them too often,--and was sitting down to reflect upon them at my
leisure, when my American friend, to whom, doubtless, they seemed but a
parcel of discolored, dirty, decapitated bodies, proposed that we should
pass on, which we accordingly did.
I am struck with the spirit of conformity by which this gentleman seems
troubled, and which Adelaide tells me the young American people they saw
in Rome constantly expressed,--the dread of appearing that which they
are, foreigners; the annoyance at hearing that their accent and dress
denote them to be Americans. They certainly are not comfortable people
in this respect, and I always wish, for their own sakes as well as mine,
that they had more or less self-love.
I was impelled to say to my young clergyman, whose fear of trespassing
against English usages seemed to leave him hardly any other idea, "Sir,
are you not a foreigner, an American? May I ask why it is to be
considered incumbent upon you, either by yourself or others, to dress
and speak like an Englishman?" ...
Good-bye, dear.
I am ever yours,
FANNY.
18, ORCHARD STREET, November 18th.
I do not know that I ever slept so near the sea as to hear it
discoursing as loudly as you describe, though I have been where its long
swelling edge was heard rolling up and tearing itself to ribbons on the
shingly beach like distant thunder. As for night-sounds of any sort, you
know my _sound_ sleep is the only one I am familiar with.
In the hotel at Niagara, the voice of the cataract not only roared night
and day through every chamber of the house, but the whole building
vibrated incessantly with the shock of the mighty fall. I have still
health and nerve and spirits to cope with the grand exhibitions of the
powers of Nature: the majesty and beauty of the external world always
acts as a tonic on me, and under its influence I feel as if a strong arm
was put round me, and was lifting me over stony places; and I nothing
doubt that the great anthem of the ocean would excite rather than
overpower me, however nearly it sounded in my ears.
Your description of the terrace, or parade walk, covered with my
fellow-creatures, appals my imagination much more. My sympathies have
never been half human enough, and in the proximity of one of nature's
most impressive objects I shrink still more from contact with the
outward forms of unknown humanity. However, this is merely an answer to
your description; I shall find, by creeping down the shingles, some
place below, or, by climbing the cliff, some place above, these dear men
and women, where I can be a little alone with the sea.
I observed nothing peculiar about the direction of any letter that I
have recently received from you; but then, to be sure, I am not given to
the general process, which, general as it is, always astonishes me, of
examining the direction, the date, the postmark, the signature, of the
letter I receive (as many of these, too, as possible, before opening the
epistle); I hasten to read your words as soon as I have them, and seldom
speculate as to when or where they were written, so that I really do not
know whether I have received your Hull letter or not. I do not go
thither until Monday next, and return to town the following Sunday....
Oh, my dear, what a world is this! or rather, what an unlucky experience
mine has been--in some respects--yes, in _some_ respects! for while I
write this, images of the good, and true, and excellent people I have
known and loved rise like a cloud of witnesses to shut out the ugly
vision of the moral deformity of some of those with whom my fate has
been interwoven....
I have agreed with Mrs. Humphreys to take the apartments that T----
M---- had in King Street, from the beginning of January till the
beginning of May. She says she cannot let me have them longer than that,
but I shall endeavor for at least a month's extension, for it will be so
very wretched to turn out and have to hunt for new lodgings, for a term
of six weeks.
My success at Leeds was very good, considering the small size of the
theatre.... I am not exempt from a feeling about "illustrious
localities," but the world seems to me to be so absolutely Shakespeare's
domain and dwelling-place, that I do not vividly associate him with the
idea of those four walls, between which he first saw the light of an
English day. If the house he dwelt in in the maturity of his age, and to
which he retired to spend the evening of his life, still existed, I
should feel considerable emotion in being where his hours and days were
spent when his mind had reached its zenith.
A baby is the least intelligent form of a rational human being, and as
it mercifully pleased God to remove His wonderfully endowed child before
the approach of age had diminished his transcendent gifts, I do not care
to contemplate him in that condition in which I cannot recognize
him--that is, with an undeveloped and dormant intelligence.
