Records of a Girlhood

by Fanny Kemble

A NEW YEAR, 1832.

January 1st, Sunday.—When I came down my father wished me a happy New Year, and I am sure we were both thinking of the same thing, and neither of us felt happy.

Thursday 5th.— ... Wrote all the afternoon. Mr. Byng dined with us and stayed till one o'clock, having reduced my mother to silence, and my father to sleep, John to snuff, and Henry and I to playing (sotto voce) "What's my thought like?" to keep ourselves from tumbling off the perch.

Monday, 9th.—Rehearsed "Romeo and Juliet" with all my heart. Oh, light, life, truth, and lovely poetry! I sat on the cold stage, that I might hear them even mumble over their parts as they do. My father seemed to me very weak, and not by any means fit for his work to-night. After dinner went over my part again, and went to the theater at half past five. My new dress was very handsome, though rather burly, in spite of which Dall said it made me look taller, so its rather burliness didn't matter. John Mason played Romeo for the first time; he was beautifully dressed, and looked very well; he acted tolerably well, too. He has a good deal of energy and spirit, but wants feeling and refinement; his voice, unfortunately, is very unpleasant, wiry, harsh, and monotonous; of the last defect he may cure by practice. I came to the side scene just as my father was going on, to hear his reception; it was very great, a perfect thunder of applause; it made the tears start into my eyes. Poor father! They received me with infinite demonstrations of kindness too. I thought I acted very well; I am sure I played the balcony scene well. When the blood keeps rushing up into one's cheeks and neck while one is speaking, I wonder if that ought to be called acting. To be sure, Hamlet's player's face turned pale for Hecuba; so Shakespeare thought acting might make one change color.

I cannot get over the sensibleness of Henry Greville, who was in the pit again to-night. Upon my word! he deserves to see good acting. After the play dear William and Mary Harness came home to supper with us, and we all got into a long discussion about Shakespeare's character, John maintaining that his views of life were gloomy and that he must himself have been an unhappy man. I don't believe a bit of it; no one, I suppose, ever thinks this world, and the life we live in it, absolutely pleasant or good, but the poet's ken, which is as an angel's compared with that of other men, must see more good and beauty, as well as more evil and ugliness, than his short-sighted fellows, and the better elements predominating over the worse (as they do, else the world would fall asunder). The man who takes so wide a view as Shakespeare, whatever his judgment of parts, must, upon the whole, pronounce the whole good rather than bad, and rejoice accordingly. I was too tired and sleepy to talk, or even to listen, much.

Wednesday, 11th.— ... Lady Charlotte Greville and General Alaba called. I am always grateful to him for the beautiful copy of Schlegel's "Dramatic Lectures" which he gave me. Lady Charlotte was all curiosity and anxiety about Lord Francis' play. I am afraid the newspapers may not be much inclined to be good-natured about it. I hope he does not care for what may be said of it. In the evening, the boys went to the theater, and I stayed at home, industriously copying "The Star of Seville" till bedtime.

Thursday, 12th.—To the theater to rehearsal, after which I drove to Hayter's (the painter), taking him my bracelets to copy, and permission to apply to the theater wardrobe for any drapery that may suit his purpose. I saw a likeness of Mrs. Norton he is just finishing; very like her indeed, but not her handsomest look. I think it had a slight, curious resemblance to some of the things that have been done of me. I saw a very clever picture of all the Fitzclarences, either by himself or his brother, George Hayter. The women are very prettily grouped, and look picturesque enough; the modern man's dress is an abominable object, of art or nature, and Lord Munster's costume, holding, as he does, the very middle of the canvas, is monstrous (which I don't mean for a rudeness, but a pun). The Right Reverend Father in God (A.F.) is laughably like. They have insisted on having a portrait of their mother introduced in the room in which they are sitting, which seems to me better feeling than taste. Their royal father is absent. I worked at "The Star of Seville" till I went to the theater; as I get nearer the end, I get as eager as a race-horse when in sight of the goal.... The piece was "The School for Scandal;" the house was very full. I did not play well; I spoke too fast, and perceived it, and could not make myself speak slower—an unpleasant sort of nightmare sensation; besides, I was flat, and dull, and pointless—in short, bad was the sum total. How well Ward plays Joseph Surface! The audience were delightful; I never heard such pleasant shouts of laughter.... My father says perhaps they will bring out "The Star of Seville," which notion sometimes brings back my old girlish desire for "fame." Every now and then I feel quite proud at the idea of acting in a play of my own at two and twenty, and then I look again at my "good works," this precious play, and it seems to be no better than "filthy rags." But perhaps I may do better hereafter. Hereafter! Oh dear! how many things are better than doing even the best in this kind! how many things must be better than real fame! but if one has none of those, fame might, perhaps, be pleasant. No actor's fame, or rather celebrity, or rather notoriety, would satisfy me; that is the shadow of a cloud, the echo of a sound, the memory of a dream, nothing come of nothing. The finest actor is but a good translator of another man's work; he does somebody else's thought into action, but he creates nothing, and that seems to me the test of genius, after all.

Friday.—At eleven to the theater to rehearse "Katharine of Cleves." ... We all went to the theater to see "Rob Roy," and I was sorry that I did, for it gave me such a home-sick longing for Edinburgh, and the lovely sea-shore out by Cramond, and the sunny coast of Fife. How all my delightful, girlish, solitary rambles came back to me! Why do such pleasant times ever pass? or why do they ever come? The Scotch airs set me crying with all the recollections they awakened. In spite, moreover, of my knowing every plank and pulley, and scene-shifter and carpenter behind those scenes, here was I crying at this Scotch melodrama, feeling my heart puff out my chest for "Rob Roy," though Mr Ward is, alas! my acquaintance, and I know when he leaves the stage he goes and laughs and takes snuff in the green room. How I did cry at the Coronach and Helen Macgregor, though I know Mrs. Lovell is thinking of her baby, and the chorus-singers of their suppers. How I did long to see Loch Lomond and its broad, deep, calm waters once more, and those lovely green hills, and the fir forests so fragrant in the sun, and that dark mountain well, Loch Long, with its rocky cliffs along whose dizzy edge I used to dream I was running in a whirlwind; the little bays where the sun touched the water as it soaked into cushions of thick, starry moss, and the great tufts of purple heather all vibrating with tawny bees! Beautiful wilderness! how glad I am I have once seen it, and can never forget it; nor the broad, crisping Clyde, with its blossoming bean-fields, its jagged rocks and precipices, its gray cliffs and waving woods, and the mountain streams of clear, bright, fairy water, rushing and rejoicing down between the hills to fling themselves into its bosom; and Dumbarton Castle, with its snowy roses of Stuart memory! How glad I am that I have seen it all, if I should never see it again! And "Rob Roy" brought all this and ever so much more to my mind. If I had been a mountaineer, how I should have loved my land! I wish I had some blood-right to love Scotland as I do. Unfortunately, all these associations did not reconcile me to the cockney-Scotch of our Covent Garden actors, and Mackay's Bailie Nicol Jarvie was not the least tender of my reminiscences. [It was at a public dinner in Edinburgh, at which Walter Scott and Mackay were guests, that, in referring to the admirable impersonation of the Bailie, Scott's habitual caution with regard to the authorship of the Waverley Novels for a moment lost its balance, and in his warm commendation of the great comedian's performances a sentence escaped him which appeared conclusive to many of those present, if they were still in doubt upon the subject, that he was their writer.] Miss Inveraretie was a cruel Diana, but who would not be?...

Saturday, 14th.—I rode at two with my father. Passed Tyrone Power; what a clever, pleasant man he is; Count d'Orsay joined us; he was riding a most beautiful mare; and then James Macdonald, cum multus aliis, and I was quite dead, and almost cross, with cold.... After dinner I came up to my room, and set to work like a little galley slave, and by tea-time I had finished my play. "Oh, joy forever! my task is done!" I came down rather tipsy, and proclaimed my achievement. After tea I began copying the last act, but my father desired me to read it to them; so, at about half-past nine, I began. My mother cried much; what a nice woman she is! My father, Dall, and John agreed that it was beautiful, though I believe the two first excellent judges were fast asleep during the latter part of the reading, which was perhaps why they liked it so much. At the end my mother said to me, "I am proud of you, my dear;" and so I have my reward. After a little congratulatory conversation, I came to bed at two o'clock, and slept before my head touched the pillow. So now that is finished, and I am glad it is finished. Is it as good as a second piece of work ought to be? I cannot tell. I think so differently of it at different times that I cannot trust my own judgment. I will begin something else as soon as possible. I wonder why nowadays we make all our tragedies foreign? Romantic, historical, knightly England had people and manners once picturesque and poetical enough to serve her play-writers' turn, though Shakespeare always took his stories, though not his histories, from abroad; but people live tragedies and comedies everywhere and all time. I think by and by I will write an English tragedy. [I little thought then that I should write a play whose miserable story was of my own day, and call it "An English Tragedy.">[

Sunday, 15th.— ... In the afternoon hosts of people called; among others Lady Dacre, who stayed a long time, and wants us to go to her on Thursday. Copied "The Star of Seville" all the evening. At ten dear Mr. Harness came in, and stayed till twelve.

Monday, 16th.—Rehearsed "Katharine of Cleves" at eleven, but as Lord Francis did not come till twelve we had to begin it again, and kept at it until two. The actors seem frightened about it. Mr. Warde quakes about the pinching (an incident in the play taken, I suppose, from Ruthven's proceeding toward Mary Stewart at Lochleven). I am only afraid I cannot do anything with my part; it is a sort of melodramatic, pantomimic part that I have no capacity for. The fact is, that neither in the first nor last scenes are my legs long enough to do justice to this lady. The Douglas woman who barred the door with her arm to save King James's life must have been a strapping lass, as well a heroine in spirit. I am not tall enough for such feats of arms. Copied my play till time to go to the theater. My aunt Victoire came to my dressing-room just as I was going on, and persuaded dear Dall, who has never once seen me act, to go into the front of the house. She came back very soon in a state of great excitement and distress, saying she could not bear it. How odd that seems! Dear old Dall! she cannot bear seeing me make-believe miserable. The house was very good, and I played fairly well.

Tuesday, 17th.—Went to my mother's room before she was down, with Henry. It is her birthday, and I carried her the black velvet dress I have got for her, with which she seemed much pleased. Went to rehearsal at twelve. Lord and Lady Francis were there, and we acted the whole play, of course, to please them, so that I was half dead at the end of the rehearsal. They want us to go to Lady Charlotte's (Greville) to-morrow. My father said we would if we were all well and in spirits (i.e., if the play was not damped).... I wonder how my dear old Newhaven fish-wife does. "Eh! gude gracious, ma'am, it's yer ain sel come back again!" Poor body! I believe I love the very east wind that blows over the streets of Edinburgh.... After dinner Mrs. Jameson's beautiful toy-likeness of me helped off the time delightfully till the gentlemen came up, and then helped it off delightfully till everybody went away. What a misfortune it is to have a broken nose, like poor dear Thackeray! He would have been positively handsome, and is positively ugly in consequence of it. John and his friend Venables broke the bridge of Thackeray's nose when they were schoolboys playing together. What a mishap to befall a young lad just beginning life! [I suppose my friend Thackeray's injury was one that did not admit a surgical remedy, but my father, late in life, fell down while skating, and broke the bridge of his nose, and Liston, the eminent surgeon, urged him extremely to let him raise it—"build it again," as he used to say. My father, however, declined the operation, and not only remained with his handsome nose disfigured, but suffered a much greater inconvenience, which Liston had predicted—very aggravated deafness in old age, from the stopping of the passages in the nose, which helped to transmit sound to the brain.] After all, I suppose, it does not much signify to a man whether he is ugly or not. Wilkes, who was pre-eminently so, but brilliantly agreeable, used always to say that he was only half an hour behindhand with the handsomest man in England.

Wednesday, 18th.—Went to the theater to rehearse "Katharine of Cleves;" we were kept at it till half-past two. Drove home through the park. The day was beautiful, but my poor father could not get released from that hateful theater, and went without his ride.... I had not felt at all nervous about to-night till the carriage came to the door, and then I turned quite faint and sick with fright. At the theater found Madame le Beau (the forewoman of the great fashionable French milliner, Madame Dévy, by whom all my dresses were made) waiting for me. All was in darkness in my dressing-room; neither Mrs. Mitchell nor Jane were come (my two servants, or dressers, as they are called at the theater). Presently in scuttled the former, puffing, and whimpering apologies, and presently the room was filled with the pleasant incense of eight candles that she lighted, and blew out and relighted, and wondered that we didn't enjoy the operation. Then Jane bounced breathless in, and made our discomfort perfect. I sat speechless, terrified, and disconsolate. My fright was increasing every instant, and by the time I was dressed I shook like an aspen leaf from head to foot, and was as sick as no heart could desire. My dresses were most beautiful, and fitted me to perfection. The house was very fine. My poor dear father, who was as perfect in his part as possible this morning, did not speak three words without prompting; he was so nervous and anxious about the success of the piece that his own part was driven literally out of his head. I never saw anything so curious. To be sure, his illness has shattered him very much, and all the worry he has had this week has not mended matters. However, the play went admirably, and was entirely successful, to assist which result I thought I should have broken a blood-vessel in the last scene, the exertion was so tremendous. My voice was weak with nervousness and excitement, and at last I could hardly utter a word audibly. I almost broke my arm, too, in good earnest, with those horrible iron stanchions. However, it did be over at last, and "all's well that ends well." I was so tired that I could scarcely stand; my mother came down from her box and seemed much pleased with me. She went to my father's room to see if I might not go home instead of to Lady Charlotte's, but he seemed to think it would please them if we made the effort of going for a few minutes; and so I dressed and set off, and there we found a regular "swarry," instead of something to eat and drink, and a chair to sit upon in peace and quiet. There was a room full of all the fine folks in London; very few chairs, no peace and quiet, and heaps of acquaintance to talk to.... All the London world that is in London. Lord and Lady Francis took their success very composedly. I don't think they would have cared much if the play had failed. Henry Greville seemed to be much more interested for them than they for themselves, and discussed it all for a long time with me. I liked him very much.... At long last I got home, and had some supper, but what with fatigue and nervousness, and it—i.e., the supper—so late, I had a most wretched night, and kept dreaming I was out in my part and jumping up in bed, and all sorts of agonies. What a life! I don't steal my money, I'm sure.

Thursday, 19th.— ... Henry and I rode in the park, and though the day was detestable, it did me good. As we were walking the horses round by Kensington Gardens, Lord John Russell, peering out of voluminous wrappers, joined us. Certainly that small, sharp-visaged gentleman does not give much outward and visible sign of the inward and spiritual power he possesses and wields over this realm of England just now. His bodily presence might almost be described as St. Paul's. This turner inside out and upside down of our body, social and political, this hero of reform, one of the ablest men in England—I suppose in Europe—he rode with us for a long time, and I thought how H—— would have envied me this conversation with her idol.... In the evening, at the theater, though I had gone over my part before going there, for the first time in my play-house experience I was out on the stage. I stopped short in the middle of one of my speeches, thinking I had finished it, whereas I had not given Mr. Warde the cue he was to reply to. How disgraceful!... After the play, my mother called for us in the carriage, and we went to Lady Dacre's, and had a pleasant party enough.... C—— G—— was there, with her mother (the clever and accomplished authoress of several so-called fashionable novels, which had great popularity in their day). Miss G——, now Lady E—— T——, used to be called by us "la Dame Blanche," on account of the dazzling fairness of her complexion. She was very brilliant and amusing, and I remember her saying to one of her admirers one evening, when her snowy neck and shoulders were shining in all the unveiled beauty of full dress, "Oh, go away, P——, you tan me." (The gentleman had a shock head of fiery-red hair.)

Friday.— ... I am horribly fagged, and after dinner fell fast asleep in my chair. At the theater, in the evening, the house was remarkably good for a "second night," and the play went off very well.... My voice was much better to-night, though it cracked once most awfully in the last scene, from fatigue.... I think Lord Francis, or the management, or somebody ought to pay me for the bruises and thumps I get in this new play. One arm is black and blue (besides being broken every night) with bolting the door, and the other grazed to the bone with falling in fits upon the floor on my elbows. This sort of tragic acting is a service of some danger, and I object to it much more than to the stabbing and poisoning of the "Legitimate Drama;" in fact, "I do not mind death, but I cannot bear pinching."

Saturday.— ... Rode in the park with my father. Lord John Russell rode with us for some time, and was very pleasant. He made us laugh by telling us that Sir Robert Inglis (most bigoted of Tory anti-reformers) having fallen asleep on the ministerial benches at the time of the division the other night, they counted him on their side. What good fun! I never saw a man look so wretchedly worn and harassed as Lord John does. They say the ministry must go out, that they dare not make these new peers, and that the Bill will stick fast by the way instead of passing. What frightful trouble there will be!...

Sunday, 22d.— ... After church looked over the critiques in the Sunday papers on "Katharine of Cleves." Some of them were too good-natured, some too ill-natured. The Spectator was exceedingly amusing.

By far the best account and criticism of this piece is Mr. Barham's metrical report of it in the "Ingoldsby Legends." Lord Francis himself used to quote with delight, "She didn't mind death, but she couldn't bear pinching." ...

Great Russell Street, January 22, 1832.

Thank you, my dearest H——, for your last delightful letter, which I should have answered before, but for the production of a new piece at Covent Garden, which has taken up all my time for the last week in rehearsals, and trying on dresses and the innumerable and invariable etceteras of a new play and part. It has been highly successful, and I think is likely to bring money to our treasury, which is the consummation most devoutly to be wished. It is nothing more than an interesting melodrama, with the advantage of being written in gentlemanly (noblemanly?) blank verse instead of turgid prose, and being acted by the principal instead of the secondary members of the company. This will suffice to make you appreciate my satisfaction, when I am complimented upon my acting in it, and you will sympathize with the shout of laughter my father and myself indulged in in the park the other day, when Lord John Russell, who was riding with us, told us that a young lady of his acquaintance had assured him that "Katharine of Cleves" (the name of the piece) was vastly more interesting than any thing Shakespeare had ever written.

The report is that there is to be no new creation of peers, and that the Bill will not pass. Certainly poor Lord John looks worried to death. He and Lord Grey have almost the whole weight and responsibility of this most momentous question upon their shoulders, and it must be no trifle to carry. As for the judicious young lady's judgment about "Katharine of Cleves," it is just this sort of thing that makes me rub the hands of my mind with satisfaction that I have never cared for my profession as my family has done. I think if I had, such folly, or rather stupidity, would have exasperated me too much. Besides, I should have been much less useful to the theater, for I should have lived in an everlasting wrangle with authors, actors, and managers on behalf of the mythological bodies supposed to preside over tragedy and comedy, and I should have killed myself (or perhaps been killed), and that quickly, with ineffectual protests against half the performances before the lamps, which are enough to make the angels weep and laugh—in short, go into hysterics, if they ever come to the play....

Do you know you have almost increased my very sufficient tendency to superstition by your presentiment when you last left us that you should never return to this house. There is some talk now of our leaving it. My mother yearns for her favorite suburban haunts, the scene of her courtship, and the spot where most of her happy youthful associations abide, and has half persuaded my father to let this house and take one in a particular row of "cottages of gentility" called Craven Hill. It only consists of twelve houses, in five of which my mother has, at different periods of her life, resided. This is all vague at present; I will let you know if it assumes a more definite shape. Some time will elapse before it is decided on, and more before it is done; and in any case, somehow or other, you must be once more under this roof with us before we leave it....

I quite agree with you that such books as Mr. Hope's (on the nature and immortality of the soul, the precise title of which I have forgotten) "may be useless," and sometimes, indeed, worse. If a person has nothing better to do than count the sea sands or fill the old bottomless tub of the Danaides, they may be excused for devoting their time and wits to such riddles, perhaps. But when the mind has positive, practical work to perform, and time keeps bringing all the time specific duties, or when, as in your case, a predisposition to vague speculation is the intellectual besetting sin, I think addition to such subjects to be avoided. I suppose all human beings have, in some shape or degree, the desire for that knowledge which is still the growth of the forbidden tree of Paradise, and the lust for which inevitably thrusts us against the bars of the material life in which we are consigned; but to give up one's time to writing and reading elaborate theories of a past and future which we may conceive to exist, but of the existence of which it is impossible we should achieve any proof, much less any detailed knowledge, appears to me an unprofitable and unsatisfactory misuse of time and talent....

You are mistaken in supposing me familiar with the early history of Poland. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it, and my zeal for the cause of its people is an ignorant sentimentalism—partly, perhaps, mere innate combativeness that longs to strike on the weaker side, and partly, too, resentful indignation at the cold-blooded neutrality observed by all the powers of Europe while that handful of men were making so brave a stand against the Russian giant.

That reminds me that Prince Zartoryski, who is in this country just now, came to the play the other night, and was so struck with my father that he sent round to him to say that he desired the honor of his acquaintance, and begged he would do him the favor of dining with him on some appointed day, which seemed to me a very pretty piece of impulsive enthusiasm. I believe Prince Zartoryski is a royal personage, and so above conventionalities....

My father is pretty well, though very far from having entirely regained his strength, but he is making gradual progress in that direction....

Always affectionately yours,

Fanny.

Tuesday, 24th.— ... Read over "The Star of Seville," as Mr. Bartley (our worthy stage manager) has cut it, with a view to its possible performance. He has cut it with a vengeance—what one may call to the quick. However, I suppose they know their own business (though, by the by, I am not always so sure of that). At any rate, I shall make no resistance, but be silent while I am sheared....

I rode in the park with John. My mare was ill, and Mew (the stable-keeper) had sent me one of his horses, a great awkward brute, who, after jolting me well up Oxford Street, no sooner entered the park than he bolted down the drive as fast as legs could carry him, John following afar off. In Rotten Row we were joined by young T——.... When I thought the devil was a little worked out of my horse, I raised him to a canter again, whereupon scamper the second—I like a flash of lightning, they after me as well as they could. John would not force my father's horse, but Mr. T——, whose horse was a thoroughbred hunter, managed to keep up with me, but lamed his horse in so doing. We then walked soberly round the park and saw our friends and acquaintances, and, turning down the drive, I determined once more to try my horse's disposition, whereupon off he went again, like a shot, leaving John far behind. I flitted down Rotten Row like Faust on the demon horse, and as I drew up and turned about I heard, "Well, that woman does ride well," which was all, whoever said it, knew of the matter; whereas, in my mad career, I had passed Fozzard, who shook his head lamentably at John, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss Fanny! Miss Fanny!" After this last satisfactory experiment I made no more, and we cut short our ride on account of my unmanageable steed....

We had a dinner party at home, and in the evening additional guests, among them Thackeray, who is very clever and delightful. We had music and singing and pleasant, bright talk, and they departed and left us in great good humor.

Wednesday, 25th.—Read the "Prometheus Unbound." How gorgeous it is! I do not think Shelley is read or appreciated now as enthusiastically as he was, even in my recollection, some few years ago. I went over my part, and at half-past five to the theater. The play was "Katharine of Cleves," the house very good; and, to please Henry Greville, I resumed the gold wreath I had discarded and restored the lines I had omitted. After the play came home and supped, and at eleven went to Lady F——'s.... A very fine party; "everybody"—that is in town—was there, and Mrs. Norton looking more magnificent than "everybody." Old Lady S—— like nothing in the world but the mummy carried round at the Egyptian feasts, with her parchment neck and shoulders bare, and her throat all drawn into strings and cords, hung with a dozen rows of perfect precious stones glittering in the glare of the lights with the constant shaking of her palsied head. [This lady continued to frequent the gayest assemblies in London when she had become so old and infirm that, though still persisting daily in her favorite exercise on horseback, she used to be tied into her saddle in such a manner as to prevent her falling out of it. She had been one of the finest riders in England, but used often, at the time when I knew her, to go to sleep while walking the horse round the park, her groom who rode near her being obliged to call to her "My lady! My lady!" to make the poor old woman open her eyes and see where she was going. At upward of eighty she died an unnatural death. Writing by candle-light on a winter's evening, it is supposed that her cap must have taken fire, for she was burnt to death, and had for her funeral pile part of the noble historical house of Hatfield, which was destroyed by the same accident.]

