and empty, waiting to
receive the over-brimming populations of the crowded lands of
Europe, and to repay their labor with every species of abundance.
It is strange how slow those old-world, weary, working folk have
hitherto been to avail themselves of God's provision for them
here.... You tell me you are working hard, but you do not say at
what. Innumerable are the questions I have been asked about you,
and a Philadelphian gentleman, a very intelligent and clever
person, who is a large bookseller and publisher here, bade me tell
you that you and your works were as much esteemed and delighted in
in America as in your own country. He was so enthusiastic about you
that I think he would willingly go over to England for the sole
purpose of making your acquaintance.
[It is a pity that the American law on the subject of copyright should
have rendered Mr. Carey's admiration of my friend and her works so
barren of any useful result to her. Any tolerably just equivalent for
the republication of her books in America would have added materially to
the hardly earned gains of her laborious literary life.]
I am already half moulded into my new circumstances and
surroundings; and though England will always be home to my heart,
it may be that this country will become my abiding-place; but if
you come out to Canada we shall meet on this side of the Atlantic
instead of the other....
Believe me ever yours truly,
F. A. K.
TO MISS FITZHUGH.
MONTREAL, July 24, 1833.
MY DEAREST EMILY,
Within the last fortnight we have progressed, as we say in this
country, over about nine hundred and fifty miles of land and water.
We have gone up the Hudson, seen Trenton, the most beautiful, and
Niagara, the most awful, of waterfalls. As for Niagara, words
cannot describe it, nor can any imagination, I think, suggest even
an approximate idea of its terrible loveliness. I feel half crazy
whenever I think of it. I went three times under the sheet of
water; once I had a guide as far as the entrance, and twice I went
under entirely alone. If you fancy the sea pouring down from the
moon, you still have no idea of this glorious huge heap of tumbling
waters. It is worth crossing the Atlantic to see it.... As I stood
upon the brink of the abyss when I first saw it, the impulse to
jump down seemed all but an irresistible necessity, and but for the
strong arm that held mine fast I think I might very well have taken
the same direction as the huge green glassy mountain of water that
was pouring itself headlong into--what no eye can penetrate. It
literally seemed as if everything was going down there, and one
must go along with everything. The chasm into which the cataract
falls is hidden by dense masses of snowy foam and spray, rising in
an everlasting creation of cloud up into the sky, and vailing the
frantic fury of the caldron below, where the waves churn and tread
each other underfoot in the rocky abyss that receives them, in
darkness which the sun's rays cannot penetrate nor the strongest
wind for a moment disperse; a mystery, of which its thousand voices
reveal nothing. It is nonsense writing about it--seeing and hearing
are certainly, in this case, the only reasons for believing. I
think it would be delightful to pass one's life by this wonderful
creature's side, and quite pleasant to die and be buried in its
bosom....
We left that wonderful place a few days ago, steamed across Lake
Ontario, came down the rapids of the St. Lawrence in an open boat,
sang the Canadian boat song, and are now safe and sound, only half
roasted, in his Majesty's dominions. Of all that we have seen,
Niagara is, of course, the old object beyond all others, but we
were delighted with the softness and beauty of a great deal of the
scenery that we saw in traversing the State of New York--one of
twenty States, not the largest of the twenty, but large enough to
hold England in its lap.
The rapids of the St. Lawrence, though, I believe, really rather
dangerous to descend, have so little appearance of peril that I
derived none of the excitement I had expected, and which a little
danger always produces, from going through them. Instead of
shooting down long sheets of rushing water, which was what I
expected, we were tossed and tumbled and shaken up and down, in the
midst of a dozen conflicting currents and eddies, which break the
whole surface of the river into short pitching waves, and dance
about in frantic white whirligigs, like the circles of the bad
nuns' ghosts, in Meyerbeer's devilish Opera....
Good-by, my dearest Emily. I am always affectionately yours,
F. A. K.
STEAMBOAT ST. PATRICK, ON THE ST. LAWRENCE,
August 17, 1833.
MY DEAREST H----,
There is lying in my desk an unfinished letter to you, begun about
a week ago, which is pausing for want of an opportunity to go on
with it; but here I am, a prisoner in a steamboat, destined to pass
the next four and twenty hours on the broad bosom of the St.
Lawrence, and what can I do better than begin a fresh chapter to
you, leaving the one already begun to be finished on my next
holiday. My holidays, indeed, are far from leisure time, for when I
have nothing to do I have all the more to see; so that I am as busy
and more weary than if I were working much harder.
We have been staying for the last fortnight in Quebec, and are now
on our way back to Montreal, where we shall act a night or two, and
then return to the United States, to New York and Boston.... The
greater part of these poems of Tennyson's which you have sent me we
read together. The greater part of them are very beautiful. He
seems to me to possess in a higher degree than any English poet,
except, perhaps, Keats, the power of writing pictures. "The
Miller's Daughter," "The Lady of Shalott," and even the shorter
poems, "Mariana," "Eleänore," are full of exquisite form and color;
if he had but the mechanical knowledge of the art, I am convinced
he would have been a great painter. There are but one or two things
in the volume which I don't like. "The little room with the two
little white sofas," I hate, though I can fancy perfectly well both
the room and his feeling about it; but that sort of thing does not
make good poetry, and lends itself temptingly to the making of good
burlesque.
I have much to tell you, for in the last two months I have seen
marvelous much. I have seen Niagara. I wish you had been there to
see it with me. However, Niagara will not cease falling; and you
may, perhaps, at some future time, visit this country. You must not
expect any description of Niagara from me, because it is quite
unspeakable, and, moreover, if it were not, it would still be quite
unimaginable. The circumstances under which I saw it I can tell
you, but of the great cataract itself, what can be told except that
it is water?
I confess the sight of it reminded me, with additional admiration,
of Sir Charles Bagot's daring denial of its existence; having
failed to make his pilgrimage thither during his stay in the United
States, he declared on his return to England that he had never been
able to find it, that he didn't believe there was any such thing,
and that it was nothing but a bragging boast of the Americans.
At Albany, our first resting-place from New York, we had been
joined by Mr. Trelawney, who had been introduced to me in New York,
and turned out to be the well-known friend of Byron and Shelley,
and author of "The Adventures of a Younger Son," which is, indeed,
said to be the story of his own life.
[His wild career of sea-adventure with De Ruyter, who was supposed to
have left him at his death all his share of the results of their
semi-buccaneering exploits, his friendship and fellowship with Byron and
Shelley, the funeral obsequies he bestowed upon the latter on the shore
of the Gulf of Spezzia, his companionship in the mountains of Greece
with the patriot chief Odysseus, and his marriage to that chief's
sister, are all circumstances given with more or less detail in his
book, which was Englished for him by Mary Shelley, the poet's widow, who
was much attached to him; Trelawney himself being quite incapable of any
literary effort which required a knowledge of common spelling.... He was
strikingly handsome when first I knew him, with a countenance habitually
serene, and occasionally sweet in its expression, but sometimes savage
with the fierceness of a wild beast. His speech and movements were slow
and indolently gentle, his voice very low and musical, and his utterance
deliberate and rather hesitating; he was very tall, and powerfully made,
and altogether looked like the hero of a wild life of adventure, such as
his had been. I hear he is still alive, a very wonderful-looking old
man, who sat to Millais for his picture, exhibited in 1874, of the "Old
Sea-Captain."]