We know nothing of his childhood, nothing of the gradual growth and
unfolding of his genius; his acknowledged works date from the season of
its ripe perfection.
You know I do not regret the dimness that covers the common details of
his life: his humanity was allied to that of its kind by infirmities and
sins, but I am glad that these links between him and _me_ have
disappeared, and that those alone remain by which he will be bound, as
long as this world lasts, to the love and reverence of his
fellow-beings. Shakespeare's childhood, boyhood, the season of his moral
and intellectual growth, would be of the deepest interest could one know
it: but Shakespeare's mere birthplace and babyhood is not much to me;
though I quite agree that it should be respectfully preserved, and
allowed to be visited by all who find satisfaction in such pilgrimage.
He could not have been different from other babies you know; nor,
indeed, need be,--for a _baby_--_any_ baby--is a more wonderful thing
even than Shakespeare.
I have told you how curiously affected I was while standing by his
grave, in the church at Stratford-upon-Avon: how I was suddenly overcome
with sleep (my invariable refuge under great emotion or excitement), and
how I prayed to be allowed to sleep for a little while on the
altar-steps of the chancel, beside his bones: the power of association
was certainly strong in me then; but his bones _are_ there, and above
them streamed a warm and brilliant sunbeam, fit emblem of his vivifying
spirit;--but I have no great enthusiasm for his house....
Does not the power of conceiving in any degree the _idea_ of God
establish some relation between Him and the creature capable of any
approach by thought to Him? Do we not, in some sense, possess mentally
that which we most earnestly think of? is it not the possession over
which earthly circumstances have the least power? The more incessantly
and earnestly we think of a thing the more we become possessed _by_ and
_of_ it, and in some degree assimilated to it; and can those thoughts
which reach towards God alone fail to lay hold, in any sort or degree,
of their object?...
Surely, whether we are, or are not, the result of an immense chain of
material progression, we have attained to that idea which preserves
alive to all eternity the souls upon which it has once dawned. We have
caught hold of the feet of the omnipotent Creator; and to the spirit
that once has received the conception, however feeble or remote, of His
greatness and goodness, there can be no cessation of the bond thus
formed between itself and its great Cause. I cannot write about this; I
could not utter in words what I think and feel about it: but it seems to
me that if organization, mere development, has reached a pitch at which
it becomes capable of _divine_ thoughts, it thenceforth can never be
anything _less_ than a creature capable of such conceptions; and if so,
then how much _more_?
Farewell. Love to Dorothy.
Yours ever,
F. A. K.
ORCHARD STREET, Monday, 18th.
I arrived yesterday in town, my dearest Hal, and found your letter
waiting for me. The aspect of these, my hired Penates, is comfortable
and homelike to me, after living at inns for a fortnight; and the
spasmodic and funereal greetings of the nervous Mulliner, and the
lugubrious Jeffreys, _gladden_ my spirits with a sense of returning to
_something_ that expects me.
About Lady Emily ---- and her _ethereal_ confinement: did I not tell you
that Mrs. C---- wrote me word from America that Fanny Longfellow had
been brought to bed most prosperously under the beneficent influence of
ether? at which my dear S---- C---- expresses some anxiety touching the
authority of the Book of Genesis, which she thinks may be impaired if
women continue, by means of ether, to escape from the special curse
pronounced against them for their share in the original sin.
For my part I am not afraid that the worst part of the curse will not
abide upon us, in spite of ether; the woman's desire will still be to
her husband, who, consequently, will still rule over her. For these
(curses or not, as people may consider them), I fear no palliating ether
will be found; and till men are more righteous than they are, all
creatures subject to them will be liable to suffer misery of one sort or
another....