Lord Lansdowne desired to be introduced to me, and talked to me a long time. I thought him very good-natured and a charming talker. Mrs. Bradshaw (Maria Tree) was there, looking beautiful. Our hostess's daughter, Miss F——, is very pretty, but just misses being a beauty; in that case a miss is a great deal worse than a mile. Just as the rooms were beginning to thin, and we were going away, Lord O—— sat down to the piano. I had heard a great deal about his singing, and was rather disappointed; he has a sweet voice and a sweet face, but Henry Greville's bright, sparkling countenance and expressive singing are worth a hundred such mere musical sentimentalities. [Mr. Henry Greville was one of the best amateur singers of the London society of his day. He was the intimate personal friend of Mario, whom I remember he brought to our house, when first he arrived in London, as M. de Candia, before the beginning of his public career, and when, in the very first bloom of youth, his exquisite voice and beautiful face produced in society an effect which only briefly forestalled the admiration of all Europe when he determined to adopt the profession which made him famous as the incomparable tenor of the Italian stage for so many years.] Then, too, those lads sing songs, the words of which give one the throat-ache with strangled crying, and when they have done you hear the women all round mincing, "Charming!—how nice!—sweet!—what a dear!—darling creature!"

Thursday, 26th.—Murray was most kind and good-natured and liberal about all the arrangements for publishing "Francis I." and "The Star of Seville." He will take them both, and defer the publication of the first as long as the managers of Covent Garden wish him to do so. [As there was some talk just then of bringing out "The Star of Seville" at the theater, it was thought better not to forestall its effect by the publication of "Francis I.">[

At the theater the play was "The School for Scandal." A—— F—— was there, with young Sheridan; I hope the latter approved of my method of speaking the speeches of his witty great-grandfather. I played well, though the audience was dull and didn't help me. Mary and William Harness supped with us....

Friday, 27th.—A long discussion after breakfast about the necessity of one's husband being clever. Ma foi je n'en vois pas la nécessité. People don't want to be entertaining each other all day long; very clever men don't grow on every bush, and middling clever men don't amount to anything. I think I should like to have married Sir Humphry Davy. A well-assorted marriage, as the French say, seems to me like a well-arranged duet for four hands; the treble, the woman, has all the brilliant and melodious part, but the whole government of the piece, the harmony, is with the base, which really leads and sustains the whole composition and keeps it steady, and without which the treble for the most part runs to tune merely, and wants depth, dignity, and real musical importance.

In the afternoon went to Lady Dacre's.... She read me the first act of a little piece she has been writing; while listening to her I was struck as I never had been before with the great beauty of her countenance, and its very varied and striking expression.... At home spent my time in reading Shelley. How wonderful and beautiful the "Prometheus" is! The unguessed heavens and earth and sea are so many storehouses from which Shelley brings gorgeous heaps of treasure and piles them up in words like jewels. I read "The Sensitive Plant" and "Rosalind and Helen." As for the latter—powerful enough, certainly—it gives me bodily aches to read such poetry.

What extraordinary proceedings have been going on in the House of Commons! Mr. Percival getting up and quoting the Bible, and Mr. Hunt getting up and answering him by quoting the Bible too. It seems we are to have a general fast—on account of the general national misconduct, I suppose; serve us right.

Sunday, 29th.—Went into my mother's room before going to church. Henry Greville has sent her Victor Hugo's new book, "Notre Dame de Paris," but she appears half undetermined whether she will go on reading it or not, it is so painfully exciting. I took Mrs. Montague up in the carriage on my way to church, and after service drove her home, and went up to see Mrs. Procter, and found baby (Adelaide Procter) at dinner. That child looks like a poet's child, and a poet. It has something "doomed" (what the Germans call "fatal") in its appearance—such a preternaturally thoughtful, mournful expression for a little child, such a marked brow over the heavy blue eyes, such a transparent skin, such pale-golden hair. John says the little creature is an elf-child. I think it is the prophecy of a poet. [And so, indeed, it was, as all who know Adelaide Procter's writings will agree—a poet who died too early for the world, though not before she had achieved a poet's fame, and proved herself her father's worthy daughter.] ... In the afternoon, I found my mother deep in her French novel, from which she read me two very striking passages—the description of Esmeralda, which was like a fine painting, and extremely beautiful, and the sketch of Quasimodo's life, ending with his riding on the great bell of the cathedral. Very powerful and very insane—a sort of mental nightmare, giving one as much the idea of disorder of intellect as such an image occurring to one in a dream would of a disordered stomach. Harmony, order, the beauty of goodness and the justice of God, are alike ignored in such works. How sad it is for the future as well as for the present!

Monday, 30th.—King Charles' martyrdom gives me a holiday to-night. Excellent martyr! Victor Hugo has set my mother raving. She didn't sleep all night, and says the book is bad in its tendency and shocking in its details; nevertheless, she goes on reading it....

Tuesday, January 31st.— ... Went to Turnerelli's. He is making a bust of me, that will perhaps be like—the man in the moon. Dall was kind enough to read to me Mrs. Jameson's "Christina" while I sat. I like it extremely. After I came home, read Shirley's play of "The Two Sisters." I didn't like it much. It is neither very interesting, very witty, nor very poetical, and might almost be a modern work for its general want of power and character. The women appear to me a little exaggerated—the one is mad and the other silly. At the theater in the evening the house was very good indeed—the play, "Katharine of Cleves;" but poor Mr. Warde was so ill he could hardly stand.

Wednesday, February 1st.— ... Drove out with Henry in the new carriage. It is very handsome, but by no means as convenient or capacious as our old rumble. Oh, these vanities! How we sacrifice everything to them!

Thursday, 2d. ... Rode out with my father. The whole world was abroad in the sunshine, like so many flies. My mother was walking with John and Henry, and Henry Greville. I should like to tell him two words of my mind on the subject of lending "Notre Dame de Paris" about to women. At any rate, we vulgar females are not as much accustomed to mental dram-drinking as his fine-lady friends, and don't stand that sort of thing so well.... In the evening we went to the theater to see "The Haunted Tower." Youth and first impressions are wonderful magicians. (I forget whether the music of this piece was by Storace or Michael Kelly.) This was an opera which I had heard my father and mother talk of forever. I went full of expectation accordingly, and was entirely disappointed. The meagerness and triteness of the music and piece astonished me. After the full orchestral accompaniments, the richly harmonized concerted pieces and exquisite melodies lavished on us in our modern operas, these simple airs and their choruses and mean finales produce an effect from their poverty of absolute musical starvation.

Great Russell Street, January 31, 1832.

My dearest H—— G——,

You are coming to England, and you will certainly not do so again without coming to us. My father and mother, you know, speak by me when I assure you that a visit from you would give us all the greatest pleasure.... Do not come late in the season to us, because at present we do not know whether June or July may take us out of town.... With my scheme of going to America, I think I can look the future courageously in the face. It is something to hold one's fortune in one's own hands; if the worst comes to the worst it is but another year's drudgery, and the whereabouts really matters little.... We hear that the cholera is in Edinburgh. I cannot help thinking with the deepest anxiety of those I love there, and I imagine with sorrow that beautiful, noble city, those breezy hills, those fresh, sea-weedy shores and coasts breathed upon by that dire pestilence. The city of the winds, where the purifying currents of keen air sweep through every thoroughfare and eddy round every corner—perched up so high upon her rocky throne, she seems to sit in a freer, finer atmosphere than all the world beside! (I appear, in my enthusiastic love for Edinburgh, to have forgotten those Immonderraze, the wynds and closes of the old town.) I hope the report may not prove true, though from a letter I have received from my cousin Sally (Siddons) the plague is certainly within six miles of them. She writes very rationally about it, and I can scarce forbear superstitiously believing that God's mercy will especially protect those who are among His most devoted and dutiful children....

You speak of my love of nature almost as if it were a quality for which I deserve commendation. It is a blessing for which I am most grateful. You who live uninclosed by paved streets and brick walls, who have earth, sea, and sky à discrétion spread round you in all their majestic beauty, cannot imagine how vividly my memory recalls and my mind dwells upon mere strips of greensward, with the shadows of trees lying upon them. The colors of a patch of purple heather, broken banks by roadsides through which sunshine streamed—often mere effects of light and shade—return to me again and again like tunes, and to shut my eyes and look at them is a perfect delight to me. I suppose one is in some way the better as well as the happier for one's sympathy with the fair things of this fair world, which are types of things yet fairer, and emanations from the great Source of all goodness, loveliness, and sublimity. Whether in the moral or material universe, images and ideas of beauty must always be in themselves good. Beauty is one manifestation and form of truth, and the transition seems to me almost inevitable from the contemplation of things that are lovely to one's senses to those which are lovable by one's spirits' higher and finer powers of apprehension. The mind is kept sunny and calm, and free from ill vapors, by the influence of beautiful things; and surely God loves beauty, for from the greatest to the smallest it pervades all His works; and poetry, painting, and sculpture are not as beautiful as the things they reproduce, because of the imperfect nature-of their creator—man; though his works are only good in proportion as he puts his soul—i.e., the Spirit of God—inspiration into them.

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

Great Russell Street, February 17, 1832.

My dearest H——,

"Francis I." will come out on the 1st of March, so your starting on the 25th will do quite well for that; but it is right I should tell you what may possibly deter you from coming. A report prevails that the cholera is approaching London, and though I cannot say that I feel nervous upon the subject, perhaps, under these circumstances, you had rather or better not come.

There have been many assertions and contradictions about it, of course, and I know nothing but that such a rumor is prevalent, and if this should cause you or (what is more likely) yours an instant's hesitation, you must give up your visit. I know our disappointment will be mutual and equal, and I am sure you will not inflict it either upon yourself or me without adequate reason, so I will say no more about it.

The reason for bringing out "Francis I." now is that Milman has undertaken to review it in the next Quarterly, and Murray wishes the production of the play at the theater to be simultaneous with the publication of the Review.

My wrath and annoyance upon the subject have subsided, and I have now taken refuge with restored equanimity in my "cannot help it." Certainly I said and did all I could to hinder it.

I do not feel at all nervous about the fate of the play—no English public will damn an attempt of that description, however much it may deserve it; and paradoxical as it may sound, a London audience, composed as it for the most part is of pretty rough, coarse, and hard particles, makes up a most soft-hearted and good-natured whole, and invariably in the instance of a new actor or a new piece—whatever partial private ill will may wish to do—the majority of the spectators is inclined to patience and indulgence. I do not mean that I shall not turn exceedingly sick when I come to set my foot upon the stage that night; but it will only be with a slight increase of the alarm which I undergo with every new part. My poor mother will be the person to be pitied; I wish she would take an opiate and go to bed, instead of to the theater that night....

I was at a party last night where I met Lord Hill (then commander of the forces), who had himself presented to me, and who renewed in person the promise he had sent me through Sir John Macdonald (who was adjutant-general), to exert and interest himself to the utmost of his power about Henry's commission.

John has finished his Anglo-Saxon book, and Murray has undertaken to publish it for him, offering at the same time to share with him whatever profits may accrue from it. The work is of a nature which cannot give either a quick or considerable return; but the offer, like all Mr. Murray's dealings with me, is very kind and liberal, for a publisher is not easily found any more than readers for such matter. (The book was the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf.) He asked me to let him publish "Francis I.," as it is to be acted, without the fifth act, but this I would not consent to. I have rather an affection for my last scene in the Certoso at Pavia, with the monks singing the "De Profundis" while the battle was going on, and the king being brought in a prisoner and making the response to the psalm—which is all historically true....

I must bid you good-by, dear, as I am going to the Angerstein Gallery with the Fitzhughs....

Yours ever affectionately,

F. A. K.

Saturday, 4th.—I was obliged to send an excuse to Turnerelli. I could not sit to him this morning, as it is now determined that "Francis I." is to be brought out, and received official notice that it was to be read in the greenroom to-day. We went to the theater at eleven, and all the actors were there. I felt very uncomfortable and awkward; but, after all, writing a play is not a sin, so I plucked up my courage and sat down with the rest. My father read it beautifully, but even cut as it is, it is of an unendurable length. They were all very kind and civil, and applauded it very much; but I do not love the sound of clapping of hands, and did not feel on this occasion as if I had done the sort of thing that deserves it....

At half-past five went to the theater; it was the first night of the opera, and rained besides, both which circumstances thinned our house; but I suspect "Katharine of Cleves" has nearly lived her life. Driving to the theater, my father told me that they had entirely altered the cast of "Francis I." from what I had appointed, and determined to finish the play with the fourth act. I felt myself get very red, but I didn't speak, though I cannot but think an author has a right to say whether he or she will have certain alterations made in their work. My position is a difficult one, for did I not feel bound to comply with my father's wishes I would have no hand in this experiment. I would forfeit fifty—nay, a hundred—pounds willingly rather than act in this play, which I am convinced ought not to be acted at all. Any other person might do this, but with me it is a question of home duty, instead of a mere matter of business between author, actress, and manager. They couldn't act the play without me, and but for my father I should from the first have refused to act in it at all. I do not think that they manage wisely; it is a mere snatch at a bit of profit by a way of catchpenny venture, to secure which they are running the risk of injuring me more ways than one, and through me their own interests. It seems to me shortsighted policy, but I cannot help myself. After the play came home to supper, and at eleven went to Lady Dacre's. Sidney Smith, Rogers. Conversation sharp. Lots of people that I knew, in spite of which, in consequence, I suppose, of my own state of spirits, I did not enjoy myself. Mrs. Norton was there; she sang "My Arab Steed," and "Yes, Aunt," and "Joe Hardy;" the latter I do not think very good. They made me sing; I was horribly frightened. Julian Young was there; his manner and appearance are not very good, but his voice is beautiful and he sang very well.

Sunday, 5th.— ... When I came back from church I found Campbell with my mother, scraping up information about Mrs. Siddons for his and her "life." I left him with her, and when I came back he was gone, and in his place, as if he had turned into her, sat Mrs. Fitzgerald in a green velvet gown trimmed with sables, which excited my admiration and envy. I should like to have been living in the days and countries where persons, as a mark of favor, took off their dress and threw it on your shoulders. How pleasant it would have been!...

Just before going to bed I spoke of writing a preface to "Francis I.," which brought on a discussion with my mother on the subject of that ill-fated piece, in the middle of which my father came in, and I summoned up courage to say something of what I felt about it, and how disagreeable it was to me to act in it, feeling as I did. I do not think I can make them understand that I do not care a straw whether the piece dies and is damned the first night, or is cut up alive the next morning, but that I do care that, in spite of my protestations, it should be acted at all, and should be cut and cast in a manner that I totally disapprove of.

Monday, 6th.— ... On our way to the theater my father told me that the whole cast of "Francis I." is again turned topsy-turvy. Patience of me! I felt very cross, so I held my tongue. Mr. and Miss Harness came home to supper with us, and had a long talk about "Francis I.," my annoyance about which culminated, I am ashamed to say, in a fit of crying.

Tuesday, 7th.—So "Francis I." is in the bills, I see....

Wednesday, 8th.— ... At eleven "The Provoked Husband" was rehearsed in the saloon, and Mr. Meadows brought Carlo to see me. [Carlo was a splendid Newfoundland dog, which my friend, Mr. Drinkwater Meadows, used to bring to the theater to see me. His solemnity, when he was desired to keep still while the rehearsal was going on, was magnificent, considering the stuff he must have thought it.] ... After dinner went to the theater. The house was bad; the play, "The Provoked Husband." I played ill in spite of my pink gauze gown, which is inestimable and as fresh as ever. After supper dressed and off to Mrs. G——'s, and had a very nice ball....

Friday, 10th.— ... I wrote to H—— to beg her to come to me directly; I wish her so much to be here when my play comes out. Went to the theater at a quarter to six. The house was bad; the play, "Katharine of Cleves." I acted pretty well, though my dresses are getting shockingly dirty, and in one of the scenes my wreath fell backward, and I was obliged to take it off in the middle of all my epistolary agony; and what was still worse, after my husband had locked me in one room and my wreath in another, it somehow found its way back upon my head for the last scene. At the end of the play, which has now been acted ten nights, some people began hissing the pinching incident. It was always considered the dangerous passage of the piece, but a reasonable public should know that a play must be damned on its first night, or not at all.

Saturday, 11th.— ... A long walk with my mother, and a long talk about Shakespeare, especially about the beauty of his songs....

Tuesday, 14th.— ... Read the family my prologue. My mother did not like it at all; my father said it would do very well. John asked why there need be any prologue to the play, which is precisely what I do not understand. However, I was told to write one and I did, and they may use it or not just as they please. I am determined to say not another word about the whole vexatious business, and so peace be with them.... In the evening a charming little dinner-party at Mr. Harness's. The G——s, Arthur K——, Procter (Barry Cornwall), who is delightful, Sir William Millman, and ourselves.... Dear Mr. Harness has spoken to Murray about John's book, and has settled it all for him. On my return home, I told John of the book being accepted, at which he was greatly pleased. [The book in question was my brother's history of the Anglo-Saxons, of which Lord Macaulay once spoke to me in terms of the highest enthusiasm, deploring that John had not followed up that line of literature to a much greater extent.]

Wednesday, 15th.— ... My father went to the opening dinner of the Garrick Club.... After tea I read Daru, and copied fair a speech I had been writing for an imaginary member of the House of Peers, on the Reform Bill. John Mason called, and they sat down to a rubber, and I came to my own room and read "King Lear." ...

Thursday, 16th.— ... While I was at the Fitzhughs' Miss Sturges Bourne came in, and she and Emily had a very interesting conversation about books for the poor. Among other things Emily said that Lady Macdonald had written up to her from the country, to say that she wanted some more books of sentiment, for that by the way in which these were thumbed it was evident that they alone would "go down." Upon inquiry, I found that these "sentimental" books were religious tracts, highly flavored with terror or pathos, and in one way or another calculated to convey the strongest excitement upon the last subject with which excitement ought to have anything to do. Pious stimulants, devout drams, this is trying to do good, but I think mistaking the way....

In the evening we went to Lady Farquhar's; this was a finer party, as it is called, than the last, but not so pleasant. All the world was there. Mrs. Norton the magnificent, and that lovely sister of hers, Mrs. Blackwood (afterwards Lady Dufferin), crowned like Bacchantes with grapes, and looking as beautiful as dreams. Heaps of acquaintance and some friends....

Sunday, 10th.— ... In the evening I read Daru. What fun that riotous old Pope Julius is! Poor Gaston de Foix! It was young to leave life and such well-begun fame. The extracts from Bayard's life enchant me. I am glad to get among my old acquaintance again. Mr. Harness came in rather late and said all manner of kind things about "The Star of Seville," but I was thinking about his play all the while; it does not seem to me that the management is treating him well. If it does not suit the interests of the theater to bring it out now, he surely should be told so, and not kept in a state of suspense, which cannot be delightful to any author, however little of an egotist he may be.

Monday, 20th.—Went to Kensington Gravel Pits to see Lady Calcott, and sat with her a long time. That dying woman, sitting in the warm spring sunlight, surrounded with early-blowing hyacinths, the youngest born of the year, was a touching object. She is a charming person, so full of talent and of goodness. She talked with her usual cheerfulness and vivacity. Presently Sir Augustus came down from the painting-room to see me.... I could hardly prevent myself from crying, and I am afraid I looked very sad. As I was going away and stooped to kiss her, she sweetly and solemnly bade "God bless me," and I thought her prayer was nearer to heaven than that of most people....

Tuesday, 21st.— ... After tea dropped John at Mr. Murray's in Albemarle Street, and went on to the theater to see the new opera; our version of "Robert the Devil." The house was very full. Henry Greville was there, with the Mitfords and Mrs. Bradshaw. What an extraordinary piece, to be sure! I could not help looking at the full house and wondering how so many decent Englishmen and women could sit through such a spectacle.... The impression made upon me by the subject of Meyerbeer's celebrated opera appears to have entirely superseded that of the undoubtedly fine music; but I never was able to enjoy the latter because of the former, and the only shape in which I ever enjoyed "Robert the Devil" was in M. Levassor's irresistibly ludicrous account of it in the character of a young Paris badaud, who had just come from seeing it at the theater. His version of its horrors was laughable in the extreme, especially when, coming to the episode of the resurrection of the nuns, he contrived to give the most comical effect of a whole crowd—gibbering, glissading women greeting one another with the rapid music of the original scene, to which he adapted the words—

"Quoi c'est moi c'est toi,
Oui c'est toi c'est moi;
Comme nous voila bien dégommés."

Mendelssohn's opinion of the subjects chosen for operas in his day (even such a story as that of the Sonnambula) was scornful in the extreme.

Friday, 24th.— ... Dined with the Fitzhughs, and after dinner proceeded to the Adelphi, where we went to see "Victorine," which I liked very much. Mrs. Yates acted admirably the whole of it, but more particularly that part where she is old and in distress and degradation. There was a dreary look of uncomplaining misery about her, an appearance as of habitual want and sorrow and suffering, a heavy, slow, subdued, broken deportment, and a way of speaking that was excellent and was what struck me most in her performance, for the end is sure to be so effective that she shares half her merit there with the situation. Reeve is funny beyond anything; his face is the most humorous mask I ever saw in my life. I think him much more comical than Liston. The carriage was not come at the end of the first piece, so we had to wait through part of "Robert the Devil" (given at last, such was its popularity, at every theater in London). Of course, after our own grand diablerie, it did not strike me except as being wonderfully well done, considering the size and means of their little stage. [Yates made a most capital fiend: I should not like a bit to be Mrs Yates after seeing him look that part so perfectly.]

Great Russell Street, February 24, 1832.

Dearest H——,

I have this moment received your letter, and though rather disappointed myself, I am glad you are to see Dorothy as well as we, so that your visit southward is to be two pleasures instead of one. The representation of "Francis I." is delayed until next Wednesday, 7th March; not on account of cholera, but of scenery and other like theatrical causes of postponement....

I am greatly worried and annoyed about my play. The more I see and hear of it the stronger my perception grows of its defects, which, I think, are rendered even more glaring by the curtailments and alterations necessary for its representation; and the whole thing distresses me as much as such a thing can. I send you the cast of the principal characters for the instruction of my Ardgillan friends, by whose interest about it I am much gratified. My father is to be De Bourbon; John Mason, the king; Mr. Warde, the monk; Mr. Bennett, Laval. These are the principal men's parts. I act the queen-mother; Miss Taylor, Margaret de Valois; and Miss Tree, Françoise de Foix.

I am reading Cooper's novel of "The Borderers." It is striking and powerful, and some of it I think very beautiful, especially all that regards poor Ruth, which, I remember, is what struck you so much. I like the book extremely. There is a soft sobriety of color over it all that pleases me, and reminds me of your constant association of religion and the simple labors of an agricultural life. It is wonderful how striking the description of this neutral-tinted existence is, in which life, love, death, and even this wild warfare with the savage tribes, by which these people were surrounded, appear divested of all their natural and usual excitements. Religion alone (and this, of course, was inevitable) is the one imaginative and enthusiastic element in their existence, and that alone becomes the source of vehement feeling and passionate excitement which ought least to admit of fanciful interpretations and exaggerated and morbid sentiment. But the picture is admirably well drawn, and I cannot help sometimes wishing I had lived in those days, and been one of that little colony of sternly simple and fervently devout Christian souls. But I should have been a furious fanatic; I should have "seen visions and dreamed dreams," and fancied myself a prophetess to a certainty.

That luckless concern, in which you are a luckless shareholder (Covent Garden), is going to the dogs faster and faster every day; and, in spite of the Garrick Club and all its noble regenerators of the drama, I think the end of it, and that no distant one, will be utter ruin. They have been bringing out a new grand opera, called "Robert the Devil," which they hope to derive much profit from, as it is beyond all precedent absurd and horrible (and, as I think, disgusting); but I am almost afraid that it has none of these good qualities in a sufficient degree to make it pay its own enormous cost. I have seen it once, and came home with such a pain in my side and confused chaos in my head that I do not think I shall ever wish to see it again. Write me a line to say when I may look for you.

Ever affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

Saturday, 25th.— ... Finished Fenimore Cooper's interesting and pathetic novel, "The Borderers." ... I came down into the drawing-room with a headache, a sideache, a heartache, and swollen red eyes, and my mother greeted me with the news that the theater was finally ruined, that at Easter it must close, that we must all go different ways, and I probably to America. I was sobered from my imaginary sorrow directly; for it is astonishing what a different effect real and fictitious distress has upon one. I could not answer my mother, but I went to the window and looked up and down the streets that were getting empty and dark and silent, and my heart sank as I thought of leaving my home, my England.... After dinner Madame le Beau came to try on my Louisa of Savoy's dress; it is as ugly and unbecoming, but as correct, as possible....

Wednesday, 23d.—At eleven went to the theater to rehearse "Francis I." The actors had most of them been civil enough to learn their parts, and were tolerably perfect. Mr. Bennett will play his very well indeed, if he does not increase in energy when he comes to act. Miss Tree, too, I think, will do her part very nicely. John Mason is rather vulgar and 'prentice-like for Francis, that mirror of chivalry. After rehearsal I went to Dévy, to consult about my dress. I have got a picture of the very woman, Louisa of Savoy, queen-mother of France, and, short of absolute hideousness, I will make myself as like her as I can....