We all liked him so well that my father invited him to join our
party, and travel with us to Niagara, whither he was bound as well
as ourselves. He had seen it before, and though almost all the
wonders of the world are familiar to him, he said it was the only
one that he cared much to see again.
We reached Queenstown on the Niagara River, below the falls, at
about twelve o'clock, and had three more miles to drive to reach
them. The day was serenely bright and warm, without a cloud in the
sky, or a shade in the earth, or a breath in the air. We were in an
open carriage, and I felt almost nervously oppressed with the
expectation of what we were presently to see. We stopped the
carriage occasionally to listen for the giant's roaring, but the
sound did not reach us until, within three miles over the thick
woods which skirted the river, we saw a vapory silver cloud rising
into the blue sky. It was the spray, the breath of the toiling
waters ascending to heaven. When we reached what is called the
Niagara House, a large tavern by the roadside, I sprang out of the
carriage and ran through the house, down flights of steps cut in
the rock, and along a path skirted with low thickets, through the
boughs of which I saw the rapids running a race with me, as it
seemed, and hardly faster than I did. Then there was a broad,
flashing sea of furious foam, a deafening rush and roar, through
which I heard Mr. Trelawney, who was following me, shout, "Go on,
go on; don't stop!" I reached an open floor of broad, flat rock,
over which the water was pouring. Trelawney seized me by the arm,
and all but carried me to the very brink; my feet were in the water
and on the edge of the precipice, and then I looked down. I could
not speak, and I could hardly breathe; I felt as if I had an iron
band across my breast. I watched the green, glassy, swollen heaps
go plunging down, down, down; each mountainous mass of water, as it
reached the dreadful brink, recoiling, as in horror, from the
abyss; and after rearing backward in helpless terror, as it were,
hurling itself down to be shattered in the inevitable doom over
which eternal clouds of foam and spray spread an impenetrable
curtain. The mysterious chasm, with its uproar of voices, seemed
like the watery mouth of hell. I looked and listened till the wild
excitement of the scene took such possession of me that, but for
the strong arm that held me back, I really think I should have let
myself slide down into the gulf. It was long before I could utter,
and as I began to draw my breath I could only gasp out, "O God! O
God!" No words can describe either the scene itself, or its effect
upon me.
We staid three days at Niagara, the greater part of which I spent
by the water, under the water, on the water, and more than half in
the water. Wherever foot could stand I stood, and wherever foot
could go I went. I crept, clung, hung, and waded; I lay upon the
rocks, upon the very edge of the boiling caldron, and I stood alone
under the huge arch over which the water pours with the whole mass
of it, thundering over my rocky ceiling, and falling down before me
like an immeasurable curtain, the noonday sun looking like a pale
spot, a white wafer, through the dense thickness. Drenched through,
and almost blown from my slippery footing by the whirling gusts
that rush under the fall, with my feet naked for better safety,
grasping the shale broken from the precipice against which I
pressed myself, my delight was so intense that I really could
hardly bear to come away.
The rock over which the rapids run is already scooped and hollowed
out to a great extent by the action of the water; the edge of the
precipice, too, is constantly crumbling and breaking off under the
spurn of its downward leap. At the very brink the rock is not much
more than two feet thick, and when I stood under it and thought of
the enormous mass of water rushing over and pouring from it, it did
not seem at all improbable that at any moment the roof might give
way, the rock break off fifteen or twenty feet, and the whole huge
cataract, retreating back, leave a still wider basin for its floods
to pour themselves into. You must come and see it before you die,
dear H----.
After our short stay at Niagara, we came down Lake Ontario and the
St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec. Before I leave off speaking of
that wonderful cataract, I must tell you that the impression of awe
and terror it produced at first upon me completely wore away, and
as I became familiar with it, its dazzling brightness, its soothing
voice, its gliding motion, its soft, thick, furry beds of foam, its
vails and draperies of floating light, and gleaming, wavering
diadems of vivid colors, made it to me the perfection of loveliness
and the mere magnificence of beauty. It was certainly not the
"familiarity" that "breeds contempt," but more akin to the "perfect
love" which "casteth out fear;" and I began at last to understand
Mr. Trelawney's saying that the only impression it produced on him
was that of perfect repose; but perhaps it takes Niagara to
mesmerize him.
[The first time I attempted to go under the cataract of Niagara I had a
companion with me, and one of the local guides, who undertook to pilot
us safely. On reaching the edge of the sheet of water, however, we
encountered a blast of wind so violent that we were almost beaten back
by it. The spray was driven against us like a furious hailstorm, and it
was impossible to open our eyes or draw our breath, and we were obliged
to relinquish the expedition. The next morning, going down to the falls
alone, I was seduced by the comparative quietness and calm, the absence
of wind or atmospheric disturbance, to approach gradually the entrance
to the cave behind the water, and finding no such difficulty as on the
previous day, crept on, step by step, beneath the sheet, till I reached
the impassable jutting forward of the rock where it meets the full body
of the cataract. My first success emboldened, me to two subsequent
visits, the small eels being the only unpleasant incident I encountered.
The narrow path I followed was a mere ledge of shale and broken
particles of the rock, which is so frayable and crumbling, either in its
own nature, or from the constant action of the water, that as I passed
along and pressed myself close against it, I broke off in my hands the
portions of it that I grasped.]
A few miles below the falls is a place called the whirlpool, which,
in its own kind, is almost as fine as the fall itself. The river
makes an abrupt angle in its course, when it is shut in by very
high and rocky cliffs--walls, in fact--almost inaccessible from
below. Black fir trees are anchored here and there in their cracks
and fissures, and hang over the dismal pool below, most of them
scathed and contorted by the fires or the blasts of heaven. The
water itself is of a strange color, not transparent, but a pale
blue-green, like a discolored turquoise, or a stream of verdigris,
streaked with long veins and angry swirls of white, as if the angry
creature couldn't get out of that hole, and was foaming at the
mouth; for, before pursuing its course, the river churns round and
round in the sullen, savage, dark basin it has worn for itself, and
then, as if it had suddenly found an outlet, rushes on its foaming,
furious way down to Ontario. We had ridden there and alighted from
our horses, and sat on the brink for some time. It was the most
dismal place I ever beheld, and seemed to me to grow horribler
every moment I looked at it: drowning in that deep, dark,
wicked-looking whirlpool would be hideous, compared to being dashed
to death amid the dazzling spray and triumphant thunder of Niagara.
