Old Woman's Gossip

XVII.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, } Friday, October 1, 1830.

DEAREST H―: I have risen very early, for what with excitement, and the wakefulness always attendant with me upon a new bed, I have slept but little, and I snatch this first hour of the day, the only one I may be able to command, to tell you that I have heard from my brother, and that he is safe and well, for which, thank God! Further I know nothing. He talks vaguely of being with us towards the end of the winter, but in the mean time, unless he finds some means of conveying tidings of his welfare to me, I must remain in utter ignorance of his circumstances and situation; and though a dread of uncertain events is foreign to my nature, which has a tendency always to be absorbed in whatever is present to me, there are reasonable fears, suggested by his abode and occupation at this moment, which must haunt and harass me in the absence of all regular communication with him, which it is vain to hope for, in spite of the gratitude I feel for his preservation hitherto, and the hopes it encourages of his future safety. Your letter, which was to welcome me to my new home, arrived there two days before I did, and was forwarded to me into Buckinghamshire. A few days there, — taking what interest I could in the sporting and fishing, the country quiet of the place, and above all the privilege of taking the sacrament, which, had I remained at Heaton, I should have had no opportunity of doing, — gave me a breathing - time and a sense of mental repose before entering again upon that busy life whose demands are already besieging me in the inexorable form of half a dozen new stage dresses to be devised, ordered, and executed in the shortest imaginable time.

October 3d.

You see how truly I prophesied at the beginning of this letter, when I said that the hour before breakfast was perhaps the only one I should be able to command that day. I might have said that week, for this is the first instant I have been able to call my own since then. I rehearsed Juliet yesterday, and shall do so again to-morrow morning; the theatre opens with it to - morrow night. I have a new nurse, and I am rehearsing for her, poor woman! She is dreadfully alarmed at taking Mrs. Davenport’s place, who certainly was a very great favorite. I am half crazy with the number of new dresses to be got; for though, thanks to the kindness and activity of my mother, none of the trouble of devising them ever falls on me, yet the bare catalogue of silks and satins and velvets, hats and feathers and ruffs, fills me with amazement and trepidation. I fancy I shall go through all the old parts, and then come out in a new tragedy. I shall be most horribly frightened, but I hope I shall do well, for the sake of the poor author, who is a young man of great abilities, and to whom I wish every success. The subject of his play is taken from a Spanish one, called The Jew of Aragon, and the whole piece is of a new and unhackneyed order. My father and I play a Jewish father and daughter; this and the novelty of the story itself will perhaps be favorable to the play; I hope so with all my heart.

Mrs. Henry Siddons has taken a house in London for six months; I have not seen her yet, but am most anxious to do so. Anxiety and annoyance, I fear, have just caused her a severe indisposition, but she is a little better now. I cannot see her till Tuesday, and so must be patient. My cousins have just been here; Harry has come from Chatham, and Willy, her youngest, from Switzerland, that they may be all together some little time before Harry goes to India. What a dreadful trial that will be to her! I cannot bear to think of it, but she is very strong. Mrs. Siddons is much better. She is staying at Leamington at present. I was truly rejoiced to find from your letter that E―had not suffered from the spite of the elements, and much amused at her assertion that nothing but her exerting the “energy of will ” had preserved her from being seasick; how I honor her!

[This was a phrase which Holcroft, Godwin’s eccentric actor friend, was fond of using; and when he broke one of his ribs in a fall from his horse, he assured the surgeon who pronounced that he had done so that it was impossible he should have sustained any injury whatever, as he was quite conscious of having exerted the “ energy of will ” as he fell.]

Dearest H―, returning from Buckinghamshire, the other day, I passed Cassiobury, the grove, the little lane leading down to Heath Farm, and Miss M―’s cottage, and the first days of our acquaintance came back to my memory. I suppose I should have liked and loved you wherever I had met you, but you come in for a share of my love and liking of Cassiobury, and the spring, the beautiful season in which we met first. I send you the long-promised lock of my hair; you will be surprised at the lightness of the shade; at least I was. It was cut from my forehead, and I think it is a nice bit; tell me that you get it safe.

Henry is staying in Buckinghamshire in all the ecstasy of a young cockney’s first sporting days. When he was quite a child and was asked what profession he intended to embrace, he replied that he would be “ a gentleman and wear leather breeches,” and I think it is the very destiny he is fitted to fill. He is the perfect picture of happiness when in his shooting-jacket and gaiters, with his gun on his shoulder and a bright day before him; and although we were obliged to return to town, my mother was unwilling to curtail his pleasure, and left him to murder pheasants and hares, and amuse himself in a manly fashion.