Arthur Hallam dined with us. I am not sure that I do not like him the best of all John's friends. Besides being so clever, he is so gentle, charming, and winning. At half-past ten went to Mrs. Norton's. My father, who had received a summons from the Court of Chancery, did not come.... It was a very fine, and rather dull, party.... Mrs. Norton looks as if she were made of precious stones, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires; she is radiant with beauty. And so, in a different way, is that vision of a sister of hers (Georgiana Sheridan, Lady St. Maur, Duchess of Somerset, and Queen of Beauty), with her waxen, round, white arms, and eyes streaming with soft brilliancy, like fountains by moonlight. To look at two such creatures for an hour is enough to make the world brighter for several hours.

Thursday, 24th.—At eleven went to rehearsal. While we were rehearsing Mr. Bartley came and told me that the play, "Francis I.," would not be done for a fortnight, and afterward my father told me he did not think it was right, or fitting, or doing me justice to bring out my play without some little attention to scenery, decorations, etc. I entreated him to go to no expense for it, for I am sure it will not repay them. Moreover, they have given their scenery, and finery, and dressing, and decoration, and spectacle in such profusion to "Robert the Devil" that I am sure they cannot afford a heavy outlay upon anything else just now. However, I could not prevail, and probably the real reason for putting off "Francis I." is the expediency of running the new opera as long as it will draw before bringing out anything else, which, of course, is good policy....

Wednesday, 29th.—H—— has gone to York. What a disappointment! After all, it's only one more added to the budget. Yet why do I say that? One scores one's losses, and takes no reckoning of one's gains, which is neither right nor fair to one's life....

I rode with Henry, and after I got home told my father that his horse was quite well, and would be fit for his use on Saturday. He replied sadly that his horse must be sold, for that from the first, though he had not liked to vex me by saying so, it was an expense he could not conscientiously afford. I had expected this, and certainly, when from day to day a man may be obliged to declare himself insolvent, keeping a horse does seem rather absurd. He then went on to speak about the ruin that is falling upon us; and dismal enough it is to stand under the crumbling fabric we have spent having and living, body, substance, and all but soul, to prop, and see that it must inevitably fall and crush us presently. Yet from my earliest childhood I remember this has been hanging over us. I have heard it foretold, I have known it expected, and there is no reason why it should now take any of us by surprise, or strike us with sudden dismay. Thank God, our means of existence lie within ourselves; while health and strength are vouchsafed to us there is no need to despond. It is very hard and sad to be come so far on in life, or rather so far into age, as my father is, without any hope of support for himself and my mother but toil, and that of the severest kind; but God is merciful. He has hitherto cared for us, as He cares for all His creatures, and He will not forsake us if we do not forsake Him or ourselves.... My father and I need scarcely remain without engagements, either in London or the provinces.... If our salaries are smaller, so must our expenses be. The house must go, the carriage must go, the horses must go, and yet we may be sufficiently comfortable and very happy—unless, indeed, we have to go to America, and that will be dreadful.... We are yet all stout and strong, and we are yet altogether. It is pitiful to see how my father still clings to that theater. Is it because? the art he loves, once had its noblest dwelling there? Is it because his own name and the names of his brother and sister are graven, as it were, on its very stones? Does he think he could not act in a smaller theater? What can, in spite of his interest, make him so loth to leave that ponderous ruin? Even to-day, after summing up all the sorrow and care and toil, and waste of life and fortune which that concern has cost his brother, himself, and all of us, he exclaimed, "Oh, if I had but £10,000, I could set it all right again, even now!" My mother and I actually stared at this infatuation. If I had twenty, or a hundred thousand pounds, not one farthing would I give to the redeeming of that fatal millstone, which cannot be raised, but will infallibly drag everything tied to it down to the level of its own destruction. The past is past, and for the future we must think and act as speedily as we may. If our salaries are half what they are now we need not starve; and, as long as God keeps us in health of body and mind, nothing need signify, provided we are not obliged to separate and go off to that dreadful America.

Thursday, March 1st.— ... After dinner I read over again Knowles's play, "The Hunchback," and like it better than ever. What would I not give to have written that play! He cannot agree with Drury Lane about it, and has brought it back to us, and means to act Master Walter himself. I am so very glad. It will be the most striking dramatic exhibition that has been seen since Kean's début. I wish "Francis I." was done, and done with, and that we were rehearsing "The Hunchback."

Great Russell Street, March 1, 1832.

... As for any disappointment of mine about anything, dear H——, though some things are by no means light to me, I soon make up my mind to whatever must be, and I think those who do not endure well what cannot be avoided are only less foolish than those who endure what they can avoid. "Francis I." will not, I think, interfere with your visit to us. Murray wishes it to be postponed till after the publication of the Quarterly, which will come out about the 11th or 12th. Lockhart, and not Milman, has reviewed it very favorably, I hear, and Murray expects to sell one edition immediately upon the publication of the article in the Quarterly. So that you can stay at Fulford some time yet; and should the play be given before you wish to leave it, I shall not expect you in person, but feel sure that you are with me in spirit; and the next day I will write you word of the result.

Dearest H——, I am just now much burdened with anxiety. I will tell you more of this when we meet. Thank God, though not of a sanguine, I am not of a desponding nature; and though I never look forward with any great satisfaction to the future, I seldom find it difficult to accept the present with tolerable equanimity.... I spent the evening on Wednesday with Mrs. Jameson. She is just returned to town, and came immediately, thinking you were here, to engage us for the next evening; and as you did not come I went, and spent three hours very pleasantly with her. She knows so much, and I am so very ignorant, that her conversation is delightfully instructive as well as amusing, full of interest and information. Poor woman! she left Tedsley and a very agreeable party to come up to town upon a false alarm of "Francis I.'s" coming out. I think I have told you of the work upon Shakespeare she is engaged with; she has been teaching herself to etch, and has executed some charming designs, with which she means to illustrate it. I have not an idea what our plans for this summer are to be; whether America, or the provinces, or the King's Bench; but I suppose we shall see a little more clearly into the future by the time you come to us; and if we do not, abundantly "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof" with us just now.... I have been reading nothing but Daru's "History of Venice" lately. How could you tell me to read that sad story, "The Borderers"! I half killed myself with crying over it, and did not recover from the effect it had upon me for several days.

Dearest H——, I am writing nonsense, and with an effort, for I am very low; and so I will leave off.

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

Friday, March 2d.—I read Shirley's "Gentleman of Venice," and did not like it much.... While I was riding in the park with John, Mr. Willett came up to us, and told me, as great good news, that they were out of Chancery, and had obtained an order to have their money out of court. I thought this indeed good news, and we cantered up the drive in hopes of meeting my mother in the carriage; but she had gone home. On reaching home, I ran to look for her, but thought she would like better to hear the news from my father.

I told Dall of it, however; and she, who had just seen my father, said that he considered what had happened a most unfortunate thing for him; and so my bright, new joy fell to the ground, and was broken all to pieces. Upon further explanation, however, it seems that it is an advantage to the other proprietors, though not to him; no part of the recovered money returning to him, because he had borrowed his share of it from Mr. Willett; and the only difference is that he will not have to pay the interest on it any more, and so far it is a small advantage to him. But it is a great one to them, poor men! and therefore we ought to be glad, and not look only at our own share of the business, though naturally that is the most interesting to us. I sometimes doubt, after all, if we have really by any means a clear and comprehensive view of the whole state of that concern, receiving our impressions from my father, who naturally looks at it only from the side of his own personal stake in it.... After dinner John read me a letter he had just received from Richard Trench—a most beautiful letter. What a fine fellow he is, and what a noble set of young men these friends of my brother's are! After tea read Arthur Hallam's essay on the philosophical writings of Cicero. It is very excellent; I should like to have marked some of the passages, they are so admirably clear and true; but he has only lent it to me. His Latin and Greek quotations were rather a trial, but I have no doubt his English is as good as anything he quotes. Surely England twenty years hence should be in a higher state of moral and intellectual development than it is now: these young heads seem to me admirably good and strong, and some score years hence these fine spirits will be influencing the national mind and soul of England; and it pleases me much to think so. [Alas! as far as dear Arthur Hallam was concerned, my prophetic confidence was vain.] After finishing Hallam's essay, I took up "King Lear," and read the end of that, "and my poor fool is hanged!" O Lord, what an agony! In reading "Lear," one of Mr. Harness's criticisms on my "Star of Seville" recurred to me. In the scene where Estrella deplores her brother's death, I have used frequent repetition of the same words and exclamations. I wrote upon impulse, without deliberation, and simply as my conception of sorrow prompted me, such words as grew from my heart and not my understanding. But in reading "King Lear," the iteration in the expression of deep grief confirms me in the opinion that it is natural to all men, and not peculiar to myself, for Shakespeare has done it. In the scene where Gloster tells Cornwall and Regan of Edgar's supposed wickedness, the wretched old father uses frequent repetition, as, "Oh, madam, my old heart is cracked; it's cracked!" "Oh, lady, lady, shame would have it hid!" "I know not, madam: 'tis too bad, too bad!" and in the last scene, that most piteous and terrible close that story ever had, the poor old king, in his moanings over Cordelia, repeats his words over and over again. I defend my conception, not my execution of it; and true and touching as these repetitions of Shakespeare's are, mine may be "damnable iteration," and nothing else. Heart-broken sorrow has but few words; utter bereavement is not eloquent; and David, when the darling of his soul was dead, did but cry, "O Absalom, my son, my son! would God I had died for thee, my son!" A vastly different expression of a vastly different grief from that which poured itself out in the sad and noble dirge, "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!"

Saturday, 3d.—Henry has obtained his commission; one great piece of good fortune amid all the bad, for which God be thanked. [The liberal price given me by Mr. Murray for my play of "Francis I." enabled me to purchase my brother's commission, which, however, the money would not have obtained without the extremely kind interest exerted in his favor by Lord Hill, then commander, and Sir John Macdonald, adjutant-general of the forces.]

Sunday, 4th.— ... My father is in deplorable spirits, and seems bowed down with care. I believe all that befalls us is right. I know we must bear it; all I pray for is health, strength and courage to bear it well. In the evening the Harnesses drank tea with us.

Monday, 5th.—Got ready things for the theater, and went over my part.... In the afternoon, I hoped to hear the result of the meeting that had been held by the creditors of the theater; but my father had been obliged to leave it before anything was settled, and did not know what had been the termination of the consultation. At the theater the house was not good, neither was my acting. My father acted admirably, to my amazement: for he has been in a most wretched state of depression for the last week, and to-day at dinner his face looked drawn and haggard and absolutely lead-colored.

Tuesday, 6th.—After breakfast went with Henry and my father to Cox and Greenwood's, the great army agents, to pay for his commission. Oh, what a good job, to be sure! Then to the Horse Guards, to thank dear Sir John Macdonald; then to Stable Yard, to call upon Lord Fitzroy Somerset; and then home, much happier than I had been for a long time.... Madame le Beau brought my dress for Louisa of Savoy; it is very handsome, but I look hideous, and as grim as Queen Death in it. However, it is a precise copy of the woman's own picture, and I must comfort myself with that. In the evening we went to a pleasant party at the Basil Montagues', where for an hour I recovered my love of dancing, which has rather forsaken me of late. The Rajah Ramohun Roy had himself introduced to me, and we presently began a delightful nonsense conversation, which lasted a considerable time, and amused me extremely. His appearance is very striking; his picturesque dress and color make him, of course, a remarkable object in a London ball-room; his countenance, beside being very intellectual, has an expression of great sweetness and benignity and his remarks and conversation are in the highest degree interesting, when one remembers what mental energy and moral force and determination he must have exerted to break through all the trammels which have opposed his becoming what he is. I was turning away from him for a few moments, to speak to Mr. Montague, who had begun a very interesting discourse on the analysis of the causes of laughter, when the Rajah recalled my attention to himself by saying, "I am going to quote the Bible to you: you remember that passage, 'The poor ye have always with you, but Me ye have not always.' Now, Mr. Montague you have always with you, but me you have not always." So we resumed our conversation together, and kept up a brief interchange of persiflage which made us both laugh very much, and in which he showed a very ready use of English language for a stranger.

Mrs. Procter talked to me a great deal about her little Adelaide, who must be a most wonderful creature. The profound and unanswerable questions put to us by these "children of light" confound us with the sense of our own spiritual and mental darkness. I often think of Tieck's lovely and deep-meaning story of "The Elves." How little we know of the hidden mysterious springs from which these crystal cups are filled, or of the unseen companions that may have strayed with their fellow to the threshold of this earth, and walk with it while it yet retains its purity and innocence; but, as it journeys on, turn back and forsake it, and return to their home, leaving their sister-soul to wander through the world with sin and sorrow for companions.

Wednesday, 7th.—I sent "The Merchant of Venice" to Ramohun Roy, who, in our conversation last night, expressed a great desire to read it....

Thursday, 8th.— ... In the evening acted Beatrice. The house was very good, which I was delighted to see. The Harnesses supped with us. While we were at supper, the Quarterly Review came from Murray's, and I read the article on "Francis I." aloud to them. It is very "handsome," and I should think must satisfy my most unreasonable friends. It more than satisfied me, for it made me out a great deal cleverer than ever I thought I was, or ever, I am afraid, shall be.

Friday, 9th.—Rehearsed "Francis I." When I came home found a charming letter and some Indian books, from that most amiable of all the wise men of the East, Ramohun Roy. Mrs. Jameson and Mr. Harness called.

Saturday, 10th.—Rehearsed "Francis I." Tried on my dresses for "The Hunchback;" they will be beautiful. The rehearsal was over long before the carriage came for me; so I went into my father's room and read the newspaper, while he and Mr. Bartley discussed the cast of Knowles's play. It seems my father will not act in it. I am sorry for that; it is hardly fair to Knowles, for no one else can do it. My poor father seemed too bewildered to give any answer, or even heed, to anything, and Mr. Bartley went away. My father continued to walk up and down the room for nearly half an hour, without uttering a syllable; and at last flung himself into a chair, and leaned his head and arms on the table. I was horribly frightened, and turned as cold as stone, and for some minutes could not muster up courage enough to speak to him. At last I got up and went to him, and, on my touching his arm, he started up and exclaimed, "Good God, what will become of us all!" I tried to comfort him, and spoke for a long time, but much, I fear, as a blind man speaks of colors. I do not know, and I do not believe any one knows, the real state of terrible involvement in which this miserable concern is wrapped. What I dread most of all is that my father's health will break down. To-day, while he was talking to me, I saw him suddenly put his hand to his side in a way that sent a pang through my heart. He seems utterly prostrated in spirit, and I fear he will brood himself ill. God help us all! I came home with a heavy heart, and got ready my things for the theater, and went over my part. Emily called.... She brought me my aunt Siddons's sketches of Constance and Lady Macbeth. They are simply written, and though not analytically deep or powerful, are true, clear, and good, as far as their extent reaches. She thinks Constance more motherly than queenly, and I do not altogether agree with her. I do not think the scene after Arthur is taken prisoner alone establishes my aunt's position; the mother's sorrow there sweeps every other consideration away. It is before that that I think her love for her child is in some measure mixed with the feeling of the sovereign for his heir; a love of power, in fact, embodied in the boy who was to continue the dominion of a race of princes. He was her royal child, and that I do not think she ever forgot till he was, in her imagination, her dead child. She says she could endure his being thrust from all his rights if he had been a less gracious creature, and goes on—

"But thou art fair, dear boy: and at thy birth
Nature and fortune joined to make thee great;"

and then bursts forth into her furious vituperation of those whose treachery has frustrated his natural claim to greatness. The woman, too, who in the utmost bitterness of disappointment, in the utter helplessness and desolation of betrayal, and the prostration of anguish and despair, calls on the earth, not for a shelter, not for a grave, or for a resting-place, but for a throne, is surely royally ambitious, a queen more than anything else. Mrs. Siddons's conception of Lady Macbeth is very beautiful, and I was particularly struck by her imagination of her outward woman: the deep blue eyes, the fair hair and fair skin of the northern woman (though, by the by, Lady Macbeth is a Highlander—I suppose a Celt; and they are a dark race); the frail feminine form and delicate character of beauty, which, united to that undaunted mettle which her husband pays homage to in her, constituted a complex spell, at once soft and strong, sweet and powerful, and seemed to me a very original idea. My aunt makes a curious suggestion, supported only by her own conviction, for which, however, she demonstrates no grounds, that in the banquet scene Lady Macbeth sees Banquo's ghost at the same time Macbeth does. It is very presumptuous in me to differ from her who has made such a wonderful study of this part, but it seems to me that this would make Lady Macbeth all but superhuman; and in the scene with her husband that precedes the banquet, Macbeth's words to her give me to understand that she is entirely innocent of the knowledge even of his crime.

Monday, 12th.—Went to the theater to rehearse "Francis I." Miss Tree and Mr. Bennett will act their parts admirably, I think.... When I got home got ready my things for the theater, and went over my part. The play was "Much Ado about Nothing," and I played as ill as usual. The house was pretty good.

[Here occurs an interruption of some weeks in my journal.]

My friend, Miss S——, came and paid me a long visit, during which my play of "Francis I." and Knowles's play of "The Hunchback" were produced, and it was finally settled that Covent Garden should be let to the French manager and entrepreneur, Laporte, and that my father and myself should leave England, and go for two years to America.

[The success of "Francis I." was one of entirely indulgent forbearance on the part of the public. An historical play, written by a girl of seventeen, and acted in it by the authoress at one and twenty, was, not unnaturally, a subject of some curiosity; and, as such, it filled the house for a few nights. Its entire want of real merit, of course, made it impossible that it should do anything more; and, after a few representations, it made way for Knowles's delightful play, which had a success as great and genuine as it was well deserved, and will not fail to be a lasting favorite, alike with audiences and actors.]

Thursday, June 14th.—A long break in my journal, and what a dismal beginning to it again! At five o'clock H—— started for Ireland.... Poor dear Dall cried bitterly at parting from her (my aunt was to accompany me to America, and it was uncertain whether we should see Miss S—— again before we sailed).... When I returned, after seeing her off, I went disconsolately to my own room. As I could not sleep, I took up the first book at hand, but it was "Tristram Shandy," and too horribly discordant with my frame of mind; besides, I don't like it at any time; it seems to me much more coarse even than witty and humorous.

Friday, 15th.— ... Almost at our very door met old Lady Cork, who was coming to see us: We stopped our carriages, and had a bawling conversation through the windows respecting my plans, past, present, and to come, highly edifying, doubtless, to the whole neighborhood, and which ended by her ladyship shrieking out to me that I was "a supernatural creature" in a tone which must have made the mummies and other strange sojourners in the adjacent British Museum jump again.... In the evening, at the theater, the play was "The Hunchback," for Knowles's benefit, and the house was not good, which I do think is a shame. I played well, though Miss Taylor disconcerted me by coming so near me in her second scene that I gave her a real slap in the face, which I was very sorry for, though she deserved it. After the play, Mr. Harness, Mrs. Clarke, and Miss James supped with us; and after supper, I dressed for a ball at the G——s', ... and much I wondered what call I had to be at a ball, except that the givers of this festival are kind and good friends of ours, and are fond of me, and I of them. But I was not very merry at their ball for all that. We came home at half past two, which is called "very early." Mr. Bacon was there (editor of the Times, who married my cousin, Fanny Twiss), but I had no chance to speak to him, which I was sorry for, as I like his looks, and I liked his books: the first are good, and the latter are clever. I cried all the way home, which is a cheerful way of returning from a ball.

Saturday, 16th.— ... Mrs. Clarke, Miss James, the Messrs. M——, and Alfred Tennyson dined with us. I am always a little disappointed with the exterior of our poet when I look at him, in spite of his eyes, which are very fine; but his head and face, striking and dignified as they are, are almost too ponderous and massive for beauty in so young a man; and every now and then there is a slightly sarcastic expression about his mouth that almost frightens me, in spite of his shy manner and habitual silence. But, after all, it is delightful to see and be with any one that one admires and loves for what he has done, as I do him. Mr. Harness came in the evening. He is excellent, and I am very fond of him. They all went away about twelve.

Monday, 18th.— ... At the theater, in the evening, the house was good, and I played pretty fairly.... At supper my father read us his examination before the committee of the House of Commons about this minor theater business. Of course, though every word he says upon the subject is gospel truth, it will only pass for the partial testimony of a person deeply interested in his own monopoly.

Thursday, 21st.—Called on Mrs. Norton, ... and on Lady Dacre, to bid her good-by. At the theater, in the evening, the house was good, and I played very well. How sorry I shall be to go away! The actors, too, all seem so sorry to have us go, and it will be so hard to see none of the accustomed faces, to hear none of the familiar voices, while discharging the tasks that are often so irksome to me. John Mason came home after the play and supped with us.

Friday, 22d.— ... In the afternoon I called upon the Sotherbys, to bid them good-by; afterward to the Goldsmiths', on the same cheerless errand. Stopped at dear Miss Cottin's to thank her for the beautiful bracelet she had sent me as a farewell present; and then on to Lady Callcott's, with whom I spent a few solemn moments—solemnity not without sweetness—and I scarcely felt sorrowful when she said, "I shall never see you again." She is going to what we call heaven, nearer to God (that is, in her own consciousness, nearer to God)....

In the evening to the theater. I only played pretty well, except the last scene, which was better than the rest. At the end of the play Mr. Bartley made the audience a speech, mentioning our departure, and bespeaking their good will for the new management. The audience called for Knowles, and then clamored for us till we were obliged to go out. They rose to receive us, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and shouted farewell to us. It made my heart ache to leave my kind, good, indulgent audience; my friends, as I feel them to be; my countrymen, my English folk, my "very worthy and approved good masters;" and as I thought of the strangers for whom I am now to work in that distant strange country to which we are going, the tears rushed into my eyes, and I hardly knew what I was doing. I scarcely think I even made the conventional courtesy of leave-taking to them, but I snatched my little nosegay of flowers from my sash, and threw it into the pit with handfuls of kisses, as a farewell token of my affection and gratitude. And so my father, who was very much affected, led me off, while the house rang with the cheering of the audience. When we came off my courage gave way utterly, and I cried most bitterly. As my father was taking me to my dressing-room Laporte ran after us, to be introduced to me, to whom I wished success very dolorously from the midst of my tears. He said he ought to cry at our going away more than any one; and perhaps he is right, but we should be better worth his while when we come back, if ever that day comes. I saw numbers of people whom I knew standing behind the scenes to take leave of us.

I took an affectionate farewell of poor dear old Rye (the property-man), and Louis, his boy, gave me two beautiful nosegays. It was all wretched, and yet it was a pleasure to feel that those who surrounded and were dependent on us cared for us. I know all the servants and workpeople of the theater were fond of me, and it was sad to say good-by to all these kind, civil, cordial, humble friends; from my good, pretty little maid, who stood sobbing by my dressing-room door, to the grim, wrinkled visage of honest old Rye....

[That was the last time I ever acted in the Covent Garden my uncle John built; where he and my aunt took leave of the stage, and I made my first entrance upon it. It was soon after altered and enlarged, and turned into an opera-house; eventually it was burnt down, and so nothing remains of it.]

The Harnesses and their friend Mr. F—— supped with us. Mr. Harness talked all sorts of things to try and cheer me; he labored hard to prove to me that the world was good and happy, but only succeeded in convincing me that he was the one, and deserved to be the other.

Friday, 29th.—On board the Scotch steamer for Edinburgh.... We passed Berwick and Dunbar, and the Douglases' ancient hold Tantallon, and the lines from "Marmion" came to my lips. Poor Walter Scott! he will never sail by this lovely coast again, every bold headland and silver creek of which lives in his song or story. He has given of his own immortality to the earth, which must ere long receive the whole of his mortality....

Saturday, 30th.—Went to rehearsal.... After dinner Mary Anne, my maid, knowing my foible, came in with her arms full of two of the most beautiful children I ever saw in my life.... [These beautiful children were the daughters of the Duc de Grammont, and were sharing with their parents the exile of the King of France, Charles X., who had found in his banishment a royal residence as ruined as his fortunes in the old Scottish palace of Holyrood. Ida de Grammont, the eldest of my angels, fulfilled the promise of her beautiful childhood as the lovely Duchesse de Guyche.] We spent a pleasant evening at Mrs. Harry Siddons's. Mr. Combe and Macdonald (the sculptor) were there.

Sunday, July 1st.— ... We dined at Mr. Combe's, and had a very pleasant dinner, but unluckily, owing to a stupid servant's mistake, my old friend Mr. McLaren, who had been invited to meet me, did not come. After dinner there was a tremendous discussion about Shakespeare, but I do not think these men knew anything about him. I talked myself into a fever, and ended, with great modesty and propriety, by disabling all their judgments, at which piece of impertinence they naturally laughed very heartily.

Edinburgh, July 1, 1832.