[There are but three places I have ever visited that produced upon me
the appalling impression of being accursed, and empty of the presence of
the God of nature, the Divine Creator, the All-loving Father: this
whirlpool of Niagara, that fiery, sulphurous, vile-smelling wound in the
earth's bosom, the crater of Vesuvius, and the upper part of the Mer de
Glace at Chamouni. These places impressed me with horror, and the
impression is always renewed in my mind when I remember them:
God-forsaken is what they looked to me.]
I do not believe this whirlpool is at all as generally visited as
the falls, and perhaps it might not impress everybody as it did me.
Quebec, where we have been staying, is beautiful. A fortress is
always delightful to me; my destructiveness rejoices in guns and
drums, and all the circumstance of glorious war. The place itself,
too, is so fiercely picturesque--such crags, such dizzy, hanging
heights, such perpendicular rocky walls, down to the very water's
edge, and such a broad, bright bay. The scenery all round Quebec is
beautiful, and we went to visit two fine waterfalls in the
neighborhood, but of course to us just now there is but one
waterfall in the world.... God bless you, dear!
Ever affectionately yours,
F. A. K.
TO MRS. JAMESON.
NEW YORK, Tuesday, October 15, 1833.
You are wandering, dear Mrs. Jameson, in the land of romance, the
birthplace of wild traditions, the stronghold of chivalrous
legends, the spell-land of witchcraft, the especial haunt and home
of goblin, specter, sprite, and gnome; all the beautiful and
fanciful creations of the poetical imagination of the Middle Ages.
You are, I suppose, in Germany; intellectually speaking, almost the
antipodes of America. Germany is now the country to which my
imagination wanders oftener than to any other. Italy was my wishing
land eight years ago, but many things have dimmed that southern
vision to my fancy, and the cloudier skies, wilder associations,
and more solemn spirit of Germany attract me more now than the
sunny ruin-land....
I shall not return to England, not even to visit it now--certainly
never to make my home there again. "The place that knew me will
know me no more," and you will never again have the satisfaction of
coming to me after a first night's new part to say all manner of
kind things about it to me. My feelings about the stage you know
full well, and will rejoice with me that there is a prospect of my
leaving it before its pernicious excitements had been rendered
necessary to me by habit. Yet when I think of my "farewell night,"
I cannot help wishing it might have taken place in London, before
my own people, who received my first efforts so kindly, and where I
stood in the very footprints, as it were, of my kindred.... Thank
you for your long and entertaining letter, and for the copy of the
second edition of "Shakespeare's Women." You cannot think how
extremely popular you are in this country. A lady assured me the
other day, that when you went to heaven, which you certainly would,
Shakespeare would meet you and kiss you for having understood, and
made others understand, him so well. If ever you do come to this
side of that deep, dividing ditch, which you speak of as not an
improbable event, you will find as much admiration waiting for you
here as you can have left behind; whether it is equally valuable,
it is for you to judge.... I have seen Niagara since last I wrote
to you, and it was in a balcony almost overhanging it that I saw
your husband, and that he gave me long accounts of your literary
plans.
Dear Mrs. Jameson, this is a short and stupid letter, but I have
been working awfully hard, and have not been well for the past
month, and am not capable of much exertion. It is quite a novelty
to me, and not an agreeable one, to feel myself weak, and worn out,
and good for nothing. Good-by; write to me from some of your
halting-places, and believe me ever yours truly,
F. A. K.
I noted the altered frontispiece of my little book.
BOSTON, April 16, 1834.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
I received a kind and interesting letter from you, dated "Munich,"
some time past, and lately another from London, telling me of the
alarm you experienced with regard to your father's health, and your
sudden return from Germany, which I regretted very much, for
selfish as well as sympathetic motives. You were not only enjoying
yourself there, but were gathering materials for the enjoyment of
others; and I am as loath to lose the benefit of your labors as
sorry that your pleasant holiday was thus interrupted.
It is now probable, unless the Atlantic should like me better going
than it did coming, and that it should take me to its bosom, that I
may be in London in July, when I hope I shall find you there.... I
am coming back to England, after all, and shall, I think, remain on
the stage another year....
I received, a few days ago, a letter from dear H----, in which she
mentioned that you had an intention of writing a memoir or
biographical sketch of "the Kemble family," in which, if I
understood her right, you thought of introducing the notice which
you wrote for Hayter's drawings of me in Juliet. She said that you
wished to know whether I had any objection or dislike to your doing
so, and I answered directly to yourself, "None in the world." I had
but one fault to find with that notice of me, that it was far too
full of praise; I thought it so sincerely. But, without wishing to
enter into any discussion about my merits or your partiality, I can
only repeat that you are free to write of me what you will, and as
you will; but, for your own sake, I wish you to remember that
praise is, to the majority of readers, a much more vapid thing than
censure, and that if you could admire me less and criticise me
more, I am sure, as the housemaids say, you would give more
satisfaction. However, keep your conscience by you; praise or
blame, it is none of my business. Talking of that same Juliet, I
received a letter from Hayter the other day which gave me some
pain. He tells me that he has all those sketches on his hands, and
asks me if I am inclined to take them of him. I fear his applying
to me, at such a distance, on this subject, is a sign that he is
not prosperous or doing well. He is an amiable, clever little man,
and I shall feel very sorry if my surmise proves true. My father
wishes to have the collection, and I shall write to tell him so
forthwith.
It is no slight illustration to me of the ephemeral nature of the
popularity which I enjoyed, to think that those drawings, which, as
works of art, were singularly elegant and graceful, should go
a-begging for a purchaser. Verily "all is vanity!"
[My friend, Lord Ellesmere, purchased the series of drawings Mr. Hayter
made from my performance of Juliet; and on my last visit to Lady
Ellesmere at Hatchford, she pointed them out to me round a small hall
that led to her private sitting-room, over the writing-table of which
hung a miniature of me copied from a drawing of Mrs. Jameson's by that
charming and clever woman, Miss Emily Eden.]
You will be sorry for me and for many when I tell you that our
good, dear friend Dall is dangerously ill. I am writing at this
moment by her bed.... This is the only trial of the kind I have
ever undergone; God has hitherto been pleased to spare all those
whom I love, and to grant them the enjoyment of strength and
health. This is my first lonely watching by a sick-bed, and I feel
deeply the sadness and awfulness of the office.... Now that I am
beginning to know what care and sorrow really are, I look back upon
my past life and see what reason I have to be thankful for the few
and light trials with which I have been visited. My poor dear
aunt's illness is giving us a professional respite, for which my
faculties, physical and mental, are very grateful. They needed it
sorely; I was almost worn out with work, and latterly with anxiety
and bitter distress.