I did not like the place at which they were staying as much as they did, for though the country was very pretty, I had during my summer tour seen so much that surpassed it that I saw it at a disadvantage. Then, I have no fancy for gypsying, and the greatest taste for all the formal proprieties of life, and what I should call “ silver fork existence ”in general; and the inconveniences of a small country inn, without really affecting my comfort, disturb my decided preference for luxury. The principal diversion my ingenious mind discovered to while away my time with was a fiddle (an elderly one), which I routed out of a lumber closet, and from which, after due invocations to St. Cecilia, I drew such diabolical sounds as I flatter myself were never excelled by Tartini or his master, the devil himself. I must now close this, for it is tea-time. Take me with you sometimes when you go down to the sea-shore; how we will walk, and ride, and read, and talk, and swim, if I am with you next year. Goodby, dearest H―.

The play of The Jew of Aragon, the first dramatic composition of a young gentleman of the name of Wade, of whose talent my father had a very high opinion, which he trusted the success of his piece would confirm, I am sorry to say failed entirely. It was the first time and the last that I had the distress of assisting in damning a piece, and what with my usual intense nervousness in acting a new part, my anxiety for the interests of both the author and the theatre, and the sort of indignant terror with which, instead of the applause I was accustomed to, I heard the hisses which testified the distaste and disapprobation of the public and the failure of the play, I was perfectly miserable when the curtain fell, and the poor young author, as pale as a ghost, came forward to meet my father at the side scene, and bravely holding out his hand to him said, “ Never mind for me, Mr. Kemble; I’ll do better another time.” And so indeed he did; for he wrote a charming play on the old pathetic story of Griselda, in which that graceful actress, Miss Jarman, played his heroine, and my father the hero, and which had an entire and well-deserved success. I am obliged to confess that I retain no recollection whatever of the ill - fated play of The Jew of Aragon, or my own part in it, save the last scene alone; this, I recollect, was a magnificent Jewish place of worship, in which my father, who was the high priest, appeared in vestments such as I believe the Jewish priests still wear in their solemn ceremonies, and which were so closely copied from the description of Aaron’s sacred pontifical robes that I felt a sense of impropriety in such a representation (purely historical, as it was probably considered, and in no way differing from the costume accepted on the French stage in Racine’s Jewish plays). And I think it extremely likely that the failure of the piece, which had been imminent all through, found its climax in the unfavorable impression made upon the audience by this very scene, in spite of my father’s noble and picturesque appearance.

I never heard hisses on the stage before or since; and though I was very well aware that on this occasion they were addressed neither to me nor to my performance, I think if they had been the whistling of bullets (which I have also heard nearer than was pleasant) I could not have felt more frightened and furious.

Young Wade’s self-control and composure during the catastrophe of this play reminds me, by contrast, of a most ludicrous story my father used to tell of some unfortunate authoress, who, in an evil hour for herself and some friendly provincial manager, persuaded him to bring out an original drama of hers.

The audience (not a very discriminating or numerous one) were sufficiently appreciative to object extremely to the play, and large enough to make their objections noisily apparent.

The manager, in his own distress not unmindful of his poor friend, the authoress, sought her out to console her, and found her seated at the side-scene with a glass of stiff brandy and water that some commiserating friend had administered to her for her support, rocking herself piteously to and fro, and, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, uttering between sobs and sips, in utter self-abasement, her peccavi in the form of oaths and imprecations of the finest Billingsgate vernacular (all, however, addressed to herself), that would have made a dragoon shake in his shoes. The original form of which men culpa seized the worthy manager with such an irresistibly ludicrous effect that he left the poor, guilty authoress without being able to address a syllable to her, lest he should explode in peals of laughter instead of decent words of condolence.

To accompany an author or authoress (I should think especially the latter) on the first night of the representation of their piece is by no means a pleasant act of duty or friendship. I remember my mother, whose own nervous temperament certainly was extremely ill adapted for such an undertaking, describing the intolerable distress she had experienced on the occasion of the first representation of a piece called, I think, Father and Son, taken from a collection of interesting stories entitled The Canterbury Tales, and adapted to the stage by one of the Misses Lee, the sister authoresses of the Tales. The piece was very fairly successful, but my mother said that though, according to her very considerable experience, the actors were by no means more imperfect in their parts than usual on a first night, her nervous anxiety was kept almost at fever height by poor Miss Lee’s incessant running commentary of “ Ah! very pretty, no doubt — very fine, I dare say — only I never wrote a word of it! ’’

Lord Byron took the same story for the subject of his powerful play of Werner, in which Mr. Macready acted so finely, and with such great success.