Dearest H——,

We left London on Wednesday at eight o'clock. The parting between my mother and Dall (who never met again; my dear aunt died in America, in the second year of our stay there), and myself and my dear little sister, was most bitter.... John came down to Greenwich with us, but would not come on board the steamboat. He stood on the shore and I at the ship's side, looking at what I knew was him, though my eyes could distinguish none of his features from the distance. My poor mother stood crying by my side, and bade me send him away. I gave him one signal, which he returned, and then ran up the beach, and was gone!—gone for two years, perhaps more; perhaps gone from me forever in this world!...

We shall be in Liverpool on Monday morning, the 16th of July, and go to Radley's Hotel, where I hope we shall find you on our arrival. My father is pretty well, in spite of all the late anxieties and annoyances he has had to wade through. In the course of the day preceding our departure from London two arrests were served upon him by creditors of the theater, who, I suppose, think when he is gone the whole concern must collapse and fall to pieces, and I began to think some means would be devised to prevent our leaving England after all. Our parting on Wednesday morning was, as I told you, most miserable.... My poor mother was braver than I had expected; but her parting from us, poor thing, is yet to come.

I found a letter from Emily Fitzhugh here, inclosing one as an introduction to a lady in New York, who had once been her friend.... Edinburgh is lovely and dear, and peace and quiet and repose are always found by me near my dear Mrs. Harry Siddons; but my heart is, oh, so sad!... Pray answer this directly. The time is at hand when the quickest "directly" in our correspondence will be three months.

Ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

Monday, 2d.—My father and I went to the theater to rehearse "Romeo and Juliet." In the evening the house was very fair, considering how much the hot weather is against us; but of all the comfortless people to act to, commend me to an Edinburgh audience. Their undemonstrativeness, too, is something more than mere critical difficulty to be pleased; there is a want of kindliness in the cold, discourteous way in which they allow a stranger to appear before them without ever affording him the slightest token of their readiness to accept the efforts made to please them. I felt quite sorry this evening for poor Mr. Didear, to whom not the faintest sign of encouragement was vouchsafed on his first coming on. This is being cold to an unamiable degree, and seems to me both a want of good feeling and good breeding. I acted as well as they would let me. As for poor John Mason, concluding, I suppose, from their frozen silence that he was flat and ineffective, he ranted and roared, and pulled me about in the last scene, till I thought I should have come to pieces in his hands, as the house-maids say of what they break. I was dreadfully exhausted at the end of the play; there is nothing so killing as an ineffectual appeal to sympathy, and, as the Italians know, "ben servire e non gradire" is one of the "tre cose da morire." ...

Tuesday, 3d.—Went to the theater to rehearse.... In the evening the house was good, and the play went off very well. I acted well, in spite of my new dresses, which stuck out all round me portentously, and almost filled the little stage. J—— L—— was like a great pink bird, hopping about hither and thither, and stopping to speak, as if it had been well tamed and taught. The audience actually laughed and applauded, and I should think must have gone home very much surprised and exhausted with the unwonted exertion.

Wednesday, 4th.—Went to the theater to rehearse "Francis I." After I got home, my mother told me she had determined to leave us on Saturday, and go back to London with Sally Siddons; and I am most thankful for this resolution.... How sad it will be in that strange land beyond the sea, among those strange people, to whom we are nothing but strangers! But this is foolish weakness; it must be; and what a world of strength lies in those two little words!... At the theater the house was very good, and I played very well....

Thursday, 5th.—After breakfast went to rehearse "The Gamester." ... In the evening the house was not good. My father acted magnificently; I never played this part well, and am now gone off in it, and play it worse than not well; besides, I cannot bully that great, big man, Mr. Didear; it is manifestly absurd.

Friday, 6th.—To the theater to rehearse "Francis I." On my return found Mr. Liston and his little girl waiting to ride with me.... [This was the beginning of my acquaintance with the celebrated surgeon Liston, who afterward became an intimate friend of ours, and to whose great professional skill my father was repeatedly indebted for relief under a most painful malady. He was a son of Sir Robert Liston, and cousin of the celebrated comedian, between whom and himself, however, there certainly was no family likeness, Liston, the surgeon, being one of the handsomest persons I ever saw. The last time I saw him has left a melancholy impression on my mind of his fine face and noble figure. He had been attending me professionally, but I had ceased to require his care, and had not seen him for some time, when one morning walking, according to my custom in summer, before seven o'clock, as I came to the bridge over the Serpentine in Kensington Gardens, a horseman crossing the bridge stopped by the iron railing, and, jumping off his horse, came toward me. It was Liston, who inquired kindly after my health, and, upon my not answering quite satisfactorily, he said, "Ah! well, you are better than I am." I laughed incredulously, as I looked at a magnificent figure leaning against the great black horse he rode, and looking like a model of manly vigor and beauty. But in less than a week from that day Liston died of aneurism; and I suppose that when I met him he was well aware of the death which had got him literally by the throat.]

Saturday, 7th.—Miserable day of parting! of tearing away and wrenching asunder!... At eleven we were obliged to go to rehearsal, and when we returned found my mother busy with her packing.... When she was gone, I sat down beside my father with a book in my hand, not reading, but listening to his stifled sobbing; and every now and then, in spite of my determination not to do it, looking up to see how far the ship had moved. (Our windows looked over the Forth.) But the white column of steam was rising steadily from close under Newhaven, and for upward of half an hour continued to do so. I had resolved not to raise my eyes again from my book, when a sudden exclamation from my father made me spring up, and I saw the steamer had left the shore, and was moving fast toward Inchkeith, the dark smoky wake that lingered behind it showing how far it had already gone from us, and warning us how soon it would be beyond the ken of our aching eyes.... The carriage was announced, and with a heavy heart and aching head, I drove to the theater.... The play was "Francis I.," for the first time. The house was very fine; I acted abominably, but that was not much to be wondered at. However, I always have acted this part of my own vilely; the language is not natural—mere stilted declamation from first to last, most fatiguing to the chest, and impossible for me to do anything with, as it excites no emotion in me whatever....

Edinburgh, July 8, 1832.

My dearest H——,

I had just left my father at the window that overlooks the Forth, watching my poor mother's ship sailing away to England, when I received your letter; and it is impossible to imagine a sorer, sadder heart than that with which I greeted it.... Thank you for the pains you are taking about your picture for me; crammed with occupation as my time is here, I would have done the same for you, but that I think in Lawrence's print you have the best and likest thing you can have of me.... I cannot tell you at what hour we shall reach Liverpool, but it will be very early on Monday morning.... I am glad you have not deferred sitting for your picture till you came to Liverpool, for it would have encroached much upon our time together. I remember when I returned from abroad, a school-girl, I thought I had forgotten my mother's face. This copy of yours will save me from that nonsensical morbid feeling, and you will surely not forget mine.... You bid me, if anything should go ill with me, summon you across the Atlantic. Alas! dear H——, you forget that before a letter from that other world can reach this, more than a month must have elapsed, and the writer may no longer be in either. You say you hope I may return a new being; and I have no doubt my health will be benefited, and my spirits revived by change of external objects; but oh, how dreary it all is now! You bid me cheer my father when my mother shall have left us, without knowing that she is already gone. I make every exertion that duty and affection can prompt; but, you know, it is my nature rather to absorb the sorrow of others than to assist them in throwing it off; and when one's own heart is all but frozen, one knows not where to find warmth to impart to those who are shivering with misery beside one.... I have left myself scarcely any room to tell you of my present life. I work very hard, rehearsing every morning and acting every night, and spending the intervening time in long farewell rides round this most beautiful and beloved Edinburgh. Mr. Combe says I am wearing myself out, body and mind; but I am already looking better, and less thin, than when I left London; and besides, I shall presently have a longer rest—holiday I cannot call it—on board ship than I have had for the last three years. We acted "Francis I." here last night, for the first time; and I am sure that, mingled with the applause, I heard very distinct hissing; whether addressed to the acting, which was some of it execrable, or to the play itself, which I think quite deserving of such a demonstration, I know not.... You know my opinion of the piece; and as, with the exception of the two parts of De Bourbon and the Friar, and not excepting my own, it really was vilely acted, hissing did not appear to me an unnatural proceeding, though perhaps, under the circumstances, not altogether a courteous one on the part of the modern Athenians. I tell you this, because what else have I to tell you, but that I am your ever affectionate

F. A. K.

Tuesday, 10th.—At half-past twelve rode out with Liston and his daughter, Mr. Murray, and Allen (since Sir William, the celebrated artist, friend, and painter, of Walter Scott and his family).... In the evening, at the theater, the house was very full, and I acted very well, though I was so tired that I could hardly stand, and every bone in my body ached with my hard morning's ride. While I was sitting in the greenroom, Mr. Wilson came in, and it warmed my heart to see a Covent Garden face. He tells me Laporte is giving concerts in the poor old playhouse: well, good luck attend him, poor man (though I know it won't, for "there's nae luck about that house, there's nae luck at a'"). Walter Scott has reached Edinburgh, and starts for Abbotsford to-morrow: I am glad he has come back to die in his own country, in his own home, surrounded by the familiar objects his eyes have loved to look upon, and by the hearts of his countrymen, and the prayers, the blessings, the gratitude, and the love they owe him. All Europe will mourn his death; and for years to come every man born on this soil will be proud, for his sake, to call himself a Scotchman.

Wednesday, 11th.— ... At half-past twelve met Mr. Murray, Mr. Allen, and Mr. Byrne.... As we started for our ride, and were "cavalcading" leisurely along York Place, that most enchanting old sweetheart of mine, Baron Hume, came out of a house. I rode toward him, and he met me with his usual hearty, kind cordiality, and a world of old-fashioned stately courtesy, ending our conference by devoutly kissing the tip of my little finger, to the infinite edification of my party, upon whose minds I duly impressed the vast superiority of this respectful style of gallantry to the flippant, easy familiarity of the present day. These old beaux beat the young ones hollow in the theory of courtship, and it is only a pity that their time for practice is over. Commend me to this bowing and finger-kissing! it is at any rate more dignified than the nodding, bobbing, and hand-shaking of the present fashion. The be-Madaming, too, has in it something singularly pleasing to my taste; there's a hoop and six yards of brocade in each of its two syllables.... At the theater the play was "Francis I." I acted well, and the play went off very well. Mr. Allen came and sat in the greenroom, telling me all about Constantinople and the Crimea, and the beautiful countries he has seen, and where his memory and his wishes are forever wandering; a rather sad comment upon the perfect vision of content his charming home at Laurieston had suggested to me.

Thursday, 12th.— ... At the theater the play was "The Hunchback." The house was very good, and I acted very well. Dear Mr. Allen came into the greenroom, and had a long gossip with me.

Friday, 13th.— ... Went with Mr. Combe to the Phrenological Museum, and spent two hours listening to some very interesting details on the anatomy of the brain, which certainly tended to make the science more credible to my ignorance, though the general theory has never appeared to me as impossible and extravagant as some people think it. The insuperable point where I stick fast is a doubt of the practically beneficial result which its general acceptance would produce. I think they overrate the reforming power of their system, though Mr. Combe's account of the numbers who attend his lectures, and of the improvement of their bodily and mental conditions which he has himself witnessed, must, of course, make me feel diffident of my own judgment in the matter. Their own experience can alone test the utility of their system, and whether it does or does not answer their expectations. I thought of Hamlet as I sat on the ground, with my arms and lap full of skulls. It is curious enough to grasp the empty, worthless, unsightly case in which once dwelt the thinking faculty of a man. One of the best specimens of the human skull, it seems, is Raphael's; a cast of whose head I held lovingly in my hands, wishing it had been the very house where once abode that spirit of immortal beauty. [The phrenological authorities were mistaken, it seems, in attributing this skull to Raphael. I believe that it has been ascertained to be that of his friend, the engraver, Marc Antonio.] At the theater the play was "The Hunchback;" the house very good, and I played very well.

Saturday, 14th.—My last day in Edinburgh for two years; and who can tell for how many more? At eleven o'clock, Mr. Murray, Mr. Allen, Mr. Byrne, and myself sallied forth on horseback toward the Pentlands, having obtained half an hour's grace off dinner-time, in order to get to Habbies How. We went out by the Links, and up steep rises over a white and dusty road, with a flaring stone dyke on each side, and neither tree nor bush to shelter us from the scorching sunlight till we came to Woodhouseleigh, the haunted walk of a white specter, who, it seems, was fond of the shade, for her favorite promenade was an avenue overarched with the green arms of noble old elm trees; and we blessed the welcome shelter of the Ghost's Haunt.... A cloud fell over all our spirits as we rode away from this enchanting spot, and Mr. Murray, pointing to the sprig of heather I had put in my habit, said they would establish an Order of Knighthood, of which the badge should be a heather spray, and they three the members, and I the patroness; that they would meet and drink my health on the 14th of July, and on my birthday, every year till I returned; and a solemn agreement was made by all parties that whenever I did return and summoned my worthies, we should again adjourn together to the glen in the Pentlands. When we reached home, Mr. Allen, who cannot endure a formal parting, shook hands with me and bade me good-by as I dismounted, as if we were to ride again to-morrow. [And I never saw him again. Peace be with him! He was a most amiable and charming companion, and during these days of friendly intimacy, his conversation interested and instructed me, and his poetical feeling of Nature, and placid, unruffled serenity, added much to the pleasure of those delightful rides.] ... At the theater the play was "The Provoked Husband," for my benefit; the house was very fine, and I played pretty well. After it was over, the audience shouted and clamored for my father, who came and said a few words of our sorrow to leave their beautiful city.... Mrs. Harry, Lizzie, and I were in my dressing-room, crying in sad silence, and vainly endeavoring to control our emotion. Presently my father came hurriedly in, and folding them both in his arms, just uttered in a broken voice, "Good-by! God bless you!" and I, embracing my dear friends for the last time, followed him out of the room. It is not the time only that must elapse before I can see her again, it is the terrible distance, the slowness and uncertainty of communication; it is that dreadful America.

Thursday, 19th, Liverpool.— ... At eleven went to the theater for rehearsal; it was very slovenly. I wonder what the performance will be? In the evening to the theater; the play was "Francis I.," and the house was very good, which was almost to be wondered at in this plague-stricken city. [The cholera was raging in Liverpool.] I was frightened, as I always am at a new part, even in my own play, though glad enough to resign that odious dignity, the queen-mother. [The part of Louisa of Savoy had been given to me when first the piece was brought out at Covent Garden; I was now playing the younger heroine, Françoise de Foix.] I played pretty well, though there is nothing to be done with the part. She is perfectly uninteresting and ineffective; but it is better for the cast of the play that I should act her instead of Louisa. And when one can have such a specimen of a queen as we had to-night, it would be a thousand pities the audience should be put off with my inferior views of royalty. Such bouncing, frowning, growling, and snarling might have challenged a whole zoological garden full of wild beasts to surpass. It's a comfort to see that it is possible to play that part worse than I did.

Friday, 20th.—Went to rehearsal.... Received a letter from Lizzie, giving me an account of my dear old Newhaven fish-wife, poor body! to whom I had sent a farewell present by her. I received also a long copy of anonymous verses, in which I was rather pathetically remonstrated with for seeking fame and fortune out of my own country. The author is slightly mistaken; neither the love of money nor notoriety would carry me away from England, but the love of my father constrains me.... The American Consul and Mr. Arnold called. After dinner I read Combe's "Constitution of Man," which interested me very much, though it fails to convince me that phrenology can alone bestow this insight into human nature. At the theater "The School for Scandal;" I played pretty well, though the actors were all dreadfully imperfect, and some of them so nervous and quick, and some so nervous and slow, that it was hardly possible to keep pace with them.

Saturday, 21st.—From Liverpool to Manchester. After all, this Liverpool, with all its important wealth and industry, is a dismal-looking place, a swarming world of dingy red houses and dirty streets.... How well I remember the opening of this railway!... They have placed a marble tablet in the side of the road to commemorate the spot where poor Huskisson fell; I remembered it by the pools of dark-green water that, as we passed them then, made a dismal impression on me; they looked like stony basins of verdigris. How glad I was to see Chatmoss—that villainous, treacherous, ugly, useless bog—trenched and ditched in process of draining and reclaiming, with the fair, holy, healthy grain waving in bright green patches over the brown peaty soil! Next to moral conversion, and the reclaiming to their noble uses the perverted powers of human nature, there is nothing does one's heart so much good as the sight of waste and barren land reclaimed to the uses and wants of man; to see vegetation clothe the idle space, and the cursed and profitless soil teeming with the means of life and bringing forth abundant produce to requite the toil that fertilized it; to see the wilderness crowned with bounteous increase, and the blessing of God rising from the earth to reward the labor of His creatures. It forcibly reminds one of all that is left undone, and might be done, with that far more precious waste land, those multitudes of our ignorant poor, whose minds and spirits are as dark, as profitless, as barren, as dreary, and as dangerous, as this wild bog was formerly, and who were never ordained to live and die like so many human morasses.... In the evening to the theater, which was crammed from the floor to the ceiling; they are a pleasant audience, too, and make a delightful quantity of sympathetic noise. I did not play well, which was a pity and a shame, because they really deserved that one should do so; but my coadjutors were too much for me.

Sunday, 22d, Liverpool.—I did not think there was such another day in store for me as this. I thought all was past and over, and had forgotten the last drop in the bitter cup.... The day was bitter cold, and we were obliged to have a fire.

Liverpool, July 22.

My dear Mrs. Jameson,

I fear you are either anxious or vexed, or perhaps both, about the arrival of your books, and my non-acknowledgment of them. They reached me in all safety, and but for the many occupations which swallow up my time would have been duly receipted ere this. Thank you very much for them, for they are very elegant outside, and the dedication page, with which I should have been most ungracious to find any fault. The little sketch on that leaf differs from the design you had described to me some time ago, and I felt the full meaning of the difference. I read through your preface all in a breath; there are many parts of it which have often been matters of discussion between us, and I believe you know how cordially I coincide with most of the views expressed in it. The only point in your preliminary chapter on which I do not agree with you is the passage in which you say that humor is, of necessity and in its very essence, vulgar. I differ entirely with you here. I think humor is very often closely allied to poetry; not only a large element in highly poetic minds, which surely refutes your position, but kindred to the highest and deepest order of imagination, and frequently eminently fanciful and graceful in its peculiar manifestations. However, I cannot now make leisure to write about this, but while I read it I scored the passage as one from which I dissented. That, however, of course does not establish its fallacy; but I think, had I time, I could convince you of it. I acted Juliet on Wednesday, and read your analysis of it before doing so. Oh, could you but have seen and heard my Romeo!... I am sure it is just as well that an actress on the English stage at the present day should not have too distinct a vision of the beings Shakespeare intended to realize, or she might be induced, like the unfortunate heroine of the song, to "hang herself in her garters." To be sure there is always my expedient to resort to, of acting to a wooden vase; you know I had one put upon my balcony, in "Romeo and Juliet," at Covent Garden, to assist Mr. Abbott in drawing forth the expression of my sentiments. I have been reading over Portia to-day; she is still my dream of ladies, my pearl of womanhood.... I must close this letter, for I have many more to write to-night, and it is already late. Once more, thank you very much for your book, and believe me,

Ever yours very truly,

F. A. K.

August 1st.—Sailed for America.

The book referred to in this letter was Mrs. Jameson's "Analysis of Shakespeare's Female Characters," which she very kindly dedicated to me. The etching in the title-page was changed from the one she at first intended to have put in it, and represented a female figure in an attitude of despondency, sitting by the sea, and watching a ship sailing toward the setting sun; a design which I know she meant to have reference to my departure. I believe she subsequently changed it again to the one she had first executed, and which was of a less personal significance.... I exchanged no more letters with my friend Miss S——, who joined me at Liverpool, and remained with me till I sailed for America.... "A trip," as it is now called, to Europe or America, is one of the commonest of experiences, involving, apparently, so little danger, difficulty, or delay, that the feelings with which I made my first voyage across the Atlantic must seem almost incomprehensible to the pleasure-seeking or business-absorbed crowds who throng the great watery highway between the two continents.

But when I first went to America, steam had not shortened the passage of that formidable barrier between world and world. A month, and not a week, was the shortest and most favorable voyage that could be looked for. Few men, and hardly any women, undertook it as a mere matter of pleasure or curiosity; and though affairs of importance, of course, drew people from one shore to the other, and the stream of emigration had already set steadily westward, American and European tourists had not begun to cross each other by thousands on the high seas in search of health or amusement.

I was leaving my mother, my brothers and sister, my friends and my country, for two years, and could only hear from them at monthly intervals. I was going to work very hard, in a distasteful vocation, among strangers, from whom I had no right to expect the invariable kindness and indulgence my own people had favored me with. My spirits were depressed by my father's troubled fortunes, and I had just received the first sharp, smarting strokes in the battle of life; those gashes from which poor "unbruised youth," in its infinite self-compassion, fancies its very life-blood must all pour away; little imagining under what gangrened, festering wounds brave life will still hold on its way, and urge to the hopeless end its warfare with unconquerable sorrow. There is nothing more pathetic than the terrified impatience of youth under its first experience of grief, and its vehement appeal of "Behold, and see if any sorrow be like unto my sorrow!" to the patient adepts in suffering such as it has not yet begun to conceive of. Orlando's adjuration to the exiled duke in "As You Like It," and the wise Prince's reply, seem to me one of the most exquisite illustrations of the comparative griefs of youth and age.

Off Sandy Hook, Monday, September 5.

My dearest H——,

We are within three hours' sail of New York, having greeted the first corner of Long Island (the first land we saw) yesterday morning; but we are becalmed, and the sun shines so bright, and the air is so warm and breathless, that we seem to have every chance of lying here for the next—Heaven knows how long! In point of time, you see, our voyage has been very prosperous, and I am surprised that we have made such good progress, for the weather has been squally, with constant head-winds. I do not think we have had, in all, six days of fair wind, so that we have no reason whatever to complain of our advance, having come thus far in thirty-two days. You bade me write to you by ships passing us, but though we have encountered several bound eastward, we only hailed them without lying to; notwithstanding which, about a fortnight ago, on hearing that a vessel was about to pass us, I wrote you a scrawl, which none but you could have made out (so the fishes won't profit much by it), and a kind fellow-passenger undertook to throw it from our ship to the other as it passed us. She came alongside very rapidly, and though he flung with great force and good aim, the distance was too great, and my poor little missive fell into the black sea within twenty feet of its destination. I could not help crying to think that those words from my heart, that would have gladdened yours, should go down into that cold, inky water.... I pray to God that we may return to England, but I am possessed with a dread that I never shall....

I have been called away from this letter by one of those little incidents which Heaven in its mercy sends to break the monotony of a sea-voyage. Ever since daybreak this morning an English brig has been standing at a considerable distance behind us. About an hour ago we went on deck to watch the approach of a boat which they were sending off in our direction. The distance was about five miles, and the men had a hard pull in the broiling heat. When they came on board, you should have seen how we all clustered about them. The ship was a merchantman from Bristol, bound to New York; she had been out eleven weeks, her provisions were beginning to run short, and the crew was on allowance. Our captain, who is a gentleman, furnished them with flour, tea, sugar, porter, cold tongue, ham, eggs, etc., etc. The men remained about half an hour on board, and as they were remanning their boat we saw a whole cargo of eatables carried to it from our steerage passengers. You know that these are always poor people, who are often barely supplied themselves with necessaries for their voyage. The poor are almost invariably kind and compassionate to one another, and Gaffer Gray is half right when he says—

"The poor man alone,
When he hears the poor moan,
Of his morsel one morsel will give."

They (the men from the brig) gave us news from Halifax, where they had put in. The cholera had been in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York; the latter town was almost deserted, and the people flying in numbers from the others. This was rather bad news to us, who were going thither to find audiences (if possible not few, whether fit or not), but it was awful to such as were going back to their homes and families. I looked at the anxious faces gathered round our informer, and thought how the poor hearts were flying, in terrible anticipation of the worst, to the nests where they had left their dear ones, and eagerly counting every precious head in the homes over which so black a cloud of doom had gathered in their absence.... My father, though a bad sailor, and suffering occasionally a good deal, has, upon the whole, borne the voyage well. Poor dear Dall has been the greatest wretch on board; she has been perfectly miserable the whole time. It has made me very unhappy, for she has come away from those she loves very dearly on my account, and I cannot but feel sad to see that most excellent creature now, in what should be the quiet time of her life, leaving home and all its accustomed ways, habits, and comforts, and dear A——, who is her darling, to come wandering to the ends of the earth after me.... These distant and prolonged separations seem like foretastes of death.... We have seen an American sun, and an American moon, and American stars, and we think they "get up these things better than we do." We have had several fresh squalls, and one heavy gale; we have shipped sundry seas; we have had rat-hunting and harpooning of porpoises; we have caught several hake and dogfish.

New York, America, Wednesday, September 5, 1832.