We terminated our last engagement here on Friday last, when the
phlegmatic Bostonians seemed almost beside themselves with
excitement and enthusiasm: they shouted at us, they cheered us,
they crowned me with roses. Conceive, if you can, the shocking
contrast between all this and the silent sick-room, to which I went
straight from the stage....
Surely, our profession involves more intolerable discords between
the real human beings who exercise it and their unreal vocation,
than any in the world!... In returning to England, two advantages,
which I shall value much, will be obtained: a fortnight's rest
during the passage, and, I hope, not quite such hard work when I
resume my labors.... As for the hollowness and heartlessness of the
world, by which one means really the people that one has to do with
in it, I cannot say that I trouble my mind much about it. In their
relations with me I commit every one to their own conscience; if
they deal ill by me, they deal worse by themselves.... I hope you
may be in London when we reach it. Farewell.
I am ever yours truly,
FANNY KEMBLE.
NEW YORK, Thursday, April 24, 1834.
MY DEAR H----,
This will be but a short letter, the first short one you will have
received from me since we parted. Dear Dall has gone from us. She
is dead; she died in my arms, and I closed her eyes.... I cannot
attempt to speak of this now, I will give you all details in my
next letter. It has been a dreadful shock, though it was not
unexpected; but there is no preparation for the sense of desolation
which oppresses me, and which is beyond words.... I wrote you a
long letter a few days ago, which will perhaps have led you to
anticipate this. We shall probably be in England on the 10th of
July.... The sole care of my father, who is deeply afflicted, and
charge of everything, devolves entirely on me now.... We left
Boston on Tuesday.... I act here to-night for the first time since
I lost that dear and devoted friend, who was ever near at hand to
think of everything for me, to care for me in every way. I have
almost cried my eyes out daily for the last three months; but that
is over now. I am working again, and go about my work feeling
stunned and bewildered....
I saw Dr. Channing on Monday; he has just lost a dear and intimate
connection. With what absolute faith he spoke of her! Gone! to the
Author of all good. That which was good must return to Him. It is
true, and I believe it, and know it; but at first I was lost....
God bless you, dear H----. We shall meet erelong, and in the midst
of great sorrow that will be a great joy to
Yours ever affectionately,
F. A. K.
We have buried dear Dall in a lonely, lovely place in Mount Orban's
Cemetery, where ---- and I used to go and sit together last spring,
in the early time of our intimacy. I wished her to lie there, for
life and love and youth and death have their trysting-place at the
grave.
* * * * *
My aunt died in consequence of an injury to the spine, received by the
overturning of our carriage in our summer tour to Niagara.
* * * * *
I was married in Philadelphia on the 7th of June, 1834, to Mr. Pierce
Butler, of that city.
THE END.
INDEX.
Aberdeen, Lord, Lawrence's picture of, 217.
Abbot, Mr., his failure as _Romeo_, 197, 199;
a tumble, 243;
helping Covent Garden, 464.
Abbotsford, appearance after Scott's death, 264, 265.
"Abbot, The," 402.
Abeken, 339.
Aberdeen, Lord, 326.
Abingdon, Mrs., 258.
"Adam Blair," 444.
Addlestone, 105, 418, 420.
_Adorni_, in "The Maid of Honor," 391.
_Age, The_, 170;
its editor thrashed by Charles Kemble, 310.
Alaba, General, 486.
Alfieri, 66.
Algeciras, 293.
Allen, Sir William, 526, 527, 529.
Allison, 142.
Alvanley, Lord, contrasted with Stephenson, 456.
Amelia, Princess, presents a necklace to Mrs. Charles Kemble, 449.
America, incident of Fanny Kemble's last public reading in, 223, 277;
talking of going to, 425;
what it was _not_, 426;
Fanny Kemble's thoughts of, 483;
climate of, 535;
landing at New York, 535;
flies and mosquitoes, 541;
horse-racing in, 577.
"Andromaque," 68, 419.
Angerstein's Gallery, 475, 484.
"_Anglaises pour rire, Les_," 66.
"Anna Bolena," 428, 444.
Anglo-Saxons, John Kemble's history of, 505.
Anson, Colonel, 302.
"Antonio," 351.
Antonio, Countess St., 101, 338.
Antonio, Marc, 528.
Apsley House, windows smashed, 461.
Ardgillan, 111, 133, 240, 253, 273, 289, 290, 318, 329, 348, 363, 457.
Ariel, Goethe compared with, 338.
Arkwright, Mrs. Robert, 29;
Robert, 22.
Arnold, Mr., 336;
speeches on theatre patents, 339.
Art, a few words on, 476.
"Artaxerxes," Miss Sheriff's _début_ in, 464.
Artist Life in England, 5.
Arundel, House of, 265.
Ashburton, Lord and Lady, 302.
Ashley, Wm., Earl of Shaftesbury, married to Miss Bailey, 357.
Augustine, 426.
Augustin's Gallery, 442.
Austen, Jane, 103;
her novels, 441.
Assisi, Francis de, 426.
Aston Hall, 278.
Aston, Clinton, 298.
Bacon, Mr., 88, 125;
his abusive critique in the _Times_ of Fanny Kemble's acting, 464, 481;
Editor of the _Times_, 519.
Bagot, Sir Charles, denial of the existence of Magara, 582.
Bailie, 488.
Baillie, "Count Basil," 342.
Baillie, Miss Joanna, writes the part of "Jane de Montfort" especially
for Mrs. Siddons, 349.
Ballantyne, Scott's notes to, 260;
his unfavorable criticisms of Fanny Kemble, 262, 265.
Baltimore, appearance of, 560;
beauty of its women, 562.
Balzac, "Scenes of Parisian Life," 72, 93.
Bannisters, 271, 451, 454.
Barham, his comical poem on "Henri Trois," 484;
critique of "Katharine of Cleves," 493.
Baring, Mr. and Lady Harriet, 302.
Bartley, timidity about success of "The Hunchback," 377;
hearing Knowles read "The Hunchback," 390;
plan for a new theatrical speculation in Covent Garden, 553;
"cutting" "The Star of Seville" for the Stage, 495.
Barton, 293, 326.
Bath, 256, 416.
Batthyany, Count, 299, 302;
Countess, 302.
Bayard, 506.
Bayley, Miss, marriage to Earl of Shaftesbury, 357.
_Beatrice_, 336, 341, 344, 516.
Beauclerc, the young ladies, chaperoned by Duchess of St. Albans, 392.
Beaufort, drives the coach, 330.
Beau, Madame le, 491.
Becher, Lady, (see O'Neill, Miss), anecdotes of, 194.
Becher, Sir (William Wrixon), married to Miss O'Neill, 195.
Bedford, Duke of, 347.
Beechey, Sir William, 393.
"Beggar's Opera, The," Miss Sheriff in, 471.
Bellamy, Mrs., rivalry with Garrick, 452.
Bellini, 100.
_Belvidera_, first dress for, 208;
Fanny Kemble's dislike of the part, 236;
her second part, 235, 336;
in London, 460, 469.