I cannot imagine what possessed me in an unguarded hour to consent, as I did, to go with my friends, Messrs. Tom Taylor and Charles Reade, to see the first representation of a play of theirs called, I think, The King’s Wager, in which Charles the Second, Nell Gwynn, and the Plague were prominent characters. Accidental circumstances prevented one of the gentlemen from Coming with me, and I have often since wondered at my temerity in having placed myself in such a trying situation.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, } October 24, 1830.

DEAR H―: I have been too busy to answer your last sooner, but this hour before bedtime, the first quiet one for some time, shall be yours. I have heard nothing more of my brother, and am ignorant where he is or how engaged at present. You asked me whether I think he still retains his purpose of going into the church. I have not the least notion, but his present views and interests appear to me so incompatible with such an intention, that if he has not renounced all idea of becoming a clergyman, I think that he ought to do so. You judged rightly with respect to the impossibility of longer keeping my mother in ignorance of his absence from England. The result was pretty much what I had apprehended; but her feelings have now become somewhat calmer on the subject. We are careful, however, as much as possible, to avoid all mention of or reference to my brother in her presence, for she is in a very cruel state of anxiety about him.

With regard to H― and D― nothing has been determined; the former is to study, I believe, at the London University, and my mother is still in communication with a lady who has applied as governess to my sister.

Mrs. Harry has taken a house in London for the next six months. Her health is at present very indifferent. Harry goes out to India in the spring, and although this parting is the result of his own choice of a profession, to gratify which she has sacrificed her own feeling, yet even her unselfish paramount sense of duty cannot entirely blunt the pain of losing her son; and I believe this impending separation, together with recent annoyances, has really tended to enfeeble her health. I do not see as much of them as I should wish; for in order to be near my aunt Siddons they have taken up their quarters so far from us that it is quite a journey to and fro, and takes up a great deal of time.

I am endeavoring as much as possible to follow my studies with some regularity. I have forsworn paying and receiving morning visits; so that, when no rehearsal interferes, I get my practicing, my singing, and my reading in tolerable peace.

I have had a key of Russell Square offered me, which privilege I shall most thankfully accept. Walking regularly is, of course, essential, and though I rather dread the idea of solitarily turning round and round that dreary emblem of eternity, a circular gravel walk, over-gloomed with soot-blackened privet bushes, I am sure I ought, and I mean to do it every day for an hour. We do not dine till six, when I do not act, and when I do, I do not go to the theatre till that hour; so that from ten in the morning, when breakfast is over, I get a tolerably long day. I have obtained my father’s leave to learn drawing and German, and as soon as our house is a little more comfortably settled, I shall begin both. I do not know whether I have the least talent for drawing, but I have so strong a desire to possess that accomplishment that I think, by the help of a good master and patience and hard work, I must succeed to some decent degree. I wish to provide myself with every possible resource against the engrossing excitement of my profession while I remain in it, and to fill its place whenever I leave it, or it leaves me; all my occupations are with that view and to that end.

My father has promised me to speak to Mr. Murray about publishing my play and my verses. I am anxious for this for several reasons, some of which I believe I mentioned to you; and to these I have since added a great wish to have some good prints I possess framed, for my little room, and I should not scruple to apply part of the money so earned to that purpose. You asked me which is my room. You remember the bathroom, next to what was my uncle John’s bedroom, on the third floor; the room above that my mother has fitted up beautifully for me, and I inhabit it all day long with great complacency and a sort of comfortable, Alexander Selkirk feeling. And this suggests a question which has seldom been out of my mind, and which I wish to recall to yours. When do you intend to come and see me? I can offer you a nest on the fourth story, which is excellent for your health, as free a circulation of air as a London lodging can well afford, and as fine a combination of chimney - pots as even your love of the picturesque could desire.

Dear H―, will you not come and pass a month with us? Now stop a bit, and I will point out to you one by one the inducements to and advantages of such a step. In the first place, my father and mother both request and wish it, and you know how truly happy it would make me. Your own people can well spare you for a month, and I am sure will be the more inclined to do so from the consideration that change of air and scene will be good for you, and that, though your stock of original ideas is certainly extraordinary, yet you cannot be expected to go on forever, like a spider, existing mentally in the midst of your own weavings, without every now and then recruiting your strength and taking in a new supply of material.