Here we really are, and perhaps you, who are not here, will believe it more readily than I who am, and to whom it seems an impossible kind of dream from which I must surely presently wake. We made New York harbor Monday night at sunset, and cast anchor at twelve o'clock off Staten Island, where we lay till yesterday morning at half-past nine, when a steamboat came alongside to take the passengers to shore. A thick fog covered the shores, and the rain poured in torrents; but had the weather been more favorable, I should have seen nothing of our approach to the city, for I was crying bitterly. The town, as we drove through it from the landing, struck me as foreign in its appearance—continental, I mean; trees are mixed very prettily with the houses, which are painted of various colors, and have green blinds on the outside, giving an idea of coolness and shade.

The sunshine is glorious, and the air soft and temperate; our hotel is pleasantly situated, and our rooms are gay and large. The town, as I see it from our windows, reminds me a little of Paris. Yesterday evening the trees and lighted shop-windows and brilliant moonlight were like a suggestion of the Boulevards; it is very gay, and rather like a fair.

The cholera has been very bad, but it is subsiding, and the people are returning to town. We shall begin our work in about ten days. I have not told you half I could say, but foolscap will contain no more. God bless you, dear!

Affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

The foreboding with which I left my own country was justified by the event. My dear aunt died, and I married, in America; and neither of us ever had a home again in England.

New York, September 16, 1832.

My dearest H——,

What shall I say to you? First of all, pray don't forget me, don't be altered when I see you again, don't die before I come back, don't die if I never come back.... You cannot imagine how strange the comparisons people here are perpetually making between this wonderful sapling of theirs and our old oak seem to me.... My father, thank God, is wonderfully improved in health, looks, and spirits; the fine, clear, warm (hot it should be called) atmosphere agrees with him, and the release from the cares and anxieties of that troublesome estate of his in St. Giles' will, I am sure, be of the greatest service to him. He begins his work to-morrow night with Hamlet, and on Tuesday I act Bianca. It is thought expedient that we should act singly the two first nights, and then make a "constellation." Dall is in despair because I am to be discovered instead of coming on (a thing actors deprecate, because they do not receive their salvo of entrance applause), and also because I am not seen at first in what she thinks a becoming dress. For my part, I am rather glad of this decision, for besides Bianca's being one of my best parts, the play, as the faculty have mangled it, is such a complete monologue that I am less at the mercy of my coadjutors than in any other piece I play in....

Dall is very well, very hot, and very mosquito-bitten. The heat seems to me almost intolerable, though it is here considered mild autumn weather: the mornings and evenings are, it is true, generally freshened with a cool delicious air, which is at this moment blowing all my pens and paper away, and compensating us for our midday's broiling. I do nothing but drink iced lemonade, and eat peaches and sliced melon, in spite of the cholera.

Baths are a much cheaper and commoner luxury (necessary) in the hotels here than with us; a great satisfaction to me, who hope in heaven, if I ever get there, to have plenty of water to wash in, and, of course, it will all be soft rainwater there. What a blessing! On board ship we were not stinted in that respect, but had as much water as we desired for external as well as internal purposes.

There are no water-pipes or cisterns in this city such as we have, but men go about as they do in Paris, with huge water-butts, supplying each house daily; for although a broad river (so called) runs on each side of this water-walled city, the one—the East River—is merely an arm of the sea; and the Hudson receives the salt tide-water, and is rendered brackish and unfit for washing or cooking purposes far beyond the city. There are fine springs, and a full fresh-water stream, at a distance of some miles; but the municipality is not very rich, and is economical and careful of the public money, and many improvements which might have been expected to have been effected here long ago are halting in their advance, leaving New York ill paved, ill lighted, and indifferently supplied with a good many necessaries and luxuries of modern civilization.

[This was fifty-six years ago. Times are altered since this letter was written. New York is neither ill paved nor ill lighted; the municipality is rich, but neither economical, careful, nor honest, in dealing with the public moneys. The rapid spread of superficial civilization and accumulation of easily-got wealth, together with incessant communication with Europe, have made of the great cities of the New World, centres of an imperfect but extreme luxury, vying with, and in some respects going beyond, all that London or Paris presents for the indulgence of tastes pampered by the oldest civilization of Europe.

One day, after the Croton water had been brought into New York, I was sitting with the venerable Chancellor Kent at the window of his house in Union Square, and, pointing to the fountain that sprang up in the midst of the inclosure, he said, "When I was a boy, much more than half a century ago, I used to go to the Croton water, and paddle, and fish, and bathe, and swim, and loiter my time away in the summer days. I cannot go out there any more for any of these pleasant purposes, but the Croton water has come here to me." What a ballad Schiller or Goethe would have made of that! That morning visit to Chancellor Kent has left that pretty picture in my mind, and the recollection of his last words as he shook hands with me: "Ay, madam, the secret of life is always to have excitement enough, and never too much." But he did not give me the secret of that secret.]

There are, on an average, half a dozen fires in various parts of the town every night—I mean houses on fire. The sons of all the gentlemen here are volunteer engineers and firemen, and great is the delight they take in tearing up and down the streets, accompanied by red lights, speaking trumpets, and a rushing, roaring escort of running amateur extinguishers, who make night hideous with their bawling and bellowing. This evening as I was observing that we had had no fire to-day, Dall said the weather was so hot, she thought they must have left off fires for the season.

Speaking of carriages and the devices on the panels of them here, which appear to be rather fancy pieces than heraldic bearings, my father said, "I wonder what they do for arms." "Use legs," said Dall immediately, not at all bethinking herself how ancient a device on the shield of the Island of Man the three legs were, or knowing how much more ancient on the coins of Crotona, I think, or some other of the Magna Grecian colonies.

The hours which prevail here are those of our shop-keeping population; they rise and go to business very early, dine at three, which indeed is considered late, take tea at five, and supper at nine, which seems to us very primitive.... The women here are, generally speaking, very pretty little creatures, with a great deal of freshness and brilliancy; they dress in the extreme of the French fashion, and, I suppose from some unfavorable influence of the climate, they lose their beauty prematurely—they become full-blown very early, and their bloom is extremely evanescent; they fade almost suddenly.... There seems to be a great deal of consumption here. The climate is as capricious as ours, with this additional disadvantage, that the extremes of heat and cold are much more intense, and the transitions much more violent, the temperature varying occasionally as much as thirty degrees in the twenty-four hours. I have just left off writing for five minutes to watch the lightning, which is dancing in a fiery ring all round the horizon—summer lightning, no thunder, although the flashes are strong and vivid....

We have had such a tremendous storm—really gorgeous, grand, and awful; lightning that stretched from side to side of the sky, making a blaze like daylight for several seconds at a time. The mere reflection of it on the ground was more than the eye could endure; great forked ribbons of fire darting into the very bosom of the city and its crowded dwellings, or zigzagging through the air to an accompaniment of short, sharp, crackling thunder, succeeded by endless, deep, full-toned rolls that made the whole air shake and vibrate with the heavy concussion; pelting and pouring rain, a perfect tornado of wind. Heaven and earth are all, while I write, one livid, violet-colored flame, and the thunder resounds through the wild frenzy of the elements like the voice of "the Ruler of the spirits." My eyes ache with the incessant glare, and I must close my letter, for it is past eleven o'clock, and I have to rehearse to-morrow morning.... I have seen Mr. Wallack since our arrival, whom I never saw in England, either on or off the stage. I went the other night to see him in one of his favorite pieces, "The Rent-Day," which made me cry dreadfully, but chiefly, I believe, because, when they are ruined, he asks his wife if she will go with him to America. You see I am taking to play-going in my old age. The theater is very pretty, of the best possible dimensions for me, and tolerably good for the voice. We leave this place for Philadelphia on the 10th of October, and remain there a fortnight, and then go on to Boston....

Last Thursday we crossed the Hudson in one of the steamers constantly plying between the opposite shores and New York, and took a delightful walk along the New Jersey shore to a place called Hoboken, famous once as a dueling-ground, now the favorite resort of a pacific society of bon vivants, who meet once a week to eat turtle, or, as it is expressed on their cards of invitation, for "spoon exercise." The distance from our landing-point to the place where these meetings are held is about five miles, a charming walk through a strip of forest-ground, which crowns the banks of the river, gradually rising to a considerable height above it. We were delighted with the vivid, various, and strange foliage of the trees, the magnificent river, broad and blue as a lake, with its high and richly wooded shore, and the sparkling, glittering town opposite. We looked down to the Narrows, the defile through which the waters of this noble estuary reach the Atlantic, and between whose rocky walls two or three ships stood out against the brilliant sky. The ebbing tide plashed on the rocks far below us, and the warm grass through which we walked was alive with grasshoppers, whose scarlet wings, suddenly unfolded when they flew, made me take them for some strange species of butterfly. It was all indescribably bright and joyous-looking, and the air of a transparent clearness that was one of the most striking characteristics of the whole scene, and one of the most delightful.... [In discussing the relative merits of England and America, Dr. Channing once said to me, "The earth is yours, but the heavens are ours;" and I quite agree with him. I have never seen a sky comparable, for splendor of color or translucent purity, to that of the Northern States.]

I have been reading your favorite book, "Salmonia." ... I am rather surprised at your liking it so very much, because, though the descriptions are beautiful, and the natural history interesting, and the philosophical and moral reflections scattered through it delightful, yet there is so much that is purely technical about fishing and its processes, and addressed only to the hook-and-line fraternity, that I should not have thought it calculated to charm you so greatly. However, you may have some associations connected with it; liking is a very complex and many-motived thing....

We went through the fish and fruit markets the other day; unfortunately it was rather late in the morning, and of course the glory of the market was over, but yet there remained enough to enchant us, with their abundant plenteousness of good things. The fruit-market was beautiful; fruit-baskets half as high as I am, placed in rows of a dozen, filled with peaches, and painted of a bright vermilion color, which throws a ruddy becoming tint over the downy fruit. It looked like something in the "Arabian Nights;" heaps, literally heaps of melons, apples, pears, and wild grapes, in the greatest profusion. I was enchanted with the beautiful forms, bright colors, and fragrant smell, but I saw no flowers, and I have seen hardly any since I have been here, which is rather a grief to me....

Americans are the most extravagant people in the world, and flowers are among them objects of the most lavish expenditure. The prices paid for nosegays, wreaths, baskets, and devices of every sort of hot-house plants, are incredible to any reasonable mind. At parties and balls ladies are laden with costly nosegays which will not even survive the evening's fatigue of carrying them. Dinner and luncheon parties are adorned, not only with masses of exquisite bloom as table ornaments, but by every lady's plate a magnificent nosegay of hot-house flowers is placed; and I knew a lady who, wishing to adorn her ballroom with rather more than usual floral magnificence, had it hung round with garlands of white camellias and myosotis.

At the theater enormously expensive nosegays and huge baskets of forced flowers are handed to the favorite performers from the front of the house, till the ceremony becomes embarrassing, and almost ridiculous for the object of the demonstration. The churches at certain festivals are hung with draperies of costly hot-house flowers; the communion-tables heaped with them. Weddings, of course, are natural occasions for that species of ornament, but in America funerals are as flowery as marriage-feasts; and I have seen there in mid-winter, with the thermometer at fifteen degrees below zero, large crosses, and hearts, and wreaths, made entirely of rosebuds and lilies of the valley, as part of the solemnities of a burial service; and a young girl who died in the flowerless season was not only shrouded in blossoms, but as her coffin was carried to the bosom of the wintry earth, a white pall of the finest material was thrown over it, with a great cross of double forced violets, almost the length of the coffin, laid on it. I have had as many as a dozen huge baskets of camellias, violets, orange-flower, and tuberose, at one time, in my room; perishable tokens of anonymous public and private favor, the cost of which used to fill me with dismay: and on one occasion a table of magnificent hot-house flowers was sent to me, of such dimensions that both sides of the street door had to be opened to admit it. When I have deplored the inordinate amount of money lavished upon that which could only impart pleasure for so brief a time, I have been answered, but not converted from my feeling of disapprobation and regret, that the gardeners profited by this wild extravagance. In New York I have known a guinea paid for a gentleman's button-hole rosebud, and three guineas for half a dozen sprays of lily of the valley.

Good-by, my dearest H——. I pray for you morning and night. Is not that thinking of you, and loving you as best I can?

Your affectionate

F. A. K.

Dearest H——,

... We are all pretty well, but all but devoured by multitudinous and multivarious beasts of prey—birds, I suppose they are: mosquitoes, ants, and flies, by day; and flies, fleas, and worse, by night. The plagues of Egypt were a joke to it. We spend our lives in murdering hecatombs of creeping and jumping things, and vehemently slapping our own faces with intent to kill the flying ones that incessantly buzz about one. It is rather a deplorable existence, and reminds me of one of the most unpleasant circles in Dante's "Hell," which I don't think could have been much worse. My father began his work on Monday last with Hamlet. Dall and I went into a private box to see him; he acted admirably, and looked wonderfully young and handsome. The house was crammed, and the audience, we were assured, was enthusiastic beyond all precedent.

On Tuesday I came out in Bianca; I was rather glad they had appointed that part for my first, because it is one of my best; but had not the genius of theatrical management made such a mere monologue of the play as it has, I verily believe I should have been "swamped" by my helpmate. My Fazio was an unhappy man who played Romeo once with me in London, and failed utterly: moreover, he had studied this part in a hurry, it seems, and did not know three words of it, and was, besides, too frightened to profit by my prompting. The only thing that seemed to occur to him was to go down on his knees, which he did every five minutes. Once when I was on mine, he dropped down suddenly exactly opposite to me, and there we were, looking for all the world like one of those pious conjugal vis-à-vis that adorn antique tombs in our cathedrals. It really was exceedingly absurd. But I looked and acted well, and the play was very successful.... I was not nervous for my first night, till my unhappy partner made me so. My dislike to the stage would really render me indifferent to my own success, but that I am working for my livelihood; my bread depends upon success, and that is a realistic, if not an artistic, view of the case, of which I acknowledge the importance....

Absolute and uncompromising vulgarity is really not very objectionable; it is rather refreshing, indeed, for it is simple, and, in that respect, rare. Vulgarity allied to pretension and the affectation of fine manners is the only real vulgarity, and is an intolerable thing. The plain rusticity, or even coarseness, of what are called the lower classes, is infinitely preferable to the assumption of gentility of those a little above them in the social scale. The artisan, or day-laborer, or common workman, is apt to be a gentleman, compared with a certain well-to-do small shopkeeper....

On Thursday, when I went to rehearse "Romeo and Juliet," I found that the unfortunate Mr. Keppel was, by general desire, taken out of Romeo, which my father was therefore called upon, for the first time, to act with me. I was vexed at this every way. I was sorry for the poor player, whose part, of course, was money to him; and sorry for my father, who has the greatest objection to playing Romeo, for which his age, of course, disqualifies him, however much his excellent acting may tend to make one forget it; and I was sorry for the public, who lost his admirable Mercutio, which I do not think they were compensated for by his taking the other part....

The steward of our ship, a black—a very intelligent, obliging, respectable servant—came here the other morning to ask my father for an order, at the same time adding that it must be for the gallery, as people of color were not allowed to go into any other part of the theater. Qu'en dis-tu? The prejudice against these unfortunate people is, of course, incomprehensible to us. On board ship, after giving that same man some trouble, Dall poured him out a glass of wine, when we were having our dinner, whereupon the captain looked at her with utter amazement, and I thought some little contempt, and said, "Ah! one can tell by that that you are not an American;" which sort of thing makes one feel rather glad that one is not.

[This was in 1832, when slavery literally governed the United States. In 1874, when the Civil War had washed out slavery with the blood of free men, the prejudice engendered by it governed them still to the following degree. Going to the theater in Philadelphia one night, I desired my servant, a perfectly respectable and decorous colored man, to go into the house and see the performance. This, however, he did not succeed in doing, being informed at all the entrance doors that persons of color were not admitted to any part of the theater. At this same time, more than half the State legislature of South Carolina were blacks. Moreover, at this same time, colored children were not received into the public schools of Philadelphia, though colored citizens were eligible, and in some cases acted as members of the board of management of these very schools. I talked of this outrageous inconsistent prejudice with some of my friends; among others, the editor of a popular paper. They were all loud in their condemnation of the state of things, but strongly of opinion that to move at all in the matter would be highly inopportune and injudicious. Time, they said, would settle all these questions; and, without doubt, it will. Charles Sumner, who thought Time could afford to have his elbow jogged about them, had just gone to his grave, leaving, unfortunately, incomplete his bill of rights in behalf of the colored citizens of the United States.

My servant was a citizen of the United States, having a vote, when he was turned from the theater door as a person of color; and negroes had been elected as Members of Congress at that very time. Strangely enough, Philadelphia, once the seat of enthusiastic and self-devoted Quaker abolitionism, the home of that noble and admirable woman, Lucretia Mott, who stood heroically in its vanguard, is now one of the strongholds of the most illiberal prejudice against the blacks.]

On Friday we acted "The School for Scandal." Our houses have been very fine indeed, in spite of the intolerable heat of the weather.... My ill-starred Fazio of Thursday night is making a terrible stir in the papers, appealing to the public, and writing long letters about his having merely studied the part to accommodate me. "Hard case—unjust partiality—superior influence," etc., etc.—in short, an attempt at a little cabal, the effect of which is that he has obtained leave to appear again to-morrow night in Jaffier to my Belvidera. The poor man is under a strong mental delusion, he cannot act in the least; however, we shall see what he will do with "Venice Preserved." ...

Yesterday evening we dined with some English people who are staying in this hotel, and met Dr. Wainwright, rector of the most "fashionable" church in New York; a very agreeable, good, and clever man, who expressed great delight at having an opportunity of meeting us in private, as his congregation are so strait-laced that he can neither call upon us nor invite us to his house, much less set his foot in the theater. The probable consequence of any of these enormities, it seems, would be deserted pews next Sunday, and perhaps eventually the forced resignation of his cure of souls. This is rather narrow minded, I think, for this free and enlightened country. Think of my mother's dear old friend, Dr. Hughes, and Milman, and Harness, and Dyce, and all our excellent reverend friends and intimate acquaintance....

To-morrow we act "Venice Preserved," on Tuesday "Much Ado about Nothing," Wednesday is a holiday, on Thursday, for my benefit, "The Stranger," and on Friday "The Hunchback." On the 10th of next month we act in Philadelphia, where we shall remain for a fortnight, and then return here for a fortnight, after which we go on to Boston. God bless you, dear! It is past twelve at night, and I have a ten-o'clock rehearsal to-morrow morning.

Ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

Part of Letter to Mrs. Jameson.

New York, September 30, 1832.

I am not sure that, upon the whole, our acting is not rather too quiet—tame, I suppose they would call it—for our present public. Ranting and raving in tragedy, and shrieks of unmeaning laughter in comedy, are not, you know, precisely our style, and I am afraid our audiences here may think us flat. I was informed by a friend of mine who heard the remark, that one gentleman observed to another, after seeing my father in "Venice Preserved," "Lord bless you! it's nothing to Cooper's acting—nothing! Why, I've seen the perspiration roll down his face like water when he played Pierre! You didn't see Mr. Kemble put himself to half such pains!" Which reminds me of the Frenchwoman's commendation to her neighbor of a performance of Dupré, the great Paris tenor of his day: "Ah! ce pauvre cher M. Dupré! ce brave homme! quel mal il se donne pour chanter cela! Regardez donc, madame, il est tout en sueur!" But this order of criticism, of course, may be met with anywhere; and the stamp-and-stare-and-start-and-scream-school has had its admirers all the world over since the days of Hamlet the Dane.

I have not seen much of either places or people yet.... This city is picturesque and foreign-looking; trees are much intermixed with the houses, among them a great many fine willows, and these, together with the various colors of the houses, and the irregularity of the streets and buildings, form constantly "little bits" that would gladden the eye of a painter. The sky here is beautiful; I find in it what you have seen in Italy, and I only in Angerstein's Gallery, the orange sunsets of Claude Lorraine.

We leave New York for Philadelphia after next week, and shall remain there three weeks.

I have read and noted much of your pretty book. There are one or two points which shall "serve for sweet discourses" in our time to come. I find great satisfaction in our discussions, for though I may not often confess to being convinced by your arguments in our differences (does any one ever do so?), I derive so much information from them, that they are as profitable as pleasant to me. Are you going to be busy with your pen soon again? Write me how the world is going on yonder, and believe me ever truly yours,

F. A. K.

New York, September 30, 1832.

Dearest H——,

... Perhaps, as you say, it is morbid to dwell as I do upon the unreality of acting, because its tangible reality makes its appearance duly every morning with the "returns" of the preceding night; but I am not sure that it is morbid to consider wants exaggerated and necessities unreal which render insufficient earnings that would be ample for any one's real need. A livelihood, of course, we could make in England.... You speak of all the various strange things I am to see, and the amount of knowledge I shall involuntarily acquire, by this residence in America; but you know I am what Dr. Johnson would have considered disgracefully "incurious," and the lazy intellectual indifference which induced me to live in London by the very spring of the fountain of knowledge without so much as stooping my lips to it, prevails with me here.

[Our house in Great Russell Street, which was the last at the corner of Montague Place, adjoined the British Museum, and has since been taken into, or removed for (I don't know which), the new buildings of that institution. Our friend Panizzi, the learned librarian, lived in the house that stood where ours, formerly my uncle's, did. While we were still living there, however, I was allowed a privileged entrance at all times to the library, and am ashamed to think how seldom I availed myself of so great a favor.]

Then, too, my profession occupies nearly the whole of my time; I have rehearsals every day, and act four times a week; my journalizing takes up a good deal of my leisure. Walking in the heat we still have here fatigues me and hurts my feet very much, especially when I have to stand at the theater all the evening. Although I have been here a month, I have seen but little either of places or people; the latter, you know, I nowhere affect, and my distaste for the society of strangers must, of course, interfere with my deriving information from them. Still, as you say, I must inevitably see and learn much that is new to me, and I take pleasure in the hope that when I return to you I shall be less distressingly ignorant than you must often have found me....

I am very sorry my brother Henry and his men are going to be sent upon so odious an errand as tithe-collecting must be in Ireland. I trust in God he may meet with no mischief while fulfilling his duty; I should be both to think of that comely-looking young thing bruised or broken, maimed or murdered. I hardly think your savage Irishers would have the heart to hurt him, he looks so like, what indeed he is, a mere boy; but then, to be sure, his errand is not one to recommend him to their mercy.

I have read Bryant's poetry, and like it very much. The general spirit of it is admirable; it is all wholesome poetry, and some of it is very beautiful.

I am going to get Graham's "History of the United States," and Smith's "History of Virginia," to beguile my journey to Philadelphia with. I can't fancy a savage woman marrying a civilized man.... I suppose love might bring harmony out of the discords of natures so dissimilar, but I think if I had been a wild she-American, I should not have been tamed by one of the invading race, my hunters. Pocahontas thought differently....

Are you acquainted with any of Daniel Webster's speeches? They are very fine, eloquent, and powerful; and one that he delivered upon the commemoration of the landing of the English exiles at Plymouth, in many parts, magnificent. I was profoundly affected by it when my father read it to us on board ship....

Bad as your mice, of which you complain so bitterly, may be, they are civilized Christian creatures compared with the heathen swarms with which we wage war incessantly here. Every evening, as soon as the sun sets, clouds of mosquitoes begin their war-dance round us; their sting is most venomous, and as my patience is not even skin-deep, I tear myself like a maniac, and then, instead of oil, pour aromatic vinegar into my wounds, and a very pretty species of torture is produced by that means, I assure you. Besides these winged devils, we have swarms of flies, which also bite and sting, with a venomous rancor of which I should have thought their frivolity incapable. Besides these, every cupboard and drawer in our rooms is full of moths. Besides these, we have an army of cantankerous fleas quartered upon us. Besides these, we have one particular closet where we keep—our bugs, and where for the most part, I am truly thankful to say, they keep themselves. Besides these, we have two or three ants' nests in our bedroom, and everything we look upon seems but a moving mass of these red, long-legged, but always exemplary insects. These fellow-creatures make one's life not worth much having, and I do nothing all day long but sing the famous entomological chorus in "Faust;" and if this goes on much longer, I feel as if I should take to buzzing. Do you know that it is hard upon three o'clock in the morning? I must leave off and go to bed, for I rehearse Constance to-morrow at eleven, and act her to-morrow night. On Friday I act Bizarre in "The Inconstant," and think I shall find it great fun.... God bless you, dearest H——.

Ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

Mansion House, Philadelphia, October 10, 1832.