Belvoir Castle burned, 46.
Belzoni, Madame, 37.
_Benedict_, 426.
Bennett, as _Laval_, 508; in "Francis I.," 509.
Bentham, Jeremy, 122;
his philanthropy, 137;
John Kemble's admiration for, 180.
Beowulf, 503.
Berquin, Juvenile dramas, 2.
Berry, the Misses, 106.
Bessborough, 47.
Biagio's Preface to Dante, 448.
Biagioli, 58.
_Bianca_, 325, 332, 523;
Mrs. Kemble's opinion of Fanny Kemble in, 333, 386, 414, 469, 474, 483;
Fanny Kemble's best part, 483;
her first play in New York, 536.
Birmingham, 278.
Bishop, the murderer, 462.
Bishop, his opera "Cortex," 86.
Blackheath, 251.
Blackshaw, Mrs., 37.
Blackwood, Mrs., 47, 173.
Blaise Castle, 426.
Blangini, 59.
Boaden, his life of Sarah Siddons, 128.
"Bonaparte," the play, 366.
Bonaparte, Napoleon, 364;
melodrama on his life, 399;
at St. Helena, Fanny Kemble's verses on, 441;
letters to Joséphine, 462.
Bonheur, Rosa, 345.
"Borderers, The," 508, 509, 513.
Bordogni, 276.
Boston, enthusiasm at Fanny Kemble's farewell engagement, 588.
Bouilland, Mr., experiments on Brains, 418.
Boulogne, Fanny Kemble at school at, 26;
farewell to, 31.
Bourbon, the Younger of the Orleans branch, 277.
Boyd, 293, 479.
Bradshaw, Mrs. (Maria Tree), in "Hernani" at Bridgewater House, 376;
in _Clari and Mary Copp_, 396, 497.
Braham, 97;
sings "Tom Tug," 395.
Brain, anatomy of the, 528.
Brand, Mr., 346.
Brandon, 286.
Bridgewater House, 374;
"Hernani" at, 376;
first rehearsal of "Hernani" at, 396.
Brighton, 256, 324, 325, 327, 466.
Bristol, 416;
market at, 424;
Abbey church, 425;
unprosperous business, 428;
trouble at theatre, 432.
British Canada, 346.
Brougham, Lord, in Charles Kemble's suit, 88, 142, 332;
his mother, 344, 459;
a man of steel, 474.
Browning, Robert, 126;
compared with Shelley, 384;
"Blot on the Scutcheon" and Pippa Passes, _ib._
Brunet, in "_Les Anglaises pour Rire_," 66.
Bruno, 426.
Brunswick, Caroline of, Princess of Wales, 251.
Brunswick, Duke of, at Brunswick House, 422.
Brunton, manager of theatre at Bristol, in trouble, 431;
his benefit, 433;
effort by Charles Kemble's Company to help him, 433;
in prison, 434.
Brunton, Miss (Lady Craven), 292.
Bryant, William Cullen, poetry of, 545.
Buckingham Gate, see Jones Street, 168, 267.
Buckinghamshire, 277, 297, 304, 305.
Budna, 302.
Burney, Dr., 327.
Burk, the murderer, 462.
Burns, Robert, 80, 161;
adversely criticised, 335.
Bury St. Edmunds, 108;
Henry Kemble at, 482.
Butler, Lady Eleanor, 345.
Butler, Pierce, marriage to Fanny Kemble, June 7, 1834, 590.
Byng, Frederick, 485;
a long call, 485.
Byron, Lord, 104, 110, 165;
"Cain," 165, 333;
"Manfred," 165, 333;
peculiar combination of vices and virtues, 166;
pernicious influence on the young, 167, 270;
play of "Werner," 308;
Mrs. John Kemble's impressions of, 330;
"Don Juan," 333;
"Lucifer," 333;
"Childe Harold," 333;
Sundry opinions on, 333;
his works compared with Hope's "Anastasius," 337.
Byron, Lady, her influence on Mrs. Jameson, 129;
her appearance, 130;
deprecates the publication of a new edition of Byron's works, 167.
Calcott, Lady, 506.
Calcutta, Henry Kemble, Collector of the Port of, 323.
Calderon, 293.
_Caliban_, 338.
_Calista_, in "The Fair Penitent," 318;
a failure, 318, 323, 325.
Cambridge, Duchess of, 303.
Camden Place, 13.
"Camiola," Fanny Kemble in, 255, 257, 367, 385, 388, 391.
Campbell, his life of Sarah Siddons, 128;
life of Lawrence, 239;
the poet, 242;
"Pleasures of Hope," 358;
application to Mrs. Fitzhugh for Mrs. Siddons' letters, 451;
life of Mrs. Sarah Siddons, 504.
Candia, M. de, see Mario, 497.
Canizzaro, Duchess of, 101.
Canning, Lawrence's picture of, 217.
Carey, admiration for Mrs. Jameson's works, 579.
Carlisle, Lord, 418.
Carlo, 505.
Carlyle, his article in _Edinburgh Review_, 80;
biography of Sterling, 185.
Cartwright, Mr., 320;
a pleasant evening at his house, 395.
Cassiobury Park, 90, 305, 397, 400.
Castlereagh, Lord Grey, haunted by a vision of, 474.
Catalani, her last public appearance, 162;
her last appearance, 163.
Catons, The, Lady Wellesley's father and mother, 562.
Catskills, 103.
Cavaliers, Ancient _vs._ Modern, 527.
Cavendish, Miss, on the _stay-at-home_ sensation, 393.
Cavendish, Col. and Lady, 471.
Cawse, Miss, in "Artaxerxes," 465.
Célimène, 258.
Cenci, Beatrice, 302.
Chambers, the Brothers, 161;
"Vestiges of Creation," _ib._
Channing, Essay on Milton, 337;
view of man's nature, 362;
his adversaries, 433;
on the relative merits of England and America, 539, 559;
appearance of, 576;
theatrical opinions, 576;
opinion of Miss Martineau's writings, 578;
infinite faith in a dead friend's happiness, 589.
Chantrey, 345;
Sir Francis, his design of vase presented to Charles Kemble, 354.
"Characters of Shakespeare's Women," Mrs. Jameson's book on, 275.
_Charles de Bourbon_, Kemble as, 508.
Charles X., 276.
Charles I., his resting-place at Edge Hill, 278.
Charles II., 308.
Charles, King, martyrdom of, 499.
Charles X., King of France, 522.
Charlotte, Queen, 449.
Chateaubriand, 166.
Chartier, Alin, 462.
Chatmoss, 279;
drained and healthy, 530.
Cherubino, 391.
Chester, 277.
Chesterfield, Countess of, 302;
as an equestrian, 471.
Cholera, in Edinburgh, 500;
in London, 502;
in Liverpool, 529;
in Boston, 534;
in Philadelphia, _ib._;
in Baltimore, _ib._;
in New York, _ib._
"Cibber's Lives," 462.