You shall come to London, that huge mass of matter for thought and observation, and to me, in whom you find so interesting an epitome of all the moods, tenses, and conjugations of every regular and irregular form of “to do, to be, and to suffer; ” and when you have been sufficiently smoked, fogged, astonished, and edified, you shall return home with one infallible result of your stay with us — increased value for a peaceful life, quiet companions, a wide sea-view, and potatoes roasted in their skins; not but what you shall have the last-mentioned luxury here, if you will but come.

Your taste for chimney - pots I have already promised to gratify; your predilection for heavy paste puddings and pies I dare say the cook will do her best to indulge; as to your Theseus-like musical mania, I fear I cannot, promise you the yelping matins of a pack of hounds, but A―and I will exert ourselves to supply that deficiency. What can a human being do more? You shall sit by yourself, when you don’t want company; you shall have mine when you do; you shall stay at home the nights I act, or go to see me if you wish to do so, or, what I should like better, sit with me in a comfortable dressing - room while I am not on the stage, and without me while I am.

Now, dear H―, I wish this very much, but promise to bear your answer reasonably well; I depend upon your indulging me if you can, and shall try not to behave ill if you don’t; so do me justice, and do not give way to your shyness and habits of retirement. I want you to come here before the 20th of November, and then I will let you go in time to be at home for Christmas. So now my cause is in your hands —avisezvous.

I wonder whether you have heard that my father has been threshing the editor of the Age newspaper, who, it seems, took offense at my father’s not appearing on sufficiently familiar terms with him somewhere or other when they met, in revenge for which “coldness” (as he styles it) he has not ceased for the last six months abusing us, every week, in his paper. From what I hear I was the especial mark of his malice; of course I need not tell you that, knowing the character of this publication, I should never have looked at it, and the circumstance of my name appearing in its columns would hardly have been an inducement to me to do so. I knew nothing, therefore, of my own injuries, but heard general expressions of indignation against Mr. Westmacott, and saw that my father was extremely exasperated upon the subject. The other night they were all going to the play, and pressed me very much to go too, but I had something I wished to write, and remained at home. On their return my father appeared to me much excited, and I was informed that having unluckily come across Mr. Westmacott, his wrath had got the better of his self-command, and he had bestowed a severe beating upon that individual. I could not help looking very grave at this; for though I should have been very well satisfied if it could have rained a good threshing upon Mr. Westmacott from the sky, yet, as I do not approve of returning injuries by injuries,

I could not rejoice that my father had done so. I suppose he saw that I had no great satisfaction in the event, for he said, “ The law affords no redress against such attacks as this paper makes on people, and I thought it time to take justice in my own hands when my daughter is insulted.” He then repeated some of the language made use of with reference to me in The Age, and I could not help blushing with indignation to my fingers’ ends.

Perhaps, under the circumstances, it is not surprising that my father has done what he has, but I think I should have admired him more if he had not. Mr. Westmacott means to bring an action against him, and I am afraid he will have to pay dearly for his momentary indulgence of temper.

I must have done writing, though I had a good deal more to say. God bless you, dear. If you answer this letter directly, I will write you a better, next time.

Ever yours, F. A. K.

The majority of parents — mothers, I believe I ought to say — err in one or other excess with regard to their children. Love either blinds them absolutely to their defects, or makes them so terribly alive to them as to exaggerate every imperfection. It is hard to say which of the errors is most injurious in its effects. I suppose according as the temperament is desponding and diffident, or sanguine and self-sufficient, the one system or the other is likely to do most harm.

My mother’s intensely nervous organization, acute perceptions, and exacting taste made her in everything most keenly alive to our faults and deficiencies. The unsparing severity of the sole reply or comment she ever vouchsafed to our stupidity, want of sense, or want of observation, — " I hate a fool,” —has remained almost like a cut with a lash across my memory. Her wincing sensitiveness of ear made it all but impossible for me to practice either the piano or singing within hearing of her exclamations of impatient anguish at my false chords and flat intonations; and I suppose nothing but my sister’s unquenchable musical genius would have sustained her naturally timid, sensitive disposition under such discipline.