Dearest H——,

Do not let the date of this make any alteration in your way of addressing your letters, which must still be "Park Theater, New York;" for before this reaches you we shall probably have returned thither; but I date particularly that you may follow us with your mind's legs, and know where to find us. My dearest H——, in spite of an often heavy heart, and my distaste for my present surroundings, I have reason to be most grateful, and I trust I am so, for the benefits which we have already derived from a visit to this far world beyond the sea. The first and greatest of these is the wonderful improvement in my dear father's health. He looks full ten years younger than when last you saw him, and besides enjoying better spirits from the absence of the many cares and anxieties and vexations that weighed upon him daily in England, he says that he is conscious since he came away of a great increase of absolute muscular strength and vigor; and when he said this, I felt that my share of the unpleasant duty of coming hither was already amply repaid.... We have finished our first engagement at New York, which was for twelve nights, and have every reason to be satisfied with our financial, as well as professional, success. Living here is not as cheap as we had been led to expect, but our earnings are very considerable, and as we labor for these, it is matter of rejoicing that we labor so satisfactorily.

Dall is very well, except the nuisance of a bad cold. I am very well, without exception. The only unpleasant effect I feel from this climate is a constant tendency to slight relaxation of the throat, but this is nothing more than a trifling inconvenience, very endurable, and which probably a little more seasoning will remove.... I tell you of our health first, for at our distance from each other that is the matter of greatest moment and anxiety....

I must tell you of our future arrangements; and, to begin like an Irishwoman, we arrived here on Monday. My father acts to-night for the first time, Hamlet; and I make my first appearance to-morrow in "Fazio." We shall act here for three weeks, and then return to New York for a month; after which we shall proceed to Boston, whence look to receive volumes from me about Webster, and Channing, and our friends and fellow-passengers, the H——s, who reside there.

I like this place better than New York; it has an air of greater age. It has altogether a rather dull, sober, mellow hue, which is more agreeable than the glaring newness of New York. There are one or two fine public buildings, and the quantity of clean, cool-looking white marble which they use both for their public edifices and for the doorsteps of the private houses has a simple and sumptuous appearance, which is pleasant. It is electioneering time, and all last night the streets resounded with cheers and shouts, and shone with bonfires. The present President, Jackson, appears to be far from popular here, and though his own partisans are determined, of course, to re-elect him if possible, a violent struggle is likely to take place; and here already his opponent, Henry Clay, who is the leader of the aristocratic party in the United States, is said to have obtained the superiority over him.

I have got Graham's and Smith's "Histories," and though my time for reading is anything but abundant, yet every night and morning I do contrive, while brushing the outside of my head, to cram something into the inside of it.

I cannot bear to give up any advantage which I once possessed, and therefore struggle to keep up, in some degree, my music and Italian. These, together with rehearsing every morning, and acting four times a week, besides my journal, which I very seldom neglect, make up a good deal of daily occupation. Then, one must sacrifice a certain amount of time to the conventional waste of society, receiving and returning visits, etc.... I like what I have read of Graham very much; the matter is very interesting, and the spirit in which it is treated; and I am deeply in love with Captain John Smith, and wonder greatly at Pocahontas marrying anybody else. I suppose, however, the savage was not without excuse; for Mary Stuart, who knew something of these matters, says, with a rather satirical glance at her cousin of England, "En ces sortes de choses, la plus sage de nous toutes n'est qu'un peu moins sotte que les autres."

I have been to my first rehearsal here to-day; the theater is small, but pretty enough. The public has high pretensions to considerable critical judgment and literary and dramatic taste, and scouts the idea of being led by the opinion of New York.... It is rather tiresome that fools are cut upon the same pattern all the world over. What is the profit of traveling? Oh dear! I think my Fazio has got St. Vitus's dance!...

Yesterday I tried some horses, which were rather terrible quadrupeds. They were not ill-bred cattle to look at, and I should think of a race that, with care and attention, might be brought to considerable perfection; but they are never properly broken for the saddle. The Americans who have spoken to me about riding say that they do not like a horse to have what we consider proper paces, but prefer a shambling sort of half-trot, half-canter, which they judiciously call a rack, and which is the ugliest pace to behold, and the most difficult to endure, possible. They never use a curb, but ride their horses upon the snaffle entirely, dragging it as tight as they can, and having the appearance of holding on for dear life by it; so that the horse, in addition to the awkward gait I have described, throws his head up, and pokes his nose out, and with open jaws "devours the road" before him....

I acted here last night for the first time. Dall and my father say that I received my reception very ungraciously. I am sure I am very sorry, I did not mean to do so, but I really had not the heart or the face to smile and look as pleased and pleasant as I can at a parcel of strangers.... I was not well, or in spirits, and laboring under a severe cold, which I acquired on board the steamboat that brought down the Delaware.... Neither the Raritan nor the Delaware struck me in any way except by their great width. These vast streams naturally suggest the mighty resources which a country so watered presents to the commercial enterprise of its inhabitants. The breadth of these great rivers dwarfs their shores and makes their banks appear flat and uninteresting, though the large lake-like basins into which they occasionally expand are grand from the mere extent and volume of the sweeping mass of waters.

The colors of the autumnal foliage are rich and beautiful beyond imagination—crimson and gold, like a regal mantle, instead of the sad russet cloak of our fading woods. I think, beautiful as this is, that its gorgeousness takes away from the sweet solemnity that makes the fall of the year pre-eminently the season of thoughtful contemplation. Our autumn at home is mellow and harmonious, though sometimes melancholy; but the brilliancy of this decay strikes one sometimes with a sudden sadness, as if the whole world were dying of consumption, with these glittering gleams and hectic flushes, a mere deception of disease and death.... Good-by, my dearest H——

Philadelphia, October 14, 1832.

Dearest H——,

"Boston is a Yankee town, and so is Philadelphy;" considering which, I assure you I find the latter quite a civilized place. The above quotation is from "Yankee-doodle," the National Anthem of the Americans, which I will sing to you some day when I am within hearing.

We have just returned from church. Dall and I being too late this morning for the service, which begins at half-past ten, sallied forth in search of salvation this afternoon, and after wandering about a little, entered a fine-looking church, which we found was a Presbyterian place of worship.... The preaching to-day was extemporaneous, and extremely feeble and commonplace, occasionally reminding me of your eloquent friend at Skerries.... I shall try, on my return to New York, to settle to some work in earnest, as I hope there that we shall repeat the plays we have already acted, and so need no rehearsals.... To-morrow I act Juliet to my father's Romeo; he does it still most beautifully.... In spite of his acting it with his own child (which puts a manifest absurdity on the very face of it), the perfection of his art makes it more youthful, graceful, ardent, and lover-like—a better Romeo, in short, than the youngest pretender to it nowadays. It is certainly simple truth when he says, "I am the youngest of that name, for lack of a better," when the nurse asks for young Romeo.

Wednesday we act "The School for Scandal," and Friday "Venice Preserved." So there's your play-bill....

At this moment a great political excitement pervades the country; it is the time of the Presidential Election, and the most vehement efforts are being made by the Democratic party to maintain the present President, General Jackson, in his post. The majority, I believe, is in his favor, though we are told that the "better classes" (whatever that may mean where no distinctions of class exist) embrace the cause of his opponent, Henry Clay.

It seems curious, if it is true, as we have been assured, that in this one State of Pennsylvania, eight thousand persons out of fifty who have the right of voting were all who in this last election exercised it; so that the much-vaunted privilege of universal suffrage does not seem to be highly prized where it is possessed.

From all the opinions that I hear expressed upon the subject, it does not seem as though the system of election prevalent here works much better, or is much freer from abuses, than the well-vilified one which England has just been reforming. Bribery and corruption are familiar here as elsewhere, to those who have, and those who wish to have, power; and I have not yet heard a single American speak of our Radical reformers without uplifted hands at what they consider their folly in not "letting well alone," or, as they say, in substituting one set of abuses for another, as they declare we shall do if we adopt their vote by ballot system.

I have now written you a philosophical, moral, and political letter, and beg you will score up my attempt to write rationally against the loads of gibberish I have from time to time discoursed to you. Good bless you, dearest H——! Three thousand miles away, I am still

Always your affectionate

F. A. K.

Philadelphia, October 22, 1832.

Dear H——,

My first news is deplorable, and I beg you will lament over it accordingly. I eat little, drink less, rehearse six mornings and act five nights a week; in spite of all which, and riding a heavy-going, jolting, shambling, hard-pulling horse, I have grown so fat that I really cannot perceive that there is any shape in particular about me. Grotesque things sometimes are melancholy too, and it is so with me, for I am both....

My father and Dall are very well; at this moment he is busy saying, and she hearing him say, the part of Fazio, which he is to act with me to-morrow night. I dread it dreadfully; acting anything painful with him always tries my nerves extremely.

Bianca is a part of terrible excitement in itself, without the addition of having to act it to his Fazio. I cannot get rid of his being he, and it agonizes me really to see his sham agony; however, "'tis my vocation, Hal." It is very well that our audiences should look at us as mere puppets, for could they sometimes see the real feelings of those for whose false miseries their sympathies are excited, I believe sufficiently in their humanity to think they would kindly give us leave to leave off and go home. Ours is a very strange trade, and I am sorry to say that every day increases my distaste for it.... I do not think that during my father's life I shall ever leave the stage; it is very selfish to feel regret at this, I know, but it sometimes seems to me rather dreary to look along my future years, and think that they will be devoted to labor that I dislike and despise.... For many years—ever since I entered upon my first girlhood, indeed—a quiet, lonely life upon a small independence has been the aim of my desires and my notion of happiness. Italy and the south of France formerly constantly solicited my imagination, as offering pleasant places wherein to build a solitary nest.... And now a cottage near Edinburgh, with an income of two hundred a year, seems to me the most desirable of earthly possessions; but, though this is certainly not a very wild vision of wealth or magnificence, I fear it is quite as little within my reach as southern palaces, or villas on the Mediterranean.

My father has hitherto been able to lay by nothing, and my assistance is absolutely necessary to him, ... and as long as I can in any way serve my father's interests by remaining in my profession I shall do so, and must naturally look forward to a prolonged period of my present exertions. It is useless pondering upon this, but I have been led to do so lately from a letter which my father received from Mr. Bartley, the stage manager of Covent Garden, the other day, which contained the plan of a new theatrical speculation, in which he is most anxious to engage us. I know not how my father feels upon this subject.... I, however, am well determined that neither Mr. L——'s opinion, nor that of the whole world besides, should induce me to own the value of a truss of straw in any theater. My father's whole life has been given over to trouble and anxiety in consequence of his proprietorship and involvement in that ruinous concern, Covent Garden; and now, when his remaining health and strength will no more than serve to lay up the means of subsistence when health and strength are gone, the idea of his loading himself with such a burden of bitterness as the proprietorship of a new theater makes me perfectly miserable. For my own part, I am determined to own neither part nor lot in any such venture: I will lend or give anything that I may earn to it, and I will act, at half the price I might get elsewhere, for it, if my father wishes me to do so; but not a demonstrable cent per cent profit should induce me to run such a risk of cursing the day that I was born, as to become owner of a theater. I write you all this (and I have written more than enough about it) because it has been lately a subject of much anxious meditation to me. The matter is at present without settled form or plan, but the proposal of such a scheme has caused me deep regret and anxiety.... I am going to act to-morrow in "The Hunchback;" Thursday, Mrs. Beverley; Friday, Lady Townley; Saturday, Juliet; Monday, Julia again; and Tuesday, Bizarre in "The Inconstant;" which ends our engagement here. This is pretty hard work, is it not? besides always one, and sometimes two rehearsals of a morning.

We begin our second engagement in New York on the 7th of November. Don't forget that the 27th of that month is my birthday, and that if you neglect to drink my health, I shall probably die, for want of your good wishes to keep me alive.

We act in Boston on the 3d of December; "further than that the deponent sayeth not."

I told you in my last letter that Philadelphia was the cleanest place in the world. The country along the banks of the Schuylkill (one of the rivers on which it stands; the other is the Delaware) is wild and beautiful, and the glory of the autumn woods what an eye that hath not seen can by no manner of means conceive. I have for the last week had my room full of the most delicious flowers that could only be seen with us at midsummer, and here, in these last days of autumn, they are as abundant and fragrant, and the sun is as intensely hot and brilliant, as it should be, but never is, with us, in the month of July....

Dall went into a Quaker's shop here the other day, when, after waiting upon her with the utmost attention and kindness, the master of the shop said, "And how doth Fanny? I was in hopes she might have wanted something; we should have great pleasure in attending upon her." Was not that nice? So to-day I went thither, and bought myself a lovely sober-colored gown. This place, as you know, is the headquarters of Quakerdom, and all the enchanting nosegays come from "a Philadelphia friend," the latter word dashed under, as if to indicate a member of the religious fraternity always called by that kindly title here....

I think my father has some idea of bringing out "The Star of Seville" here, and if he does I shall break my heart that it was not brought out first in England. Emily always reproaches me with want of patriotism. I have more than helps to make me cheerful here, and leaving England—not home, and not you, but England, England—for two years, seems to me now ridiculous, and fabulous, and preposterous, and disastrous.

I have finished my first volume of Graham, and I have finished this letter. God bless you!

Ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

Philadelphia, November 2, 1832.

Dearest H——,

I received your fifth letter to-day, and one from Dorothy, and one from Emily Fitzhugh.... My last letter to you was a sad one, and sad in a fashion that does not often occur to me. I was troubled and anxious about my professional labor and its results, and that may be called a small sadness compared with some other with which I have lately become familiar. Of course none of these anxieties have been removed, for some time must elapse before I can know on what plan my father determines with regard to Mr. Bartley's proposal about this new theater. It does not affect me personally, because I am thoroughly determined to take no part in any speculation of the kind; but the possibility of my father entering into any such scheme is care enough to "kill a cat," and make a kitten miserable besides.... In all matters, but especially in matters of business, I hold frankness, straightforwardness, and decision as conducive to success, as consonant with right feeling; but I think men are much more cowardly than women, and believe a great deal more in policy, temporizing, and expediency than we do. "Managing" is supposed to be a feminine tendency; it has no place in my composition; perhaps I might be the better for a little of it—but only perhaps, and only a little.... This letter, as you will perceive by its date, was begun on the banks of the Delaware; here we are, however, once more in New York. It is Monday evening, the 5th of November, and you are firing squibs and burning manikins en action de grâces that the Houses of Parliament were not blown up by the Roman Catholics, instead of living to be reformed by the Whigs, and (peradventure) blowing up the nation.

The Presidential Election is going on here, and creates immense excitement. General Jackson, they say, will certainly be re-elected.

Our last fortnight in Philadelphia has been one of incessant and very hard work, rehearsing every morning and acting every night. I rejoiced heartily when our engagement drew to a close, for I was fairly worn out, and money bought with health is bought too dear, I think.... I have taken some very pleasant rides during our stay in Philadelphia; the horses are none of them properly broken for riding, which makes it a pleasure of no small fatigue to ride them for three or four hours. Luckily, I do not object to severe exercise, and the weather and the country were both charming....

I am glad you have been re-reading the "Tempest." ... What exquisite pleasure that fine creation has given me! I like it better than any of the other plays; it is less "of the earth, earthy" than any of the others; for though the "Midsummer Night's Dream" is in some sort, as it were, its companion, the mortal element in the latter poem is far less noble and lovely than in the "Tempest." Prospero and Miranda, the dwellers on the enchanted island, are statelier and fairer than any of the human wanderers in the mazes of the Athenian wood. There is a deep and indescribable melancholy to me in the "Tempest" that mingles throughout with its beauty, and lends a special charm to it. I so often contemplate in fancy that island, lost in the unknown seas, just in the hour of its renewed solitude, after the departure of its "human mortal" dwellers and visitors, when Prospero and his companions had bade farewell to it, when Caliban was grunting and grubbing and groveling in his favorite cave again, when Ariel was hovering like a humming-bird over the flower draperies of the woods, where the footprints of men were still stamped on the wet sand of the shining shore, but their voices silent and their forms vanished, and utter solitude, and a strange dream of the past, filling the haunts where human life, its sin and sorrow, and joy and hope, and love and hate, had breathed and palpitated, and were now forever gone. The notion of that desert once, but now deserted, paradise, whose flowers had looked up at Miranda, whose skies had shed wisdom on Prospero, always seems to me full of melancholy. The girl's sweet voice singing no more in the sunny, still noon, the grave, tender converse of the father and child charming no more the solemn eventide, the forsaken island dwells in my imagination as at once desecrated and hallowed by its mortal sojourners; no longer savage quite, and never to be civilized; the supernatural element disturbed, the human element withdrawn; a sad, beautiful place, stranger than any other in the world. Perhaps the sea went over it; it has never been found since Shakespeare landed on it. I love that poem beyond words....

I shall ruin you in postage; if there is any chance of that, keep Mrs. Norton's five guineas to pay for my American epistles.

Ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

Dearest H——,

I have received your letter, acknowledging my first to you.... As for letters, they are like everything else we experience here, sources of to the full as much suffering as satisfaction. Who has not felt their whole blood run backward at sight of one of these folded fate-bearers? I declare, breaking an envelope always has something of the character of pulling a shower-bath string over one's own head; I wonder anybody ever has the courage to do it....

Your dread of our finding New York quite a desert would have been literally fulfilled had we reached it a fortnight sooner; but the dreadful malady, the cholera, had taken its departure, and though private bereavements and general stagnation of business rendered the season a very unfavorable one for our experiment, yet, upon the whole, we have every reason to be well satisfied with the result of it, and think we did well not to postpone the beginning of our campaign.... The first serious experiences of our youth seem to me like the breaking asunder of some curious, beautiful, and mystical pattern or device.... All our lives long we are more or less intent on replacing the bright scattered fragments in their original shape: most of us die with the bits still scattered round us—that is to say, such of the bits as have not been ground into powder, or soiled and defaced beyond recognition, in the life-process. The few very wise find and place them in a coherent form at last, but it is quite another curious, beautiful, and mystical device or pattern from the original one.

The deaths of the young Napoleon, the Duke of Reichstadt, and Walter Scott have excited universal interest here, naturally of a very dissimilar kind. One's heart burns to think of that young eagle falling like a weakly winter flower, or a faded, sickly girl, into his untimely grave.... There was nothing for him but death. If he had been anything, it could only have been a wild spark of the mad meteor from which he sprang; and as Heaven in its wisdom forbade that, I think it much of its mercy that it extinguished him early and utterly, and did not leave him to flare and flicker and burn himself out with foul gunpowder smoke, and smell of dead men slain in battle, in the middle of the smoldering ashes of his father's European empire.

My admiration and respect for Walter Scott are unbounded, and were I the noblest, richest, and charmingest man in the world, I would lay myself at Anne Scott's feet out of sheer love and veneration for her father....

You ask me if I wrote anything on board ship? Nothing but odds and ends of doggerel. Since I have been here I have written some verses on the beautiful American autumn, which have been published with commendation. I am thinking of writing a prose story, if ever again I can get two minutes and a half of leisure.... Your entreaties for minute details of our life make me sad, for how little of what we do, be, or suffer can be conveyed to you in this miserable scrap of paper!... Our dinner-hour is three when we are actors, five when we are ladies and gentlemen. The food we get here in New York is very indifferent. It was excellent in quality in Philadelphia, but wherever we have been there is a want of niceness and refinement in the cooking and serving everything that is very disagreeable....

Thursday, Nov. 27th. This is my birthday—in England always one of the gloomiest days of this gloomy month; here my windows are all open, and the warm sun streaming in as it might on the finest of early September days with us. I am to-day three-and-twenty. Where is my life gone to? As the child said, "Where does the light go when the candle is out?" ... Since last I wrote to you I have been forty miles up the Hudson, and seen such noble waters and beautiful hills, such glory of color and magnificent breadth in the grand river and its autumn woods, as I cannot describe.

This is our last night but one of acting here. We play "The Hunchback" on Saturday, and on Monday go back to Philadelphia for three weeks; thence to Baltimore and Washington, and then return here. I must go now and rehearse Katharine and Petruchio.

I have just finished Graham's "History," and am beginning John Smith. By the by, a gentleman here is writing a play, in which I am to act Pocahontas and my father Captain Smith. Come out and see it, won't you? Good-by, dear. Think always of your affectionate

F. A. K.

December 9, 1832.

My dearest H——,

I received yours of October 16th yesterday.... You are not healthily natured enough to be inconstant. Yours is one of those morbid organizations for whom the present never does its wholesome, proper office of superseding the past, and your thoughts and feelings, your whole inner life, in short, is always out of perspective, because your background is forever your foreground, and with you, half the time, nothing is but what is not; not in consequence of looking forward, like Macbeth, but the reverse.... I am delighted that you are going to Scotland to know my dear Mrs. Harry Siddons.

Before this letter reaches you, however, you will have returned to your castle, and your visit to Edinburgh will be over.... Mercy on me! what disputations you and Mr. Combe will have had—on matters physiological, psychological, phrenological, and philosophical! My brains ache to imagine them.... Spurzheim, you know, is dead lately in Boston. It is a matter of regret to me not to have seen him, and his death will be a grief to the Combes, who venerate him highly.... Making trial of people is running a foolish risk, and they who get disappointment by it reap the most probable result from such experiments. I am quite willing to trust my friends; God forbid I should ever try them!...

We have not yet been to Boston, and therefore I myself know nothing of Channing, and cannot answer your questions about him. All that I hear inclines me to like as well as respect him. His gentleness and kindness, his weak health, brought on by over-study, his perfect simplicity and unaffectedness—these are the usual details that follow any mention of him, and accord with the impression his writings produced upon me; but of his theological treatises I know nothing.

I am glad anything so universal as the blessed sunshine reminds you of me, because my remembrance must be present with you almost daily. The lights of heaven shine more glowingly here than through the misty veils that curtain our islands. The moon and stars are wonderfully bright, and there is an intensity, an earnestness, and a translucent purity in the sky here that delights me.... Four months are already gone out of the two years we are to pass out of England. Dear England! My heart dwells with affectionate pride upon the beauty and greatness and goodness of my own country—that wonderful little land, that mere morsel of earth as it seems on the map—so full of power, of wealth, of intellectual vigor and moral worth!...

I found Graham a little too much of a Republican for me, though his "History" seemed to me upon the whole good and very impartial. I am now half way through Smith's "Virginia," which pleases me by its quaint old-world style. I am myself much inclined to be in love with Captain Smith. A man who fights three Turks and carries their heads on his shield is to me an admirable man....

I answer the propositions in your letters in regular rotation as they come; and so, with regard to the peaches, those that I have tasted on this side of the Atlantic I should say were not comparable to fine hothouse peaches in England and fine French espalier peaches; but then the peach trees here are standard trees, and there are whole orchards of them. Their chief merit, therefore, is their abundance, and some of that abundance is certainly fit for nothing but to feed pigs withal. [It is by no means a luxury to be despised, however, to have, in the American fashion, on a hot summer's day, a deep plate presented to you full of peaches, cut up like apples for a pie, that have been standing in ice, and are then snowed over with sugar and frozen cream.]

We are now in Philadelphia, whence we go to Baltimore, Washington, and Charleston. The Southern States are at this moment in a state of violent excitement, which seems almost to threaten a dissolution of the Union. The tariff question is the point of disagreement; and as the interests of the North and South are in direct opposition on this subject, there is no foretelling the end.

Our success is very great, and we have every reason to be satisfied with and grateful for it. Our houses are full, and eke our pockets, and we have hitherto managed to live in tolerable privacy and very tolerable discomfort. But I believe the western part of the country has yet to teach us the extent of inconvenience to which travelers in America are sometimes liable. God bless you, dearest H——.

I am, ever yours affectionately,

F. A. K.

My father and I took a moonlight walk the other night, from ten o'clock till half-past twelve, during which we neither of us uttered six words.

Baltimore, January 2, 1833.

My dearest H——,

You are the first to whom I date this new year.... I told you in one of my letters to keep the five guineas Mrs. Norton has paid you for my scribblements to pay the postage of my letters—do so....

We arrived in this place on Monday, at half-past four, having left Philadelphia at six in the morning. We have just terminated a second engagement there very successfully. If the roads and carriages are bad, and the land-traveling altogether detestable, the speed, facility, and convenience of the steamboats, by which one may really be conveyed from one end to another of this world of vast waters, are very admirable. Vast waters indeed they are! We came down the Delaware on Monday, and (open your Irish eyes!) sometimes it was six, sometimes thirteen miles wide, and never narrower than three or four miles at any part of it that we saw. So wide an expanse of fresh running water is in itself a fine object. We crossed the narrow neck of land between the Delaware and the Chesapeake on a railroad with one of Stephenson's engines....

The railroad was full of knots and dots, and jolting and jumping and bumping and thumping places. The carriages we were in held twelve people very uncomfortably. Baltimore itself, as far as I have seen it, strikes me as a large, rambling, red-brick village on the outskirts of one of our manufacturing towns, Birmingham or Manchester. It covers an immense extent of ground, but there are great gaps and vacancies in the middle of the streets, patches of gravely ground, parcels of meadow land, and large vacant spaces—which will all, no doubt, be covered with buildings in good time, for it is growing daily and hourly—but which at present give it an untidy, unfinished, straggling appearance.