Clairon, 8;
Garrick's opinion of, 446.
Clanwilliam, Lord, Lawrence's picture of, 422.
Clarendon, Lord, puts Horace Twiss in Parliament, 87;
the Grove, 90, 102;
influence in getting Horace Twiss into Parliament, 335.
_Clari_, Mrs. Bradshaw in, 396.
Class Prejudice to Actors, 65.
Clay, Henry, 549;
Fanny Kemble's Letters of Introduction to, 561.
Cleopatra, Queen, as a dramatic writer, 447.
Clifford, Lord de, 426.
Clint, picture of Cecilia Siddons, 405.
Clive, Mrs. Archer, 153.
Cobb, Mrs. and Miss, 211.
Cobbe, Miss, her theory on the future existence of animals, 321.
Cobbett, article on in the _Examiner_, 435.
Cockrell, 9.
Coleridge, 124.
Collins' "Ode to the Passions," Liston reciting, 460.
Colnaghi, 243.
Combe, Cecilia, 151.
Combe, George, "the Apostle of Phrenology," 151;
author of "Constitution of Man," _ib._
Combe, Andrew, 151;
works upon physiology, hygiene, and education of children, 154;
combing, 155;
his age, 157;
his anecdote of Scott's "feudal insanity," 265, 316, 412;
on climbing, 420;
lectures in the Phrenological Museum, 527;
"Constitution of Man," 530.
Communion service, 401.
_Constance_ selected for Fanny Kemble's benefit, 359;
success of, 361, 417;
Mrs. Siddons' sketch of, 517.
"Constitution of Man," 151, 530.
Contat, Mlle., 258.
Cooper, Fenimore, "The Borderers," 508, 509;
compared with Charles Kemble in "Venice Preserved," 544.
Cornwall, Barry, 124, 345, 353.
Cork, Lady, 254, 289, 372;
vivacity at an advanced age, 379;
curious arrangement of her drawing-room, _ib._;
"Ancient Cork," _ib._;
"Memory," _ib._;
idea of heaven, _ib._;
propensity for taking that which was not hers, 381, 389;
little parties of, 391;
a noisy conversation, 519.
"Corrombona, Vittoria, Duchess of Bracciano," 353.
Cottin, Madame, 332.
Coutts, Mr., his fortune, 391.
Coutts, Miss Burdett, recipient of all Mr. Coutts' fortune, 392.
Covent Garden Chambers, 17, 25.
Covent Garden Theatre, Charles Kemble's partnership in, 35, 36;
Weber at, 37;
Charles Kemble's liabilities in, 107;
a woman wanted, 123;
Covent Garden to be sold at auction, 186;
Theatre patent assailed, 339;
cutting down salaries, 463;
ruined at last, 509;
farewell to, 520;
turned into an opera house, 521;
burned down, _ib._
Crabbe, as an unpoetical poet, 385.
Cramer, 321.
Craven Hill, 31, 32.
Craven, Lady, 292.
Craven, Mr., in "Hernani," at Bridgewater House, 376;
in "Hernani," 396, 399, 404.
Croly, 390.
Croton water in New York, 537.
Cromwell, marks of his cannon at Edge Hill, 278.
Cumberland, Duke and Duchess of, at Bridgewater House, 422.
Cunard, Samuel, 176.
Cunarosa, 101.
Dacre, Lord, 11, 348, 357.
Dacre, Lady, 341, 344;
her accomplishments, 345;
her play of "Isaure," 382;
her play "Wednesday Morning," 390, 393:
in trouble about "Wednesday Morning," 394;
objections to language in "The Star of Seville," 423, 498, 504.
Dall, Aunt (see Kemble, Adelaide).
Dance, Miss, 35.
Dante, "The Intellect of Love," 391;
"Devils boiled in pitch," 437;
Biagio's Preface to, 448.
"Darnley," 370.
Daru's "History of Venice," 466, 471, 506, 513.
Davenport, Mrs., the _Nurse_ in "Romeo and Juliet," 219, 305.
Davy, Sir Humphry, 461, 498.
Dawkins, Major, 362;
desire for a good picture of Fanny Kemble, 366.
Dawson, Miss, 316.
Dawson, Rt. Hon. George, 316.
Day, Mr., picture of an Italian Madonna, 442.
De Camp, Captain, goes to England, 2;
death, 6.
De Camp, Adelaide, 257;
dislike to seeing Fanny Kemble act, 490;
death, 589;
burial in Mount Orban's Cemetery, 590.
De Camp, Marie Theresa (see Kemble, Mrs. Charles).
De Camp, Victoire, 24;
governess at Blackheath, 251.
Delane, 88.
"De Montfort," 349.
Derby, Lord, incident with Miss Farren in "School for Scandal," 452.
"Der Freyschütz," 94, 99.
Descuillier, Madame, 51, 445.
_Desdemona_, Mme. Pasta in, 428.
Dessauer, 245.
"Destiny," 389.
Deterioration, Artistic, 570.
Devonshire, Duke of, 22.
Devonshire House, 361.
Dévy, Madame, 491.
"Diary of an Ennuyée," 123.
"Dick," picture of Fanny Kemble, 113, 131.
Dickens, 167.
Didear, Mr., unkind reception in Edinburgh, 323.
"Dionysius," 239.
Donkin, Lord Mayor, 398.
"Donna Sol," 472.
Donne, Wm., 183.
Dorchester, start for, 449;
arrival at, _ib_.
Dorval, Madame, 65.
Dover, 250.
Dramatic writers, women as, 446.
Drury Lane Theatre, 173;
patents assailed, 339, 376.
Dublin, 254;
Fanny Kemble at, 270;
incident before leaving for London, 272;
her departure from, 273.
"Duchess of Pagliano," 353.
_Duchess of Guise_, 420.
Dufferin, Lady, 173, 175.
Du Lac, Sir Launcelot, 327.
Dumesnil, Garrick's opinion of in _Phoebe Rodogund_ and _Hermione_, 446.
Dunbarton, 267.
Dupré, 545.
Duraset, Mr., generosity in helping Covent Garden, 464.
Dyce, Rev. Alexander, 255.
Eckermann, 338.
Edge Hill, Charles I.'s resting-place at, 278.
_Edinburgh Review_, 142.
Edinburgh, 144, 257, 259;
coldness of its audiences, 261, 290,
Fanny Kemble's last days in, 528;
cholera in, 500.
Edinburgh Castle, regalia of Scotland in, 261.
"Education of the People, The," 388.
Edward I., 277, 297.
Egerton, Lord Francis, see Ellesmere.
Egerton, Lady Blanche, 270.
Egerton, Mr., declining the proposed accommodation at Covent Garden, 464.
Eldon, Lord, Chancellor in Charles Kemble's suit, 88.