Two of our family, my eldest brother and myself, were endowed with such robust self - esteem and elastic conceit as not only defied repression but, unfortunately for us, could never be effectually snubbed; with my sister and my younger brother the case was entirely different, and encouragement was rather what they required. How well it is for the best and wisest, as well as the least good and least wise, of trainers of youth, that God is above all. I do not myself understand the love that blinds one to the defects of those dear to one; their faults are part of themselves, without which they could not be themselves, no more to be denied or dissembled, it seems to me, than the color of their eyes or hair. I do not feel the scruple which I observe in others, in alluding to the failings of those they love. The mingled good and evil qualities in my friends make up their individual identity, and neither from myself, nor from them, nor from others does it ever occur to me that half that identity should or could be concealed. I could as soon imagine them without their arms or their legs as without their peculiar moral characteristics, and could no more think of them without their faults than without their virtues.

Many were the pleasant hours, in spite of my misgivings, that I passed with a book in my hand, mechanically pacing the gravel walks of Russell Square. Certain readings of Shakespeare’s plays, Othello and Macbeth especially, in lonely absorption of spirit, I associate forever with that place. I remember, too, reading at my father’s request, during those peripatetic exercises, two plays written by Sheil for his amiable countrywoman, Miss O’Neill, in which she won deserved laurels: Evadne or the Statue, and The Apostate. I never had the pleasure of seeing Miss O'Neill act; but the impression left on my mind by those plays was that her abilities must have been very great to have given them the effect and success they had. I do not think, however, that their popularity survived her performance of them; I have never seen them or heard of their being revived since her day. As for me, as usual, of course, my reply to my father was a disconsolate “I am sure I can do nothing with them.”

My friend H―S―, in coming to us in Russell Street, came to a house that had been almost a home to her and her brother when they were children, in the life of my uncle and Mrs. John Kemble, by whom they were regarded with great affection, and whom they visited and stayed with as if they had been young relations of their own.

My hope of learning German and drawing was frustrated by the engrossing calls of my theatrical occupations. The first study was reserved for a long-subsequent season, when I had recourse to it as a temporary distraction in perplexity and sorrow, from which I endeavored to find relief in some sustained intellectual effort; and I mastered it sufficiently to translate without difficulty Schiller’s Mary Stuart and some of his minor poems.

As for drawing, that I have once or twice tried to accomplish, but the circumstances of my unsettled and restless life have been unfavorable for any steady effort to follow it up, and I have got no further yet than a passionate desire to know how to draw. If (as I sometimes imagine) in a future existence undeveloped capacities and persistent yearnings for all kinds of good may find expansion and exercise, and not only our moral but also our intellectual being put forth new powers and achieve progress in new directions, then in some of the successive heavens to which, perhaps, I may be allowed to climb (if to any) I shall be a painter of pictures; a mere idea that suggests a heavenly state of long-desired capacity, to possess which, here on earth, I would give at once the finger of either hand least indispensable to an artist. Of the two pursuits, a painter’s or a musician’s, considered not as arts but as accomplishments merely, the former appears to me infinitely more desirable, for a woman, than the latter far more frequently cultivated one. The one is a sedative, the other an acute stimulant to the nervous system. The one is a perfectly independent and always to be commanded occupation; the other imperatively demands an instrument, utters an audible challenge to attention, and must either command solitude or disturb any society not inclined to become an audience. The one cultivates habits of careful, accurate observation of nature, and requires patient and precise labor in reproducing her models; the other appeals powerfully to the imagination and emotions, and charms almost in proportion as it excites its votaries. With regard to natural aptitude, the most musical of nations—the German— shows by the impartial training of its common schools how universal it considers a certain degree of musical capacity.

I am persuaded that to the same degree (of course I am not speaking of that high order of endowment which is always exceptional) the artistic faculty exists in every child. I do not think there are more inaccurate eyes than imperfect ears, or heavy fingers for the pencil and the brush than for the strings or keys of instruments, nor do I suppose a defective sense of color more common than a defective sense of sound. And considering what time and money are lavished in cultivating very inadequately a naturally poor musical endowment among English and American girls, the frequent neglect of the simplest elementary training in drawing can hardly be justified merely upon the ground of deficient natural capacity. Up to a certain point every child can be taught music and drawing. But it is curious how much more general among us now unmusical English the one capacity is considered to be than the other, which I believe to be possessed in at least the same degree and cultivable to the same extent in quite as many individuals. I have used the term “now unmusical English ” because formerly we were decidedly a musical nation. Our musical literature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the glees, madrigals, rounds, and catches, requiring considerable skill and familiarly performed formerly in the countryhouses and home circles of our gentry, and the noble church music of our cathedral choirs, bear witness to a high musical inspiration, and thorough musical training in their composers and executants.