I wonder if I have ever spoken to you of Lady Morley--a kind-hearted,
clever woman (who, by the bye, always calls men "the softer sex"), a
great friend of Sydney Smith's, whom I have known a good deal in
society, and who came to see me just before I left town. In speaking of
poor Lady Dacre, and the difficulty she found in accepting her late
bereavement, Lady Morley said, "I think people should be very grateful
whose misfortunes fall upon them in old age rather than in youth:
they're all the nearer having done with them." There was some whimsical
paradox in this, but some truth too. An habitual saying of hers (not
serious, of course, but which she applies to everything she hears) is:
"There's nothing new, nothing true, and nothing signifies." The last
time I dined at Lady Grey's a discussion arose between Lady Morley,
myself, and some of the other guests, as to how much or how little truth
it was _right_ to speak in our usual intercourse with people. I
maintained that one was bound to speak the whole truth; so did my
friend, Lady G----; Lady F---- said, "Toute verite n'est pas bonne a
dire;" and Lady Morley told the following story: "I sat by Rogers at
dinner the other day (the poet of memory was losing his, and getting to
repeat the same story twice over without being aware that he did so),
and he told me a very good story, which, however, before long, he began
to repeat all over again; something, however, suggesting to him the idea
that he was doing so, he stopped suddenly, and said, 'I've told you this
before, haven't I?' And he had, not a quarter of an hour before. Now,
ladies, what would you have said? and what do you think I said? 'Oh
yes,' said I, 'to be sure: you were beginning to tell it to me when the
fish came round, and _I'm dying to hear the end of it_.'" This was on
all hands allowed to have been a most ingenious reply; and I said I
thought she deserved to be highly complimented for such graceful
dexterity in falsehood: to which she answered, "Oh, well, my dear, it's
all very fine; but if ever you get the truth, depend upon it you won't
like it"--a retort which turned the laugh completely against me, and
sent her ladyship off with flying colors; and certainly there was no
want of tolerably severe sincerity in that speech of hers.
Lady Morley's great vivacity of manner and very peculiar voice added not
a little to the drollery of her sallies.
A very conceited, effeminate, and absurd man coming into a room where
she was one evening, and beginning to comb his hair, she exclaimed, "La!
what's that! Look there! There's a mermaid!"
Frederick Byng told me that he was escorting her once in a crowded
public assembly, when she sat down on a chair from which another woman
had just risen and walked away. "Do you know whose place you have just
taken?" asked he. Something significant in his voice and manner arrested
her attention, when, looking at him for an instant with wide-open eyes,
she suddenly jumped up, exclaiming, "Bless my heart, don't tell me so!
_Predecessor!_" Lord Morley, before marrying her, had been divorced from
his first wife, who had just vacated the seat taken by his second, at
the assembly to which they had both gone.
On the occasion of my acting at Plymouth, Lady Morley pressed me very
kindly to go and stay some days with her at Soltram, her place near there:
this I was unable to do, but drove over to see her, when, putting on a
white apron, to "sustain," as she said, "the character," she took me,
housekeeper fashion, through the rooms; stopping before her own charming
watercolor drawings, with such comments as, "Landscape,--capital
performance, by Frances Countess of Morley;" "Street in a foreign town, by
Frances Countess of Morley,--a piece highly esteemed by _connyshures_;"
"Outside of a church, by Frances Countess of Morley,--supposed by good
judges to be her _shiff duver_," etc....
I have just had a visit from that pretty Miss Mordaunt who acted with me
at the St. James's Theatre, and who tells me that her sister, Mrs.
Nisbett, was cheated at the Liverpool theatre precisely as I was; but
she has a brother who is a lawyer, who does not mean to let the matter
rest without some attempt to recover his sister's earnings....
I went this morning to inquire at the St. George's Workhouse for the
unfortunate girl I took out of the hands of the police in the park the
other day (her offence was being found asleep at early morning, and
suspected of having passed the night there), and found, to my great
distress and disappointment, that she was in the very act of starting
for Bristol.