While my father and I were exploring about together yesterday, we came to a print-shop, whose window exhibited an engraving of Reynolds's Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse, and Lawrence's picture of my uncle John in Hamlet. We stopped before them, and my father looked with a good deal of emotion at these beautiful representations of his beautiful kindred, and it was a sort of sad surprise to meet them in this other world where we are wandering, aliens and strangers.

This is the newest-looking place we have yet visited, the youngest in appearance in this young world; and I have experienced to-day a disagreeable instance of its immature civilization, or at any rate its small proficiency in the elegancies of life. I wanted to ride, but although a horse was to be found, no such thing as a side-saddle could be procured at any livery-stable or saddler's in the town, so I have been obliged to give up my projected exercise.

I have been to my first rehearsal here this morning, and wretched enough all things were. I act for the first time to-morrow night Bianca, which they have everywhere chosen for my opening part; and it is a good one for that purpose, as I generally act and look well in it, and it is the sort of play that all sorts of people can comprehend. There is a foreign—I mean continental—custom here, which is pleasant. They have a table d'hôte dinner at two o'clock, and while it is going on a very tolerable band plays all manner of Italian airs and German waltzes, and as there is a fine long corridor into which my room-door opens, with a window at each end, I have a very agreeable promenade, and take my exercise to this musical accompaniment....

I have at this moment on my table a lovely nosegay—roses, geraniums, rare heaths, and perfect white camellias. Our windows are all wide open; the heat is intense, and the air that comes in at them like a sirocco. It is unusual weather for the season even here, and very unwholesome.

In a week's time we are going on to Washington, where we shall find dear Washington Irving, whom I think I shall embrace, for England's sake as well as his own. We have letters to the President, to whom we are to be presented, and to his rival, Henry Clay, and to Daniel Webster, whom I care more to know than either of the others.

After a short stay in Washington we return here, and then back to Philadelphia and New York, till the 20th of February, after which we sail for Charleston. There has been, and still exists at present, a very considerable degree of political alarm and excitement in this country, owing to the threat of the South Carolinians to secede from the Union if the tariff is not annulled, and the country is in hourly expectation of being involved in a civil war. However, the prevailing opinion among the wise seems to be that the Northern States will be obliged to give up the tariff, as the only means of preserving the Union; and if matters come to a peaceable settlement, we shall proceed in February to Charleston; if not, South Carolina will have other things to think of besides plays and play-actors. The summer we shall probably spend in Canada; the winter perhaps in Jamaica, to which place we have received a most pressing invitation from Lord Mulgrave. The end of the ensuing spring will, I trust in God, see us embarked once more for England....

We are earning money very fast, and though I think we work too incessantly and too hard, yet, as every night we do not act is a certain loss of so much out of my father's pocket, I do not like to make many objections to it, although I think it is really not unlikely to be detrimental to his own health and strength....

I spent yesterday evening with some very pleasant people here, who are like old-fashioned English folk, the Catons, Lady Wellesley's father and mother. They are just now in deep mourning for Mrs. Caton's father, the venerable Mr. Carroll, who was upward of ninety-five years old when he died, and was the last surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence. I saw a lovely picture by Lawrence of the eldest of the three beautiful sisters, the daughters of Mrs. Caton, who have all married Englishmen of rank. [The Marchioness of Wellesley, the Duchess of Leeds, and Lady Stafford. The fashion of marrying in England seems to be traditional in this family. Miss McTavish, niece of these ladies, married Mr. Charles Howard, son of the Earl of Carlisle.]

The Baltimore women are celebrated for their beauty, and I think they are the prettiest creatures I have ever seen as far as their faces go; but they are short and thin, and have no figures at all, either in height or breadth, and pinch their waists and feet most cruelly, which certainly, considering how small they are by nature, is a work of supererogation, and does not tend to produce in them a state of grace.... We act every night this week, and as we are obliged to rehearse every morning, of course I have no time for any occupations but my strictly professional ones. I do not approve of this quantity of hard work for either my father or myself, but I do not like to make any further protest upon the subject....

Good-by, dearest H——.

I am ever your affectionate

F. A. K.

To Mrs. Jameson.

Baltimore, January 11, 1833.

Thank you across the sea, dear Mrs. Jameson, for your letter of the 1st of November. I had been wondering, but the day before it reached me, whether you had ever received one I wrote to you on my first arrival in New York, or whether you were accusing me of neglect, ingratitude, forgetfulness, and all the turpitudes that the delay of a letter sometimes causes folk to give other folk credit for. My occupations are incessant, or rather, I should say, my occupation, for to my sorrow I have but one. 'Tis not with me now as in the fortunate days when, after six rehearsals, a piece ran, as the saying is, twenty nights, leaving me all the mornings and three evenings in the week at my own disposal. Here we rush from place to place, at each place have to drill a new set of actors, and every night to act a different play; so that my days are passed in dawdling about cold, dark stages, with blundering actors who have not even had the conscience to study the words of their parts, all the morning. All the afternoon I pin up ribbons and feathers and flowers, and sort out theatrical adornments, and all the evening I enchant audiences, prompt my fellow-mimes, and wish it had pleased Heaven to make me a cabbage in a corner of a Christian kitchen-garden in—well, say Hertfordshire, or any other county of England; I am not particular as to the precise spot.... Whenever I can I get on horseback; it is the only pleasure I have in this world; for my dancing days are drawing to a close. But I mean to ride as long as I have a hand to hold a rein, or a leg to put over a pommel. By the by, I ought to beg your pardon for the last sentence; I ought to have said a foot to put into a stirrup; for if you are not ashamed of having legs you ought to be—at least, we are in this country, and never mention, or give the slightest token of having such things, except by wearing very short petticoats, which we don't consider objectionable.... I am glad you have furbished up and completed your little room, because it is a sign you mean to stay where you are, and I like to know where to find you in my imagination.... I have just seen dear Washington Irving, and it required all my sense of decent decorum to prevent my throwing my arms round his neck, he looked so like a bit of home, England.

You will be glad to hear that we are thriving, in body and estate. We are all well, and our work is very successful. The people flock to see us, and nothing can exceed the kindness which we meet with everywhere and from everybody.... I read nothing whatever since I am in this blessed land. The only books I have accomplished getting through have been Graham's "History of North America," Knickerbocker's "History of New York," which nearly killed me with laughing; "Contarini Fleming," which is very affected and very clever; sundry cantos of Dante, sundry plays of Shakespeare, sundry American poems [which are very good], and old Captain John Smith's quaint "History of Virginia." As fast as I gather my wits together for any steady occupation, I am whisked off to some new place, and do not recover from one journey before I have to take another. The roads here shake one's body, soul, thoughts, opinions, and principles all to pieces; I assure you they are wicked roads.

Our theater, Covent Garden, is, we understand, going to the dogs. I cannot help it any more, that is certain, and feel about that as about all things that have had their day—it must go. Taglioni is like a dream, and you must not abuse Mademoiselle Mars to me. I never saw her but twice—in "L'Ecole des Vieillards" and "Valérie"—and I thought her perfection in both.... If I do not leave off, you will be blind for the next fortnight with reading this crossed letter. I wish you success most heartily in all you undertake, and am truly and faithfully yours,

Fanny Kemble.

[Washington Irving was intimately acquainted with my father and mother, and a most kind and condescending friend to me. He often told me that when first he went to England, long before authorship or celebrity had dawned upon him, he was a member of a New York commercial house, on whose affairs he was sent to Europe. It was when he was a mere obscure young man of business in London that he had been introduced to my mother, whose cordial kindness to him in his foreign isolation seemed to have made a profound impression on him; for when I knew him, in the days of his great literary celebrity and social success, he often referred to it with the warmest expressions of gratitude. I think, of all the distinguished persons I have known, he was one of the least affected by the adulation and admiration of society. He remained quite unchanged by his extreme social popularity. Simple, unaffected, unconstrained, genial, kindly, and good, he seemed so entirely to forget his own celebrity, that one almost forgot it too in talking to him. I remember his coming, the day after my first appearance at Covent Garden, to see us, and congratulated my parents on the success of that terrible experiment. I, who was always delighted to see him, ran to fetch the pretty new watch I had received from my father the night before, and displayed its beauties with an eager desire for his admiration of them. He took it and slowly turned it about, commending its fine workmanship and pretty enamel and jewelry; then putting it to his ear, with a most mischievous look of affected surprise, he exclaimed, as one does to a child's watch, "Why, it goes, I declare!"

To my great regret and loss, I saw Mademoiselle Mars only in two parts, when, in the autumn of her beauty and powers, she played a short engagement in London. The grace, the charm, the loveliness, which she retained far into middle age, were, even in their decline, enough to justify all that her admirers said of her early incomparable fascination. Her figure had grown large and her face become round, and lost their fine outline and proportion; but the exquisite taste of her dress and graceful dignity of her deportment, and sweet radiance of her expressive countenance, were still indescribably charming; and the voice, unrivaled in its fresh melodious brilliancy, and the pure and perfect enunciation, were unimpaired, and sounded like the clear liquid utterance of a young girl of sixteen. Her Celimène and her Elmire I never had the good fortune to see, but can imagine, from her performance of the heroine in Casimir de la Vigne's capital play of "L'Ecole des Vieillards," how well she must have deserved her unrivaled reputation in those parts.

It is remarkable that one of the most striking points in Madame d'Orval was suggested by herself to the author. De la Vigne, according to the frequent usage of French authors, was reading his piece to the great actress, upon whom its success was mainly to depend, and when he came to the scene where the offended but unjustly suspicious husband recounts to his wife the details of his duel with the young duke whose attentions to her had excited his jealousy, and that when, full of the tenderest anxiety for his safety, she flies to meet him, and is repulsed by the bitter irony of his speech, beginning, "Rassurez-vous, madame, le duc n'est point blessé," Mademoiselle Mars, having listened in silence till the end of D'Orval's speech, exclaimed, "Mais, quoi! je ne dis rien, elle ne dit rien!" De la Vigne, who had made the young woman listen in speechless anguish to the bitter and unjust reproach conveyed by her husband's first words and his subsequent account of the duel, said, in some surprise at Mademoiselle Mars' suggestion, "Mais quoi encore—que peut-elle dire? que voudriez-vous qu'elle dise?" "Ah, quelquechose!" cried Mademoiselle Mars, clasping her hands in the imagined distress of the situation; "rien—deuxmots seulement. 'Ah, monsieur!' quand il dit, 'Rassurez-vous, madame, le duc n'est point blessé.'" "Eh bien! dites, dites comme cela," cried De la Vigne, amazed at all the expression the exquisite voice and face had given to the two words. And so the scene was altered, and the long recital of D'Orval was broken by the reproachful "Ah, monsieur!" of his wife, and seldom has the utterance of such an insignificant exclamation affected those who heard it so keenly. For myself, I never can forget the sudden, burning blush that spread tingling to my shoulders at all the shame and mortification and anguish conveyed in the pathetic protest of that "Ah, monsieur!" of Mademoiselle Mars.

Dr. Gueneau de Mussy, who knew her well, and used to see her very frequently in her later years of retirement from the stage, told me that he had often heard her read, among other things, the whole play of "Le Tartuffe," and that the coarse flippancy of the honest-hearted Dorinne, and the stupid stolidity of the dupe Orgon, and the vulgar, gross, sensual hypocrisy of the Tartuffe, were all rendered by her with the same incomparable truth and effect as her own famous part of the heroine of the piece, Elmire. On one of the very last occasions of her appearing before her own Parisian audience, when she had passed the limit at which it was possible for a woman of her advanced age to assume the appearance of youth, the part she was playing requiring that she should exclaim "Je suis jeune! je suis jolie!" a loud, solitary hiss protested against the assertion with bitter significance. After an instant's consternation, which held both the actors and audience silent, she added, with the exquisite grace and dignity which survived the youth and beauty to which she could no longer even pretend, "Je suis Mademoiselle Mars!" and the whole house broke out in acclamations, and rang with the applause due to what the incomparable artiste still was and the memory of all that she had been.]

New York, February 21, 1833.

It is a long time since I have written to you, my dearest H——.... My work is incessant, ... and there is no end to the breathless hurry of occupation we pass our days in. Here is already a break since I began this letter, for we are now in Philadelphia, on our way to Washington, and it is Thursday, the 3d of March.... It has been matter of serious regret to me that I have not, from the very first day of my becoming a worker for wages, looked more into the details of my earnings and spendings. I have felt this particularly lately from circumstances relative to V——'s position, which is a very sad one, from which I have been very anxious to relieve her.... All I know at present is, that since we have been here in America our earnings have already been sufficient to enable us to live in tolerably decent comfort on the Continent.... Do you know, dearest H——, that it is not impossible that I may never return to England to reside there. See it again, I will, please God to grant me life and eyes, but the state of my father's property in Covent Garden is such that it seems more than likely that he may never be able to return to England without risking the little which these last toilsome years will have enabled him to earn for the support of his own and my mother's old age. He will be compelled, in all likelihood, to settle and die abroad, as my uncle John did, by the liabilities of that ruinous possession of theirs, the first theater of London. When first my father communicated this chance to me, and expressed his determination, should the affairs of the theater remain in their present situation, to buy a small farm in Normandy, and go and live there, my heart sank terribly. This was very different from my girlish dream of a life of lonely independence among the Alps, or by the Mediterranean; and the idea of living entirely out of England seems to me now very sad for all of us.... However, there are earth and skies out of England. What does Imogen say?—

"I prithee think, there's livers out of Britain;"

and if God vouchsafe me my faculties, and I can bid farewell to this life of distasteful toil, I have visions of studies and pursuits which I think might make existence very happy in a farm in Normandy, though such might not have been my own choice.... What special inquiries did you wish me to make about General Washington? I was, when at Washington, within fifteen miles of Mount Vernon, his home and burying-place, but could not make time to go thither. I have one of his autograph letters, and if there be any indication of character in handwriting—which I hope to goodness there is not—it certainly exists in his, for a firmer, clearer, and fairer hand I never saw—an excellent, honest handwriting. His likeness confronts one at every corner here; not only at every street corner, where he lends his countenance to the frequenters of drinking-houses, but over every chimney-piece in every sitting-room. He is like the frogs of the old Egyptian plague, except that they were in the king's chamber, where he was too good a Republican ever to have been.

I am amused at your summing up your account of the restless and perturbed state of poor Ireland by saying, "After all, I believe America is the land of peace and quiet." It seems to me, who am here, that everything at this moment threatens change and disintegration in this country. It is impossible to imagine more menacing elements of discord and disunion than those which exist in the opposite and antagonistic interests of its southern and northern provinces, and the anomalous mixture of aristocratic feeling and democratic institutions.... God bless you, my dear H——. I will write to you soon again; if possible, before the breathing-time this snow-storm is giving us is over.

Ever affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

New York, April 3, 1833.

My dearest H——,

... I am working very hard, what with rehearsing, acting, studying new parts, devising new dresses, and attending—which, of course, I am obliged also to do—to the claims of the society in which we are living, and my time is so full that I barely contrive to fulfill all my duties and answer all the claims made upon me.... The spring is in the sky, and in the air her soft smile and sweet breath are gladdening the world; but the process of vegetation is much later in beginning, and much more rapid in its operations when they do begin here, than with us. Though the last three days have been as hot as our midsummer weather, the trees are yet leafless and budless—as dry and unpromising-looking as they were in mid-winter; and, indeed, the transition from winter to summer is almost instantaneous here. The spring does not stand coaxing and beckoning the shy summer to the woods and fields as in our country, but while winter yet seems lord of the ascendant, and his white robes are still covering land and water, suddenly the summer looks down upon the earth from the cloudless sky, and, as by magic, the ice melts, the snow evaporates, the trees are clothed with green, the woods are full of flowers, and the whole world breaks out into a hallelujah of warmth, beauty, and blossoming like mid-July in our deliberate climate. This again lasts, as it were, but a day; the sun presently becomes so powerful that the world withers away under the intense heat, the flowers and shrubs fade, and instead of screening and refreshing the earth, are themselves scorched and parched with the glaring fierceness of the sky; the ground cracks, the watercourses dry up, the rivers shrink in their beds, and every human creature that can flies from the lowlands and the cities to go up into the north or to the mountains to find breath, shelter, and refreshment from the sultry curse. Then comes the autumn, and that is most glorious; not soft and sad as ours, but to the very threshold of winter bright, warm, lovely, and gorgeous. Two seasons remain to our earthly year, remembrances, I think, of Paradise; the spring in Italy, and autumn in America....

You ask me how I "fit in" to my American audiences? Why, very kindly indeed. At first they seemed to me rather cold, and I felt this more with regard to my father than myself, but I think they have grown to like us; I certainly have grown to like them, and their applause satisfies me amply.... I heard yesterday of one of Sir Thomas Lawrence's prints of me which was carried by a peddler beyond the Alleghany Mountains [the Alleghany Mountains then were further than the Rocky Mountains are now from the Atlantic seaboard], and bought at an egregious price by a young engineer, who with fifteen others went out there upon some railroad construction business, were bidding for it at auction in that wilderness, where they themselves were gazed at, as prodigies of strange civilization, by the half-savage inhabitants of the region. That touched and pleased me very much.... We are going to act here till the 12th of this month, when we go to Boston, where we shall remain for a month; after which we return here for a week, and then proceed to Philadelphia by the 1st of June, where we intend closing our professional labors for the summer. Thence we shall probably go to Niagara and the Canadas. My father has talked of spending a little quiet time in Rhode Island, where the weather is cool and we might recruit a little; but there does not seem much certainty about our plans at present. In the autumn we shall begin our progress toward New Orleans, where we shall probably winter, and act our way back here by the spring, when I hope and trust we shall return to England.... The book of Harriet Martineau's which you bade me read is delightful. I have not quite finished it yet, for I have scarcely any time at all for reading; for want of the habit of thinking and reading on such subjects I find the political economy a little stiff now and then, though the clearness and simplicity with which it is treated in this story are admirable. I did not know that I was supposed to be the original of Letitia.... God bless you, my dearest H——.

I am ever your most affectionate,

F. A. K.

"For Each and for All" was, I think, the name of the volume taken from Miss Martineau's admirable series of political economy tales, which my friend, Miss S——, sent me. The heroine of the story is a young actress, and Miss Martineau once told me that she had derived some slight suggestion of the character from me.

New York, Friday, April 10, 1833.