Elizabeth, Queen, 255, 316.
Elizabeth, Princess, at Bridgewater House, 422.
Ellesmere, Earl and Countess of, 77, 82, 270;
Fanny Kemble's first friendship with, 374;
his epilogue to "Hernani," 412;
Hayter's picture of Fanny Kemble for, 412;
her high esteem for Lord Carlisle, 418;
translation of "Henri Trois," 420;
taking Mr. St. Aubin's part in "Hernani," 421;
purchases Hayter's drawings of Fanny Kemble in _Juliet_, 588.
Ellis, letter from Lord Macaulay to, 344.
England, Queen of, 233.
England, King of, not particularly brilliant, 456.
Essex, Countess of, 21.
Essex, Earl of, 2, 90, 104, 397.
Essex, Lady, 21;
befriending a street-singer, 435.
_Estrella_, in "The Star of Seville," 514.
_Euphrasia_, Mrs. Siddons and Fanny Kemble as, 236, 238, 322, 480, 483.
_Evander_, John Kemble as, 239.
Evans, 17.
Everett, Edward, about sermons in general, 433.
Evolena, Mount, 84.
_Examiner, The_, 435.
Exeter, start for, 448;
arrival at, _ib_.
"Exquisites, The," 395.
Extravagance of the Americans in flowers, 540.
Faith, Religious, 476.
Falkland, Lady, anecdote of her picture at Royal Academy, 393.
Farleigh, a comic actor, 472.
Farquhar's, Lady, party at, 506.
Fauldes tragedy, 466.
"Faust," 138, 339.
Farren, Miss, 258, 301;
awkward incident with Lord Derby, 452.
Faudier, Madame, 26, 30.
"Fazio," 323, 325, 331;
Fanny Kemble's first appearance in, in America, 572.
Fechter as _Hamlet_, 25;
his "get up" of _Othello_, 191;
"Bel Demonio," 353.
Fénelon, 426.
Ferguson, Sir Adam, 260, 261, 262.
Ferrier, Miss, author of "Marriage" and "Inheritance," 260;
"Destiny," 389.
"Fine People," 455.
Fires in New York, 537.
Fitzgerald, Edward, 183.
Fitzgerald, Mrs., 342, 504.
Fitzhugh, Emily, 362, 365, 451;
emotion at meeting Charles Kemble at Plymouth, 451;
Mrs. Siddons' letters, 477.
Fitzhugh, Mrs., 82.
Fitzpatricks, The, Hayter's picture of, 487.
Flaxman, 109.
Flore, Mlle., 26.
Flowers, American extravagance in, 540.
Foix, Gaston de, 506.
Forbes, 108.
Ford's "White Devil," 353.
Forest, M. de la, his accounts of Malibran, 203.
Forrester, Annie, Isabel, and Cecil, 302.
Forster, Johann Georg, 347.
Foscolo, Ugo, 345.
Foster, 91, 397, 400.
Foster, Mrs., 276.
Fouqué, La Motte, 80.
Fozzard, Capt., 232, 389;
riding-school, 471.
"Fra Diavolo," Miss Sheriff in, 469.
France, thoughts of living in the south of, 392.
"Francis I.," correcting the metre, 341, 350, 355, 357, 396;
sold to Wm. Murray for £4000, 482;
its publication, 497;
Murray's desire to publish without last scene, 503;
its effect when read in the greenroom of Covent Garden Theatre, 503;
the cast altered, 503;
preface to, 504;
cast upset the second time, 504;
prologue, 505;
postponed for a fortnight, 510;
its popularity due to the indulgence and curiosity of London
audiences, 518;
played for first time, 525, 526.
Francis, Lord, his play "Henri Trois" postponed, 469.
_Françoise de Foix_, Fanny Kemble as, 529.
French Revolution of 1830, the, 276.
Fry, Mrs., her visits to Newgate, 413.
Gainsborough, his painting of Mrs. Siddons, 162.
Gall, his philosophy of phrenology, 151.
"Gamester, The," 269, 427, 440;
at Plymouth, 446;
at Southampton, 454;
Charles Kemble in, 524.
Garcia, Marie (see Malibran), as an artist, actress and singer, 203;
the sisters Malibran and Pauline Viardot, their accomplishments, 206.
Garrick, his costume in "Macbeth," 190;
opinion of Clairon and Dumesnil, 446;
rivalry with Mrs. Bellamy, 452.
Genius, what is it? 477.
Genlis, Madame de, 2.
George IV., anecdote of his picture at Royal Academy, 393;
at the Weymouth Theatre, 449.
Gerard street, 33.
Ghosts, something about, 133.
"Giovanni di Procida," 472.
Giardano, 442.
Gibraltar, 326, 336.
Gibson, 302.
"Gilbert Gurney," 170.
Glasgow, the audiences at, 267.
"Glenarvon," 46.
Glengall, Lady, 460.
Gloucester, Duchess of, 413.
Gloucester, Duke and Duchess of, 422.
Godwin, 473.
Goethe, 80;
"Tasso," 139, 166, 169, 351, 178;
his self-experimentalizing in "The Sorrows of Werther," 337;
"Faust" and "Wilhelm Meister," 339;
his nature, 338;
partiality in delineating character, 338.
Gonsalvi, Cardinal, 270.
Gower, Lord Francis Leveson, 300.
Grahame, Lady, 173.
Grammont, Duc de, his two children, 522.
Grammont, Ida de, Duchesse de Guyche, 522.
Grande Place, 27.
Granville, Dr., 344.
Great Russell Street, 267.
"Grecian Daughter," Ward in, 243, 484.
Gregory, Wm., 158.
Grey, Earl, 347.
Greville, Charles, statement about Miss Tree in his "Memoirs," 201.
Greville, Lady Charlotte, 418, 419, 486;
a "Swarry" at her house, 491.
Greville, Henry, 396, 471, 496;
as an amateur singer, 497;
his sensibilities, 486.
Grey, Lady, as an equestrian, 471.
Grey, Lord, haunted by a vision of Lord Castlereagh, 474;
responsibility in Reform Bill matters, 494.
Grimani, the sisters, 251.
Grimani, Bellini, 251.
Grimani, Julia, 251.
Grosvenor, Lady Octavia, 270.
Grote, Mrs., 277.
Guilford, his seat at Wroxton Abbey, 388.
Guinevre, 327.
Guirani, 24.
Guyce, Duchesse de, 522
Guy's Cliff, 106.
Gwynn, Nell, 308.
Hallam, Arthur, 183;
essay on the philosophical writings of Cicero, 514;
death of, 185.
Hamilton, Wm., 271.
Hamilton, Sir Ralph, and Lady, 405.
Hamlet, his feigned (?) madness, 327;
and Hecuba, 486.
Handel, 95, 97.
Harris, 107.