I had, as I told you, interested dear Mr. Harness, and Mr. Brackenbury,
the chaplain of the Magdalen, about her, and when I went out of town she
seemed fully determined to go into that asylum. The chaplain of the
workhouse in Mount Street, however, has dissuaded her from doing so,
told her she would come out worse than she went in; in short, they have
despatched her to Bristol, to the care and guardianship of a poor young
sister, only a year older than herself, who earns a scanty support by
sewing; and all that remained for me to do was to pay her expenses down,
and send her sister something to help her through the first difficulties
of her return. I am greatly troubled about this. They say the poor
unfortunate child is in the family-way, and therefore could not be
received at the Magdalen Asylum; but it seems to me that there has been
some prejudice, or clerical punctilio, or folly, or stupidity at work,
that has induced the workhouse officials thus to alter the poor girl's
determination, and send her back whence she came, no doubt to go through
a similar experience as soon as possible again. God help her, and us
all! What a world it is!...
The clergyman of the workhouse called upon me to explain why he had so
advised the girl, but I did not think his reasons very satisfactory....
God bless you.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
ORCHARD STREET.
The houses at Plymouth and Exeter were wretched.... These gains, my
dearest Hal, will not allow of my laying up much, but they will prevent
my being in debt, that horror of yours and mine. I paid my expenses,
besides bringing home something, and a considerable increase of health
and strength--which is something more....
I remain in town till the end of next week, then go to Norwich, Ipswich,
and Cambridge, my midland circuit, as I call it; after which I shall
return to London. Towards the middle of August I go to York, Leeds,
Sheffield, and Newcastle, thence to visit Mrs. Mitchell at Carolside;
after which I shall take my Glasgow and Edinburgh engagements, and then
come back to London. There is a rumor of Macready being about to take
Drury Lane for the winter, but I have no idea whether it is true or not.
I am sure I don't know what is to become of my poor dog Hero [a fine
Irish retriever given me by my friend]. I am almost afraid that Mrs.
Humphreys will not take him into her nice lodging. If I can't keep him
with me till I go away to America, I should beg you in the interim to
receive him, for my sake, at Ardgillan.
You cannot think with what a sense of relief at laying hold of
something _that could not lie_ I threw my arms round his neck the other
day, after ---- had left me. This is melancholy, is it not? but I
believe many poor human creatures whose hearts have been lacerated by
their (un)kind have loved brutes for their freedom from the complicated
and reflected falsehood of which the nobler nature is, alas! capable and
guilty.
Tell me if it will be inconvenient to you to take charge of Hero when I
go away. In a place where he had a wider range than this narrow little
dwelling of mine, and where his defects were not incessantly ministered
to by the adulation of an idiotical old maid besotted with the necessity
of adoring and devoting herself to something, he would be very
endurable....
[I injured one of my hands in getting out of a pony-carriage at Hawick.]
Touching my broken finger, my dear, I am sure I did take off the splints
too soon, and the recovery has been protracted in consequence; but as I
knew it would recover anyhow, and that the splints were inconvenient in
acting, and, moreover, expensive, as they compelled me to cut off the
little finger of all my white gloves, I preferred dispensing with them.
The pain, inflammation, and stiffness are almost gone, and nothing
remains but the thickening of the lower part of the finger, which makes
it look crooked, and I think may continue after the injury is healed. I
did not, I believe, break the bone at all, but tore away the ligament on
one side, that keeps the upper joint in its socket. The cold water
pumping is a capital thing, and I give it a douche every time I take my
bath. It might, perhaps, be a little better for bandaging, but will get
well without it.... A healthy body, with common attention to
common-sense, will recover, undoctored, from a great many evils. In
almost all cases of slight fractures, cuts, bruises, etc., if the
patient is temperate and healthy, and has no constitutional tendency to
fever or inflammation, the evil can be remedied by cold water bandages
and rest.
Give my dear love to my dear Dorothy and your dear Dorothy. I shall be
happy with you both, for she is quite too good to be jealous of.
God bless you, dear.
I am ever yours,
FANNY.
ORCHARD STREET, Sunday, 4th.
MY DEAREST HAL,
First of all let me tell you, what I am sure you will be glad to learn,
that E---- S---- is in England. You will imagine how glad I was to see
him. I am very fond of him, have great reliance on his mind as well as
his heart; and then he seems like something kind and dependable
belonging to me--the only thing of the kind that I possess, for my
sister is a woman, and you know I am heartily of opinion that we are the
weaker sex, and that an efficient male protector is a tower of strength.