We seem to have lost this vein of original national music; the Lancashire weavers and spinners are still good choristers, but among the German half of our common Teutonic race, the real feeling for and knowledge of music continues to flourish, while with the Anglo-Saxons of Britain and America it has dwindled and decayed.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, } November 8, 1830.

DEAREST H―: I received your note, for I cannot honor the contents of your last with the name of a letter (whatever title the shape and quantity of the paper it was written on may claim), together with Mrs. K―’s. You know I was glad to get the first, and will guess I was pleased with her kindness in remembering and writing to me. I shall acknowledge the obligation to herself, however; but what pleased me best in her letter was that she said she thought you would come to us.

I have made up my mind to let you make up yours, without urging you further upon the subject; but I must reply to one thing. You say to me, could you bring with you a strip of sea-shore, a corner of blue sky, or half a dozen waves, you would not hesitate. Allow me to say that whereas by the sea-side or under a bright sky your society enhances the pleasure derived from them, I now desire it (not having these) as delightful in itself, increasing my enjoyment in the beauties of nature, and compensating for their absence. But I have done; only if Mrs. K―has held out a false hope to me, she is ferocious and atrocious, and that is all, and so pray tell her.

I had left myself so little room to tell you about this disagreeable business of the Age newspaper, in my last, that I thought what I said of it would be almost unintelligible to you. I do not really deserve the sympathy you express for my feelings in the matter, for partly from being totally ignorant of the nature and extent of my injuries — having never, of course, read a line of that scurrilous newspaper — and partly from my indifference to everything that is said about me, I really have felt no annoyance or distress on the subject, beyond, as I told you, one moment’s feminine indignation at a coarse expression which was repeated to me, but which in strict truth did not and could not apply to me; and considerable regret that my father should have touched Mr. Westmacott even with a stick, or a “ pair of tongs.” That individual intends bringing a suit for damages, which makes me very anxious to have my play and rhymes published, if I can get anything for them, as I think the profits derived from my “ scribbles ” (as good Queen Anne called her letters) would be better bestowed in paying for that little ebullition of my father’s temper than in decorating my tiny sanctum. What does my poor, dear father expect, but that I shall be bespattered if I am to live on the highway?

Mr. Murray has been kind enough to say he will publish my very original compositions, and I am preparing them for him. I am sorry to say I have heard nothing from my brother; of him I have heard, for his whereabout is known and talked of, so much so, indeed, that my father says further concealment is at once useless and ridiculous. I may therefore now tell you that he is at this moment in Spain, trying to levy troops for the cause of the constitutionalists. I have by this time grown familiar with the idea, but you can conceive my utter surprise and dismay when I received his letter informing me that, instead of being quietly in Norfolk, preparing himself for ordination, he was in Gibraltar, acting in some capacity of trust and secrecy for Torrijos and the Spanish patriots. I need not tell you, dearest H―, how much I regret this, because you will know how deeply I must disapprove of it. I might have thought any young man Quixotic who thus mistook a restless, turbulent spirit, eager to embrace a quarrel not his own, for patriotism and self-devotion to a sacred cause; but in my brother, who had professed aims and purposes so opposed to tumult and war and bloodshed, it seems to me a subject of much more serious regret. Heaven only knows what plans he has formed for the future! His present situation affords anxiety enough to warrant our not looking further in anticipation of vexation, but even if the present is regarded with the best hope of success in his undertaking, the natural consideration must be, as far as he is concerned, “ What follows ? ” It is rather a melancholy consideration that such abilities should be wasted and misapplied. The public reports of the affairs of Spain and the progress of the constitutionalists are so very various and contradictory that I know not what to believe, nor am I indeed very eager in observing or reading them; his safety is the only interest I feel in their expedition, and while praying earnestly for it I endeavor to remember that he is in the keeping of that Providence which does not measure its care of us by our deservings. Our own country is in a perilous state of excitement, and these troubled times make politicians of us all. Of course the papers will have informed you of the risings in Kent and Sussex; London itself is in an unquiet state that suggests the heaving of a volcano before an eruption. It is said the Duke of Wellington must resign; I am ignorant, but it appears to me that whenever he does it will be a bad day’s work for England. The alarm and anxiety of the aristocracy is extreme, and exhibits itself, even as I have had opportunity of observing in society, in the half-angry, half-frightened tone of their comments on public events. If one did not sympathize with their apprehensions, their mode of expressing them would sometimes be amusing.