Harness, Rev. Wm., 235;
opinions of "The Cenci," 334;
discussion of one of Hope's theories, 337, 342;
biography, 349, 363, 415, 459;
"The Wife of Antwerp," 475;
play delayed at Covent Garden, 506;
criticism of "Star of Seville," 514.
Harness, Mary, 486, 498.
Hare, Julius, biography of Sterling, 185.
"Harlequin and Davy Jones," 320.
Harlow, 327;
picture of Mrs. Siddons in "Queen Katharine," 459.
Harris, Charles Kemble shaking hands with, 414.
Harris, Mr., inclined to come to some accommodation with Charles
Kemble, 463.
Hatchford, Fanny Kemble and Lady Ellesmere at, 375.
Hatfield House, "Isaure" acted at, 382, 394;
old lady burned to death in, 497.
Hathaway, Anne, 182.
Hatherton, Lady, 216.
"Haunted Tower, The," 500.
Haydon's "Bonaparte at St. Helena," Fanny Kemble's verses on, 441.
Hayter, George, 487.
Hayter, John, his sketches of Fanny Kemble as _Juliet_, 128, 235;
portrait of Henry Kemble, 197;
picture of Fanny Kemble for Lord Ellesmere, 412;
his portraits of Mrs. Norton and the Fitzpatricks, 487;
wishes to sell his sketches of Fanny Kemble in _Juliet_, 588.
Havley, Mr., declining the proposed accommodation at Covent Garden, 464.
Hazlitt, 124.
Heath Farm, 90, 109, 251, 303.
Heaton, 277;
Charles Kemble invited to, 291, 295, 297;
evenings at, 300.
_Hecuba_ and _Hamlet_, 486.
Heidelberg, 284, 294.
Hemans, Mrs., 297, 358.
"Henri Trois," 420, 469;
production at Covent Garden postponed, 469;
Lord Leveson's translation of, 484.
"Henry VIII.," Mrs. Siddons in, 459.
Herodias' Daughter, 264.
"Hernani," 365, 374: dresses for, 395;
at Bridgewater House, 396, 399;
rehearsing at Oatlands, 404;
dress-rehearsal for, at Bridgewater House, 405;
a third representation, 413.
Hertfordshire, see Heath Farm.
Highflyer, The, 330.
Hindoo Theatre, 178.
Hill, Lord, influence to get Henry Kemble his commission, 502.
"History of Venice," 466.
Hoffman, 29.
Hogarth, 258;
pictures by, 422.
Hogg, 142.
Holbein's painting of "Queen Katharine," 459.
Holland, Lord, 177.
Holland, Lady, death of, 177.
"Holy Family, The," 475.
Honiton, Vale of, 449.
Hook, Theodore, anecdotes of, 170, 172.
Horner, 142.
Horsley, 395.
Hope, Mr., his residence near Scott's, 265;
his theory respecting the destiny of the human soul, 337;
"On the Nature and Immortality of the Soul," 494;
death of, 337.
Hopwood Hall, 277, 297.
Hosmer, Miss, 302.
Howick, Lord, 347.
Huber, Madame, 347.
Hughes, Dr., witnessing _Juliet_, 199.
Hugo, Victor, 116;
"Hernani," 374;
"Notre Dame de Paris," 498.
Human soul, destiny of, 337.
Hume, Baron, 161;
his manner to ladies, 527.
Hummel, 321, 395.
"Hunchback, The," 376;
entire success of, 378;
contrasted with "Romeo and Juliet," 378, 385, 390, 412, 512, 517, 558.
Hunt, Leigh, 383.
Hunt, Mr., quoting the Bible in the House of Commons, 498.
Huskisson, Mr., death on Stephenson's new railroad, 298;
news of his death at Manchester, 304, 344;
death-place marked by a tablet, 530.
Ilfracombe, a trip to, 434.
"Imogen," 243.
Inchbald, Mrs., amusing anecdotes of, 212.
"Inconstant, The," Fanny Kemble as _Bizarre_ in, 547.
"Inez de Castro," 323, 342, 354.
Inglis, Sir Robert, incident of, 493.
Inverarity, Miss, engaged at the Dublin Theatre, 399, 400, 488.
"Invincibles, The," 383.
Ireland, 254.
Irving, Washington, 560, 564, 572;
the "creaking door," 573;
_Isabella_, Fanny Kemble as, 253, 414;
at Plymouth, 445, 472, 479;
"Isaure," 382.
Jacobite, A, 261.
Jackson, Andrew, Fanny Kemble's letters of introduction to, 561;
unpopularity in 1832, 549.
_Jaffir_, Charles Kemble in, 336.
James I., 255.
James, King, saving of his life by the "Douglas woman," 490.
James Street, 114, 168.
Jameson, Mr. Robert, 128.
Jameson, Mrs., 123, 124;
acquaintance with Lady Byron, 127;
public lectures, 130;
protests against _Juliet's_ costume, 189;
selection of _Juliet's_ costume, 191;
_avant propos_ of Fanny Kemble in _Juliet_, 234;
notice of Fanny Kemble in _Juliet_, 235;
letter from Fanny Kemble at Glasgow, 259;
drawing of the rooms at James street, 266;
her troubles, 266;
water-color sketches, 268;
book on Shakespeare's female characters, 359, 513, 531;
threatens to write a play, 394;
Christina, 499;
biographical sketch of the Kemble family, 587.
Jawbone, the Kemble, 345.
Jealousy, a few words about, 474, 483.
Jeffrey, 142, 261.
Jephson, Dr., 106.
"Jew of Aragon, The," 305.
Jig Dancing, 269.
_John Bull, The_, 170.
John the Baptist, 264.
Jones, Sir William, 178.
Jordan, Mrs., 327;
her natural son by William IV., 228.
Journal, 1831, 390.
_Julia_, in "The Hunchback," 377, 385.
_Juliana_, 437.
_Juliet_, chosen for Author's first appearance, 187;
her costume for first appearance in, 188;
Lawrence and Hayter's sketches of Fanny Kemble in, 234;
Fanny Kemble's opinion of, 438.
Julius, Pope, 506.
"Katharine, Queen," 457, 458.
"Katharine of Cleves," Lord Francis Leveson's translation of
"Henri Trois," 481, 484, 489, 490;
first acting of the play, 491;
critiques upon, 493;
"more interesting than any thing of Shakespeare's," 94, 496, 499;
its popularity waning, 503;
awkward incident while playing, 505.
Kant, 346.
Keats compared to Tennyson, 581.
Kean at the English Theatre in Paris, 115, 118;
in "Merchant of Venice," 119;
Shakesperean revivals, 191;
non-acceptance of a part in "The Hunchback," 376, 429;
in _Othello_, _Shylock_, and _Sir Giles Overreach_, 430, 440;
effect of his acting, 477;
_Othello_, 478.
Kemble, Adelaide, 17;
"Aunt Dall," 18, 23;
nurses Fanny Kemble through sickness, 132, 277, 297.