In seeing E----, too, I saw, as it were, alive again the happy past. He
seemed part of my sister and her children, and the blessed time I spent
with them in Rome, and it was a comfort to me to look at him....
Charles Greville had been out of town, and found the letter announcing
E----'s advent, and came up, very good-naturedly, dinnerless, to bring
me word of the good news. The next day, however, he was as cross as
possible (a way both he and his brother Henry have, in common with other
spoiled children) because I expressed some dismay when he said E----'s
obtaining a seat in Parliament was quite an uncertainty (I think Mr.
S---- contemplated standing for Kidderminster). Now, from all he had
said, and the letter he had written about it, I should have supposed
E----'s return to have been inevitable; but this is the sort of thing
people perpetually do who endeavor to persuade others that what they
themselves wish is likely to happen. E---- seems quite aware himself
that the thing is a great chance, but says that even if he does not get
a seat in Parliament, he shall not regret having come, as he wanted
change of air, is much the better for the journey, and has had the
satisfaction of seeing his sister in Paris. Nevertheless, if this effort
to settle himself to his mind in England proves abortive, I do not think
the Grevilles will get him back in a hurry again....
I am surprised by the term "worthless fellow" which A---- applies to
----. I think him selfish and calculating, but I am getting so
accustomed to find everybody so that it seems to me superfluous
fastidiousness to be deterred from dealings with any one on that
account....
I do not write vaguely to my sister about my arrangements; but you know
I have no certain plans, and it is difficult to write with precision
about what is not precise.
I am not going to Norwich just yet; the theatre is at present engaged
by the Keeleys, and the manager's arrangements with them and
Mademoiselle Celeste are such that he cannot receive me until August. I
may possibly act a night or two at Newcastle in Staffordshire, and at
Rochdale, but this would not take me away for more than a week.
In answer to your question of what "coarsenesses" L---- finds in my book
["A Year of Consolation"], I will give you an extract from her letter.
"There are a few expressions I should like to have stricken out of it;
_par exemple_, I hate the word _stink_, though I confess there is no
other to answer its full import; and there are one or two passages the
careless manner of writing which astonished me in you. You must have
caught it from what you say is my way of talking." Now, Hal, I can only
tell you that more than once I thought myself actually to blame for not
giving with more detail the disgusting elements which in Rome mingle
everywhere with what is sublime and exquisite; for it appeared to me
that to describe and dilate upon one half of the truth only was to be an
unfaithful painter, and destroy the merit, with the accuracy, of the
picture. I remember, particularly, standing one morning absorbed in this
very train of reflection, in the Piazza del Popolo, when on attempting
to approach the fine fountains below the Pincio I found it impossible to
get near them for the abominations by which they were surrounded, and
thought how unfaithful to the truth it would be to speak of the grace
and beauty of this place, and not of this detestable desecration of it.
The place and the people can only be perfectly described through the
whole, as you know. Farewell.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
RAILWAY STATION, HULL, Friday, 4th.
I have been spending the afternoon crying over the tender mercies of
English Christians to their pauper population, till my eyes smart, and
itch, and ache, and I shall have neither sight nor voice to read
"Coriolanus," which I must do this evening. To this Hull Railway Hotel
is attached a magnificent Railway Station (or rather _vice versa_),
shaped like a horseshoe, with a spacious broad pavement, roofed with a
skylight all round, making a noble ambulatory, of which I have availed
myself every day since I have been here for my walking exercise....
I was just starting for my walk to-day, when in came old Mr. Frost, my
Hull employer, President of the Literary and Scientific Institution,
before which I am giving my present readings, the principal lawyer, and,
I believe, Mayor of Hull,--a most charming, accomplished, courteous old
gentleman of seventy years and upwards, who, finding that I was about to
walk, proposed to accompany me, and we descended to the Station.