The aspect of public affairs is injurious to the theatre, and these graver interests thin our houses while they crowd the houses of Parliament. However, when we played The Provoked Husband before the king and queen the other night, the theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling, and presented a most beautiful coup d’œil. I have just come out in Mrs. Haller. It seems to have pleased the people very much. I need not tell you how much I dislike the play; it is the quintessence of trashy sentimentalism; but our audiences cry and sob at it till we can hardly hear ourselves speak on the stage, and the public in general rejoices in what the servant-maids call “ something deep.” My father acts the Stranger with me, which makes it very trying to my nerves, as I mix up all my own personal feelings for him with my acting, and the sight of his anguish and sense of his displeasure is really very dreadful to me, though it is only all about “stuff and nonsense ” after all.

I must leave off writing; I am excruciated with the toothache, which has tormented me without respite all day. I will inclose a line to Mrs. K―, which I will beg you to convey to her.

With kindest love to all your circle, believe me ever yours, F. A. K.

I inclose you the lines you asked me for; they are from Southey’s Roderick; I am fond of them: —

“ If ye would know

Thank you for your delicious French comic song; you should come to London to hear how admirably I sing it.

DEAR MRS. K―: You have asked H― a question in your letter to her which I feel myself quite as competent to answer as she is, and as it particularly regards me, perhaps you will not be offended or disappointed at my replying to it in propria persona. You ask H― how I think and feel at this moment with reference to my first work’s becoming known to the public. Much as I did soon after I had written it, and ever since, while it has lain in my desk. The extreme delight and self-satisfaction I felt for a day or two after the completion of my play very soon gave way to a more sober and no doubt truer estimate of my performance, and from the opinion I then came to of its defects and merits I do not think the approbation or censure of others would now move me. I have been more than liberally endowed by nature with self-esteem, which, fortunately for me, is tolerably balanced by a pretty steady conscientiousness (you see I speak to you in the phrenological language of our common friend, Mr. Combe), and, however high my estimate of my own powers may be, I think my perception of my deficiencies keeps pace with it. I am not easily influenced by any standard of right but my own, but I labor to make and keep that as just a one as I can. This is a wonderful piece of egotism, but your question about me to H―was put much in the fashion of one engaged in experimental science of mental philosophy, and I have answered it instead of letting her do so, and as candidly as I am able, without any view but that of assisting your observation and study of human nature in general by my individual “ manifestations.” Your son was kind enough to procure me an entrance to the House of Commons last night, where I slept profoundly until roused by the most unearthly voice I ever heard, pouring forth with wonderful rapidity and fire a shrill stream of brogue. It was Sheil, whom I am glad to have heard, though he did not speak upon any subject of particular interest.¹

I must not pass the narrow bounds of my paper, which just equals my allowance of time. I am glad you do not altogether forget me, and am ever truly yours,

F. K.

Mrs. K―was a Miss Dawson, sister of the Right Honorable George Dawson, and the wife of an eminent member of the Irish bar. She was a woman of great mental cultivation and unusual information upon subjects which are generally little interesting to women. She was a passionate partisan of Owen the philanthropist and Combe the phrenologist, and entertained the most sanguine hopes of the regeneration of the whole civilized world through the means of the theories of these benevolent reformers. ExceptQueen Elizabeth, of glorious memory, I do not think a woman can have existed who combined the love of things futile and serious to the same degree as Mrs. K―. Her feminine taste for fashionable society and the frivolities of dress, together with her sober and solid studies of the gravest sort and her devotion to the speculations of her friends Owen and Combe, constituted a rare union of contrasts. She was a remarkable instance of the combination exemplified by more than one eminent person of her sex, of a capacity for serious study, solid acquirements, and enlightened and liberal views upon the most important subjects, with a decided inclination for those more trifling pursuits supposed to be the paramount interests of the female mind. She was the dear friend of my dear friend Miss S―, and corresponded with her upon the great subject of social progress with a perfect enthusiasm of theoretical reform.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, } November 14 th.

DEAREST H―: Thank you a thousand times for your kindness in consenting to come to us. We are all very happy in the hope of having you, nor need you be for a moment nervous or uncomfortable from the idea that we shall receive or treat you otherwise than as one of ourselves. I have left my mother and my aunt in the room which is to be yours, devising and arranging matters for you. It is a very small roost, dear H―, but it is the only spare room in our house, and although it is three stories up, it is next to mine, and I hope good neighborhood will atone for some deficiencies. With regard to interfering with the routine or occupations of the family, they are of a nature which, fortunately for your scruples, renders that impossible. There is but one thing in your letter which rather distressed me: you allude to the inconveniences of a woman traveling in mail-coaches in December, and I almost felt, when I read the sentence, what my aunt Dall told me after I had requested you to come to us now, that it was a want of consideration in me to have invited you at so ungenial a season for traveling. I had one reason for doing so which I hope will excuse the apparent selfishness of the arrangement. Towards the end of the spring I shall be leaving town, I hope to come nearer your land, and the beginning of our spring is seldom much more mild and inviting or propitious for traveling than the winter itself. Then, too, the early spring is the time when our engagements are unavoidably very numerous; to decline going into society is not in my power, and to drag you to my balls (which I love dearly) would, I think, scarce be a pleasure to you (whom I love more), and to go to them when I might be with you would he to run the risk of destroying my taste for the only form of intercourse with my fellow-creatures which is not at. present irksome to me. Think, dear H―, if ceasing to dance I should cease to care for universal humanity, — indeed, take to hating it, and become an absolute misanthropist! What a risk! So, you see, I really did for the best, though “bad is the best,” as is too often the case in this best of all possible worlds. I feel very deeply the effort you are making in coming to us, dearest H―, and I trust that, what with the warmth of our reception and the prospect we have of continued mild weather, you will not have reason to reproach me very bitterly for my selfish barbarity.

I have heard nothing more of or from John, but the newspaper reports of the proceedings are rather more favorable than they have been, though I fear one cannot place much reliance on them. I do not know how the papers you see speak of the aspect of affairs in England at this moment; the general feeling seems to be one of relief, and that, whatever apprehensions may have been entertained for the tranquillity of the country, the storm has blown over for the present. Everything is quiet again in London and promises to remain so, and there seems to be a sort of “ drawing of a long breath” sensation in the state of the public mind, though I cannot myself help thinking not only that we have been, but that we still are, on the eve of some great crisis. There are reports without end that the Duke of Wellington is to go out, and new ministries are hatched daily in every political imagination in this big, busy town; but from a conversation I heard the other morning among persons intimately connected with the Duke of Wellington, there seems to be quite as little truth in all these confident assertions as is usual in such reports. The king has expressed the most unbounded confidence in him, and it was asserted that the duke had said that he would not resign, for the only cause of his unpopularity is that while he is at the head of the government the mob will never be able to get the upper hand. To the suppressing of everything like mob supremacy I suppose we should all cry “ amen,” for power wielded by ignorance must always be violent, ill-judged, and despotic, in proportion as it is new, strange, and exciting to it.

Mrs. Haller is going on very well; it is well spoken of, I am told, and upon the whole it seems to have done me credit, though I am surprised it has, for there is nothing in the part that gives me the least satisfaction. My next character, I hear, is to be of a very different order of frailty—Calista, in The Fair Penitent. However odious both play and part are, there are powerful situations in it, and many opportunities for fine acting, but I am afraid I am quite unequal to such a turpissime termagant, with whom my aunt did such tremendous things.

My performance of The Fair Penitent was entirely ineffective, and did neither me nor the theatre any service; the play itself is a feeble adaptation of Massinger’s powerful drama of The Fatal Dowry, and, as generally happens with such attempts to fit our old plays to our modern stage, the fundamentally objectionable nature of the story could not be reformed without much of the vigorous and terrible effect of the original treatment evaporating in the refining process. Mr. Macready revived Massinger’s fine play with considerable success, but both the matter and the manner of our dramatic ancestors is too robust for the audiences of our day, wbo nevertheless will go and see Diane de Lys, by a French company of actors, without wincing. Of Mrs. Siddons’s Mrs. Haller, one of her admirers once told me that her majestic and imposing person, and the commanding character of her beauty, militated against her effect in the part. “ No man, alive or dead,” said he, “ would have dared to take a liberty with her; wicked she might be, but weak she could not be, and when she told the story of her ill-conduct in the play, nobody believed her.” While another of her devotees, speaking of The Fair Penitent, said that it was worth sitting out the piece for her scene with Romont alone, and to see “ such a splendid animal in such a magnificent rage.”

Frances Anne Kemble.