My dearest H——,

... On Monday last I acted Lady Macbeth; on Tuesday, Lady Townley; 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], [183]4, [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 Phœbe 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 [183]0, 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 [183]2, [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, [183]1, [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].
• Kemble, Charles, [36], [112], [114];
  • at the English Theatre at Paris, [115];
  • success in Paris, [117];
  • in Falstaff, [123];
  • property almost gone, [135];
  • in Edinburgh, [138];
  • arrested the first time, [168];
  • as Mercutio, [193];
  • acting in "The Gamester," [204];
  • embraced by Mme. Malibran, [204];
  • renewal of intercourse with Lawrence, [217];
  • incident in Dublin, [288];
  • invitation to Heaton, [291];
  • thrashing the Editor of the Age newspaper, [310];
  • acting Jaffir to Fanny Kemble's Belvidera, [336];
  • involved in six lawsuits, [336];
  • speech about theatre patents, [339];
  • in "The Hunchback," [377];
  • as Sir Thomas Clifford in "The Hunchback," [378];
  • overcome with laughter on the stage, [387];
  • forgetting a Duchess, [414];
  • shaking hands with his legal opponent Harris, [414];
  • intention of going to America, [427];
  • opinion of Kean, [429];
  • mistake in rendering Shylock, [430];
  • money seized at benefit in Bristol for Manager Brunton's debts, [431], [440];
  • acting at Plymouth in "The Gamester," [446];
  • enthusiasm over him at Plymouth, [446];
  • his surprising speech, ib.;
  • his health under great trials, [458];
  • as Giaffir, [461];
  • serious illness, [462];
  • recovery, [466];
  • relapse, [467];
  • still worse, [469];
  • again recovering, [472];
  • compared with Kean, [477];
  • as Benedict, [478];
  • recovery, [481];
  • breaks his nose while skating, [490];
  • an unfortunate compromise at Covent Garden, [513];
  • bowed down with care and trouble, [515];
  • refusing to act in "The Hunchback," [517];
  • examination before the House of Commons, [520];
  • twice arrested, [522];
  • farewell at Covent Garden, [529];
  • his estate in St. Giles', [536];
  • beginning in New York with Hamlet, [536];
  • his Romeo and Mercutio compared, [542];
  • compared to Cooper in "Venice Preserved," [544];
  • likely to have to die abroad, [567].
• Kemble, Mrs. Charles (Maria Therese de Camp), [2], [3], [4], [6], [65], [98], [109], [112], [118];
  • at Drury Lane, [173];
  • opinion of a stage costume, [190];
  • her failing health, [193];
  • returns to the stage after an absence of twenty years, [219];
  • her interest in Fanny Kemble's Juliet, [225], [267];
  • arrival of in Manchester, [277];
  • delicacy, [294];
  • physical organization, [311];
  • effect of reading Moore's "Life of Byron," [330];
  • rage at a picture of her husband, [345];
  • compared to Mrs. John Kemble, [358];
  • ill health, [371];
  • great pathetic and comic powers, [386];
  • "Francis I." dedicated to, [399];
  • moving the furniture, [464];
  • her horror of the sea, [482].
• Kemble, Frances Anne, born [180]9, [8];
  • Newman Street, ib.;
  • Westbourne Green, ib.;
  • childish freaks, [10];
  • at school at Mrs. Twiss' at Cambridge Place, [13];
  • punning from Shakespeare, [16];
  • return to London at Covent Garden Chambers, [17];
  • picture then said to be mine, [17];
  • question as to my being born there, [17];
  • anecdote with Talma, [25];
  • went to school in France, [26];
  • early pranks, [26];
  • childhood petulance, [27];
  • taken to an execution, [27];
  • childhood terrors, [29];
  • daily excursions, [30];
  • yearly distribution of prizes, [30];
  • residence at Craven Hill, [31];
  • leaves Boulogne, [31];
  • lodging in Gerard Street, [33], [34];
  • visit from Uncle Kemble, [34];
  • about Scott, Milton and Shakespeare, [36];
  • first visit to Lausanne, [36];
  • musical education, [37];
  • contemplating suicide, [43];
  • goes to Paris, [44];
  • at school in the Rue d'Angoulême, [44];
  • meets Lord Melbourne, [47];
  • goes to hear Mr. César Malan, [49];
  • impressions of Drs. Channing, Dewey, Bellows, Furness, Follen, Wm. and Henry Ware, Frederick Maurice, Dean Stanley, Martineau and Robertson, [49];
  • school life at Mrs. Rowden's, [54];
  • schoolmates, ib.;
  • a companion's funeral, [55];
  • reading Byron on the sly, [57];
  • my music and dancing masters, [58];
  • passion for dancing, [63];
  • private theatricals, [67];
  • first indications of dramatic talent, [70];
  • a new home in the Champs Elysées, [70];
  • an old-fashioned wedding, [72];
  • home from school, [74];
  • cottage at Weybridge, [75];
  • passion for fishing, [78];
  • taken with smallpox, [82];
  • harness for gracefulness, [85];
  • a robbery, [89];
  • trip to Hertfordshire, [90];
  • first meeting with H—— S——, [91];
  • "Der Freyschütz," [94];
  • presentation to Mendelssohn, [96];
  • spoken of to the Queen, [96];
  • return to Heath Farm, [101];
  • Trenton Falls, [102];
  • love for books, [103];
  • our house at Bayswater, [106];
  • letters from Bayswater, [107];
  • offered £200 for first play, [114];
  • the play of "Francis I." finished, [16];
  • thoughts of a comedy, [118];
  • sees "Merchant of Venice" for first time, [119];
  • visits West India Docks and Thames Tunnel, [120];
  • MSS. in the fire, [122];
  • thoughts of going on the stage, [123];
  • read "Diary of an Ennuyée" for first time, [124];
  • Longing for Italy, [124];
  • acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Montagu, [129];
  • picture by "Dick," "There's plenty of it, Fan," [131];
  • ill of measles, [131];
  • desire to say something from myself, [131];
  • ghosts, [132];
  • convalescence, [132];
  • considering a means of livelihood, [135];
  • about marrying, [136];
  • going on the stage, [137];
  • projected works, [138];
  • first ball, [140];
  • admiration for Mrs. Henry Siddons, [143];
  • love for Edinburgh, [145];
  • a touching incident, [147];
  • a Scotch Venus, [149];
  • raspberry tarts, [152];
  • sitting to Lawrence Macdonald for bust, [152];
  • "Grecian Daughters," [152];
  • an old-fashioned house, [156];
  • a partisan of Charles Edward, [156];
  • an unlucky speech, [156];
  • great esteem for Dr. Combe, [155];
  • intimacy with Harry Siddons, [157];
  • incident of Scottish regalia, [157];
  • at Mr. Combe's house, [158];
  • listens to Chambers Brothers' story of poverty, [161];
  • a jolly face for a tragic actress, [162];
  • Mons Meg and Madame Catalani, [162];
  • observance of Sunday, [163];
  • a natural turn for religion, [164];
  • give up Byron's poetry, [165];
  • a new tragedy, "Fiesco," [168];
  • return to London, [168];
  • religious zeal, [170];
  • singing with Moore, [173];
  • begins a visit to England in [184]1, [175];
  • meeting Sir Samuel Cunard, [176];
  • through London in [184]5, on way to Italy, [176];
  • renewal of intercourse with Mrs. Norton, [177];
  • talks about the Hindoo Theatre, [178];
  • plans for helping my father, [179];
  • goes to Scotland, [180];
  • destroying H.'s letters, [181];
  • German abandoned, [181];
  • a few words about Shakespeare, [182];
  • admiration for young Tennyson's poems, [184];
  • the theatre to be sold, [186];
  • life rather sad, [186];
  • "brought out" as Juliet, [188];
  • a badly dressed Juliet, [189];
  • preparations for first appearance, [189];
  • my opinion of Portia, [187]
  • preparing for a début, [191];
  • a constant admirer, [197];
  • awkward incident with Mr. Abbot, [199];
  • "Jove, Fanny, you are a lift!" [200];
  • interest in Malibran, [203];
  • acting as Mrs. Beverley in "The Gamester" in Manchester, [204];
  • a strange scene between my father and Madame Malibran, [204]
  • a little advice from Malibran, [204];
  • resemblance to Madame Malibran, [205];
  • translate De Musset's lament for Malibran, [206];
  • restore the ending to "Romeo and Juliet," [207];
  • danger of falling in love with Lawrence, [209];
  • sitting for portrait to Lawrence, [209];
  • a sudden glimpse of Satan, [214];
  • first copy of "Paradise Lost," [215];
  • a deplorable act of honesty, [217];
  • preparing for début, [218];
  • ideas of beauty, [218];
  • début in "Romeo and Juliet," [220];
  • first watch, [221];
  • impression of moral danger, [222];
  • a disappointed "puffer," [223];
  • popularity in America, [224];
  • incident of last public reading in America, [224];
  • tenth edition of "Francis I.," [225];
  • income during first professional years, [226];
  • first salary at Covent Garden, thirty guineas weekly, [226];
  • acquaintances behind the scenes, [227];
  • dancing with a queer clergyman, [229];
  • a cold ride from Boston, [231];
  • riding lessons, [232];
  • portrait by Lawrence and sketches by Hayter, [234];
  • likeness to Mrs. Sarah Siddons, [235];
  • appearance in "Grecian Daughter," [236];
  • mourning for Lawrence, [237];
  • dress as Euphrasia, [238];
  • "Shetland pony," [240];
  • altering last scene of "Grecian Daughter," [241];
  • annoyance of being stared at, [242];
  • a tumble in the "Grecian Daughter," [243];
  • a summer tour, [244];
  • in "The Gamester," [245];
  • stage nervousness, [245];
  • first appearance as Portia, [247];
  • fright as Portia, [249];
  • happiness of reading Shakespeare, [249];
  • love for dancing, [252];
  • delight in Portia's costume, [252];
  • acting Isabella at John Kemble's benefit, [253];
  • compared with Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill, [234];
  • farewell to London, [256];
  • as Mrs. Haller, [254];
  • impressions of Bath, [257];
  • audiences not so friendly out of London, [258];
  • fortnight at Edinburgh, [259];
  • at Glasgow, ib.;
  • criticism at Glasgow, [260];
  • breakfasting with Sir Walter Scott, [260]:
  • anecdote of Scottish regalia, [261];
  • incident with Scott, [262];
  • Scott's mental triumph over outward circumstances, [263];
  • visit to Abbotsford, [264];
  • scenes and incidents at Abbotsford, [264];
  • visiting Lochs Lomond and Long, [266];
  • audiences at Glasgow, [267];
  • new home at Great Russell street, [268];
  • some portraits, ib.;
  • dinner at Lady Morgan's, [269];
  • life at Bannisters, [271];
  • at Ardgillan Castle, [273];
  • about governesses, [275];
  • about the French Revolution of [183]0, [276];
  • a good audience at Dublin, [276];
  • a medley of visits, [278];
  • experimental trip on Stephenson's new railroad, [278];
  • a ride with Stephenson, [279];
  • description of a locomotive, [281];
  • a new sensation, [283];
  • an idea of religion, [285];
  • a warm reception in Dublin, [288];
  • repugnance to work, [298];
  • a distressing letter from John Kemble, [293];
  • a West Indian yarn, [295];
  • at Birmingham, [295];
  • an exhilarating ride, [298];
  • Lord Huskisson's death, [298];
  • evenings at Heaton, [300];
  • the guests at Heaton, [302];
  • to Liverpool for the opening of the new railroad, [303];
  • "The Jew of Aragon," [305];
  • "The Jew of Aragon" and "Griselda," [306];
  • failure of "The Jew of Aragon," [307];
  • consenting to go with Tom Taylor and Charles Reade to see "The King's Wager" for first time, [308];
  • thoughts of publishing the plays and verses, [309];
  • the editor of the Age thrashed, [310];
  • on drawing and painting, [311];
  • about managing children, [312];
  • the Age newspaper, [314];
  • playing "The Provoked Husband," [315];
  • failure of "The Fair Penitent," [318];
  • working on and getting published "The Star of Seville," [319];
  • dinner at Mr. Cartwright's, [321];
  • Christmas-eve at Mrs. Siddons', [322];
  • public opinion about acting with her father, [323];
  • Bianca in "Fazio," [323];
  • Juliet, Calista, Mrs. Haller, and Lady Townley, [323];
  • a run around Brighton, [328];
  • advantage of Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill in their tragic partners, [336];
  • the Chancery case again, [331];
  • a few words about Byron, [331];
  • about children's letters, [332];
  • more about Byron, [333];
  • "Cenci," [334];
  • "Fazio," Mrs. Beverley and Belvidera, [334];
  • Burns, [335];
  • acting Belvidera, [336];
  • learning the part of Beatrice in one hour, [336];
  • Goethe, [338];
  • discussion as to destiny of human soul, [337];
  • reading Channing's Essay on Milton, [337];
  • Goethe's love for Madame Kestner, [337];
  • the journal, [340];
  • "Francis I.," [341];
  • a pleasant party, [342];
  • a little sculpture, [343];
  • the Reform Bill, [344];
  • the Kemble jawbone, [345];
  • production of "Francis I." an annoyance, [350];
  • the "White Devil," [353];
  • benefit at Covent Garden, [356];
  • playing Lady Macbeth, [357];
  • playing Belvidera, [357];
  • Constance, for a benefit, [359];
  • success in Constance, [360];
  • portrait by Mr. Pickersgill, [362];
  • "Chiedo sostegno," [365];
  • Pickersgill, Lawrence, and Turnerelli, [365];
  • about Portia and Camiola, [369];
  • in want of a chapter on, [371];
  • first friendship with Earl and Countess of Ellesmere, [374];
  • about management, [373];
  • on gestures, [373];
  • a new friendship begun at Bridgewater House, [374];
  • opinions as to success of "The Hunchback," [376];
  • in Mariana, [377];
  • opinion of "The Hunchback," [378];
  • contrasting Shakespeare's Juliet with Knowles' Julia, [379];
  • all about Lady Cork, [379];
  • about "Old Plays," [385];
  • Mrs. Charles Kemble's help in leading parts, [386];
  • developing a gift for comedy, [386];
  • embarrassing situations when acting with Mr. Kemble, [387];
  • Massinger's plays compared with some others, [389];
  • Destiny, ib.;
  • "Star of Seville," ib.;
  • compared with Lady Salisbury, [394];
  • finishing "The Star of Seville," [395];
  • first appearance as Lady Teazle, [395];
  • desire to see Weybridge again, [396];
  • correcting proof on "Francis I.," [396];
  • "Reform," [398];
  • dedicating "Francis I." to Mrs. Charles Kemble, [399];
  • the communion service, [401];
  • off for Oatlands, and talks by the way, [402];
  • dress rehearsal for "Hernani," [405];
  • Hayter's picture for Lord Ellesmere, [412];
  • visit to Newgate, [413];
  • death of Mrs. Siddons, [416];
  • a summer's arrangements, [416];
  • "Une Facete," [417];
  • a royal audience, [422];
  • about marriage, [423];
  • talk about dislike to the stage, [432];
  • a street-singing project, [436];
  • sombre thoughts about marriage, [437];
  • opinion of Juliet, [438];
  • at Exeter, [439];
  • getting fortune told, [440];
  • love for Weybridge, [441];
  • verses on Bonaparte at St. Helena, [441];
  • slippery lodgings, [444];
  • "King John," Mrs. Siddons in, [446];
  • women as dramatic writers, [446];
  • a disagreeable sail, [447];
  • "fine people" and "not fine people," [455];
  • failure in Queen Katharine, [459];
  • love for splendor, [460];
  • "Bonaparte's letters to Joséphine," [462];
  • cutting down salaries, [463];
  • a few words about letter-writing, [466];
  • terrible suspense about Charles Kemble and the theatre, [467];
  • Bianca as a "golden pheasant," [469];
  • anxiety about Charles Kemble, [470];
  • ill from worrying over Charles Kemble, [470];
  • a serenading incident in the United States, [470];
  • the wrong side of a show, [472];
  • at Angerstein's Picture Gallery, [475];
  • presented to the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria, [475];
  • timorousness when singing, [480];
  • Charles Kemble's recovery, [481];
  • thoughts of America, [482];
  • "La Estrella," [483];
  • "Katharine of Cleves," [484];
  • awkward predicament at first acting in "Katharine of Cleves," [491];
  • "out" for first time in a part, [492];
  • about the nature and immortality of the soul, [495];
  • an ugly horse, [496];
  • well-assorted marriages, [498];
  • love of nature, [501];
  • Kemble's publication of his Anglo-Saxon poem of Beowulf, [502];
  • bad management of "Francis I.," [503];
  • feeling about "Francis I.," [504];
  • as the queen-mother in "Francis I.," [508];
  • sober thoughts for the future, [511];
  • purchasing Henry's commission from receipts of "Francis I.," copyright, [515];
  • H—— S—— off for Ireland, [519];
  • farewell to Covent Garden, [520];
  • off for Edinburgh, June [29], [183]2, [521];
  • off for America, [522];
  • beginning of acquaintance with Liston the surgeon, [524];
  • acting in "Francis I," first time, [525];
  • Lawrence's the best picture made of Fanny Kemble, [535];
  • ancient vs. modern cavaliers, [527];
  • last day in Edinburgh for two years, [528];
  • from Liverpool to Manchester, [530];
  • first sight of New York, [533];
  • beginning work in New York with Bianca, [536];
  • getting fat, [552];
  • success in America, [560];
  • picture of Fanny Kemble taken to Allegheny Mountains, [569];
  • "fitting" American audiences, [569];
  • playing "Fazio" the first time in America, [572];
  • engaged to be married, [573];
  • seeing Niagara, [580];
  • thoughts of returning to England, [587];
  • Mrs. Jameson's biography of the Kemble family, [588];
  • Aunt Dall's illness, [588];
  • enthusiastic farewell in Boston, [588];
  • marriage to Pierce Butler, June [7], [183]4, [590].
• Kemble, Henry, [17], [18], [108], [111];
  • his beauty, [140];
  • plans for his provision, [179];
  • trying the part of Romeo, [196];
  • return to Paris, [243];
  • commission in the army, [244], [248];
  • schooling at Westminster over, [267];
  • taken to Heidelberg, [284], [294], [297], [305], [357];
  • ill, [470];
  • passion for the sea, [481];
  • to go into the army, [481];
  • dislike to going to Cambridge, [482];
  • receives commission in the army, [515];
  • appointed tithe-collector in Ireland, [546].
• Kemble, Fanny (see [Arkwright, Mrs.]).
• Kemble, John, [34], [81], [108], [109], [111], [113], [118];
  • high honors, [119], [122], [137], [177];
  • determines to enter the church, [179];
  • leaves Cambridge without a degree, [183];
  • Lawrence's admiration for, [207];
  • intention of going into the church, [235];
  • return from Germany, [243];
  • his degree at Cambridge, ib.;
  • takes his degree, [248];
  • his wild scheme of aiding Spain, [293];
  • safe and well, [304];
  • in Spain, [314], [326];
  • gone to Gibraltar, [326];
  • alive and well, [334];
  • prospects on arrival in England, ib.;
  • rumor of imprisonment in Madrid, [336], [356];
  • prospects, [363], [364];
  • conflicting reports of, [387];
  • determination not to leave Spain, [395];
  • return from Spain, [405];
  • home from Spain, [405];
  • translation of a German song, [438];
  • a sad letter from Spain, [479];
  • helping Venables to break Thackeray's nose, [490];
  • history of the Anglo-Saxons, [505].
• Kemble, John Philip, misfortunes as manager of Covent Garden Theatre, [35];
  • from Lausanne to London, [34];
  • return to Switzerland, [36];
  • monument at Westminster Abbey, [60], [109];
  • as Rolla in "Pizarro," [174];
  • Lawrence's picture of, [217];
  • as Beverley, [243];
  • benefit, [253];
  • his home in Great Russell street, [267].
• Kemble, Mrs. John, [90], [94], [104];
  • compared with Mrs. Charles Kemble, [358];
  • illness of, [467].
• Keely, Peter, in "Romeo and Juliet," [219].
• Kelly, Mrs. Charles, [98].
• Kemble, John Mitchell, [17].
• Kemble, Philip, [8].
• Kemble, Mrs. Roger, [1], [2].
• Kemble, Stephen, [19].
• Kemble, Mrs. Stephen, [180].
• Kenilworth, [108].
• Kensington Gravel Pits, [506].
• Kent, Duchess of, [233];
  • condescension of, [475].
• Kent, Chancellor, on Croton water, [537].
• Kelly, Michael, [500].
• Keppel, Mr., superseded by Charles Kemble in Romeo, [542].
• Kerr, Lord Mark, [270].
• Kestner, Madame, Goethe and, [337].
• Kinglake, [126].
• "King Lear," reiteration of expressions of grief, [514].
• King, Lord, Earl of Lovelace, [404].
• Kitchen, Dr., [7].
• Knowles, Sheridan, [366];
  • his plays, "The Hunchback" and "Virginius," [376];
  • "The Wife," [377];
  • reading "The Hunchback" to Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kemble and Mr. Bartley, [390];
  • as Master Walter, [512].
• 
  Lablache, [205].
• "La Chronique de Charles Neuf," [422].
• "La Dame Blanche," [492].
• "La Estrella," Fanny Kemble's new play, [483].
• Lady Byron, her general appearance, [130];
  • deprecates the publication of a new edition of Byron's works, [167].
• Lady Glengall, [460].
• Lady Macbeth, [357], [359];
  • Fanny Kemble to act in, [417].
• Lady Teazle, [385];
  • costume for, [364];
  • Fanny Kemble's first appearance in, [390], [395];
  • her fears of failure in, [394].
• Lady Townley, [257], [258], [289], [322], [323], [325];
  • compared with Lady Teazle, [399].
• Lake, Admiral, offers to take charge of Henry Kemble, [482].
• Lamartine, [116].
• Lamb, Charles, [124].
• Lamb, Lady Caroline, [45], [46].
• Lamb, William (see [Melbourne]).
• Lamb's "Dramatic specimens," [385].
• Lancashire, [278].
• Lansdowne, [106].
• Lansdowne, Lord, [175].
• Lansdowne House, [177].
• Lansdowne, gives Mr. Harness position in Land Office, [349];
  • admiration for Mrs. Sarah Siddons, ib.
• Lansdowne, [497].
• Lane, Mr., [240].
• Laporte, lessee of Covent Garden from Charles Kemble, [518];
  • giving concerts in Covent Garden, [527].
• Lausanne, [34], [90].
• Latour, [37].
• Lawrence, Sir Thomas, friendly relations between and Mrs. Charles Kemble restored, [207];
  • admiration for Mrs. Siddons, ib.;
  • engagement broken in favor of her younger sister, ib.;
  • engaged to Miss Sarah Siddons, [207];
  • his interest in authors, [208];
  • criticisms of Fanny Kemble's acting, [209];
  • "Lawrence is dead," ib.;
  • anecdotes of, [210], [215];
  • painting of Satan, [214];
  • beautiful drawing-room, ib.;
  • merit as a painter, [216];
  • pictures of Canning, Lord Aberdeen, and Mr. John Kemble, [217];
  • his want of conscience, ib.;
  • print of his portrait of Fanny Kemble, [234];
  • his criticisms of Fanny Kemble, [237], [239], [320], [327];
  • lawsuits about theatre patents, [339];
  • Pickersgill care not to copy, [365];
  • Duke of Wellington's bitter pill to, [393];
  • a dangerous companion, [402];
  • opinion of a Madonna, [242];
  • picture of Fanny Kemble, the best, [525];
  • his opinion on theatrical matters, [577].
• Lea, girls' school at, [251].
• Leach, Sir John, [88].
• Leamington, [106], [180].
• Lee, the Misses, adaptation of the "Canterbury Tales" to "Father and Son," [308].
• Lennox, Lord William, [98].
• Leopold, Prince, at Bridgewater House, [422].
• Le Sage's novels, [422].
• Le Texier, [2], [30].
• Levassor, ludicrous account of "Robert the Devil," [507].
• Leveson, Lord Francis, his new piece, [478];
  • translation of "Henri Trois," [481];
  • entertainment at Bridgewater House, [365].
• Lindley, Miss, [173].
• Liston, [7], [20], [21];
  • reciting Collins' "Ode to the Passions," [460];
  • compared to Reeve, [508].
• Liston, the surgeon, beginning of Fanny Kemble's acquaintance with, [524];
  • death, ib.
• Liverpool, [277];
  • railway between and Manchester, [278];
• Llangollen, [345].
• Loch Long, [267].
• Locomotives, the first, [280].
• Lockhart, reviews "Francis I." instead of Millman, [512].
• Lomond, Loch, [266].
• London, cholera in, [502]
  • farewell to, [522].
• Londonderry, Lord, [398].
• Lope de Vega, sketch of the life and works of, [319].
• Loudham, his hopes of fixing the Chancery suit of Charles Kemble, [463].
• Louis Philippe, [276].
• Louis XI., his ugly secretary Alin Chartier, [462].
• Louis, at Covent Garden Theatre, [521].
• Lucifer, Byron's fancy for the character of, [331].
• Lyndhurst, Lord, [88].
• Lyttleton, Lord ("The Wicked"), [33].

• Macaulay, Lord, letter to Mr. Ellis, [344];
  • enthusiasm over John Kemble's book on history of the Anglo-Saxons, [505].
• "Macbeth" contrast with the "Tempest", [292].
• Macdonald, Sir John, [171], [244], [486], [502].
• Macdonald (sculptor), desiring to make a statue of Fanny Kemble, [236], [462];
  • his collection of sculpture, [343].
• Macdonald, Lady, "Sir John's General," [344], [481].
• Macdonald, James, [489].
• Macdonald, Lawrence, [152].
• Macdonald, Julia, [244].
• Mackay, [442], [488].
• Macready, at the English theatre in Paris, [115];
  • his opinion of Fanny Kemble, [189];
  • Shakespearean revivals, [191];
  • his fine acting in "Werner," [308];
  • success in "The Fatal Dowry," [318];
  • in "Rienzi," [354];
  • in "Virginius," [376];
  • prophecy come true, [390].
• Madrid, John Kemble a prisoner at, [336].
• Maida, Scott's hound, [263].
• "Maid of Honor, The," success of, [364], [367], [385], [391].
• Malibran, Mme., letters to her husband, [203];
  • overcome by Charles Kemble's acting, [204];
  • début and death in England, [205];
  • her professional popularity, [205];
  • Alfred de Musset's lament for, [205], [206];
  • her envy of Sontag, in "Romeo and Juliet," [201].
• Malahide, Lord Talbot de, [346].
• Malebranche, [441].
• Malkin, Arthur, [84].
• Malkin, Benjamin, [84].
• Malkin, Charles, [84].
• Malkin, Dr. and Mrs., [82], [110].
• Malkin, Frederick, [84].
• Malkins, the, [183].
• "Malvolio, thou art sick of conceit," [435].
• Manchester, the Kembles in "The Gamester," [204], [277];
  • railway between and Liverpool, [278], [284], [291], [303].
• Maple, Durham, the vicar of, [229].
• Marc Antonio, cast of his skull mistaken for Raphael's, [528].
• Marcet, Mrs., [332], [341].
• Mariana, Fanny Kemble as, [377].
• Mario (M. de Candee), intimate friend of Henry Greville, [497].
• Marriage, sombre thoughts about, [436].
• Marriage, talk about, [423].
• Mars, Mlle., [90], [258], [420];
  • in the heroine of "Henri Trois," [484], [564], [565].
• "Marseillaise," Mme. Rachel's rendering of, [436].
• Martineau's, Harriet, "Each and All," [570];
  • Channing's opinion of her writings, [578].
• Mary Copp, Mrs. Bradshaw in, [396].
• "Mary Stuart," [267], [284];
  • reasons for not playing, [370], [549].
• Maurice, Frederick, [183].
• Mason, "Self-Knowledge," [169]; in Romeo, [200];
  • son of Charles Kemble's sister, [259];
  • first appearance as Romeo, [421];
  • discussion about Kean, [429];
  • speech to the Bristol audience about helping Brunton in his troubles, [433];
  • the King in "Francis I.," [508], [510].
• Mason, Miss, [263].
• Massinger, "Maid of Honor," [255], [257];
  • "Fatal Dowry," [318];
  • "Maid of Honor" proposed for Fanny Kemble's "benefit," [358];
  • plays compared with some others, [389].
• Master Walter, character in "The Hunchback," [377].
• Mathews, Charles, [39], [170].
• "Mathilde," [332].
• Matterhorn, [85].
• Matuscenitz, [299].
• Mayow, Mrs., [322].
• Maxwell, [157];
  • anecdote of one of that family, [261].
• Mayo, Mrs., a brave woman, [471].
• Mazzochetti, [26].
• McLaren, Duncan, [158].
• Meadows, Mr. Drinkwater, [505].
• "Medea," [400].
• Megrin, St., [420].
• Melbourne, Lord (William Lamb), [45], [46], [47], [347], [357].
• "Merchant of Venice," [248].
• Mellon, Miss (see [St. Albans, Duchess of]).
• Mendelssohn, [96], [507].
• "Merchant of Venice," [119], [351].
• Mercutio, [483];
  • Charles Kemble in, after his sickness, [480]
• Mersey, the, its ancient wanderings, [282].
• Meteoric lights, [145].
• Meyerbeer's "Robert the Devil," [507].
• Mill, John S., [122];
  • John Kemble's admiration for, [180].
• Millais' picture of Trelawney as the "Old Sea Captain," [582].
• Milnes, Richard M., [183].
• Milman, Mrs., [184].
• Milman's "Fazio," [323], [331];
  • his pleasure at Fanny Kemble's rendering of Bianca in "Fazio," [334], [341], [390];
  • to review "Francis I." in Quarterly Review, simultaneously with its appearance on the stage, [502].
• Milton, [36], [273];
  • compared with Byron, [331];
  • Channing's essay on, [337];
  • Mrs. Siddons' admiration for, [416].
• Miranda, [252], [269].
• Mitchell, charge of all Fanny Kemble's readings in America, [224].
• Mitford, Mary Russell, [45];
  • "Inez de Castro," [323];
  • negotiations with management of Covent Garden about "Inez de Castro," [354];
  • "Our Village," [416].
• Molière, [258].
• Monceaux Parc, [63].
• Monckton Miss (Lady Cork), [379].
• Monk's Grove, [418].
• Mons Meg, a famous old gun, [162].
• Monson, [90].
• Monson, Lady, [397], [400].
• Montagu, Mr. and Mrs., [124].
• Montagu, Mrs., "Our Lady of Bitterness," [126];
  • crediting others with her wise and witty sayings, [127], [178], [353], [401].
• Montagu Place, [267].
• Monte Rosa, [85].
• Montpensier, Mlle, de, [113].
• Moore, Mrs. Thomas, [159].
• Moore, Tom, [173];
  • "Life of Byron," [330], [415].
• Morne Mountains, [273].
• Moral Training, [165].
• Morgan, Lady, Irish jig, [269];
  • French Revolution, [276].
• Moscheles, [321], [395].
• Mott, Lucretia, [543].
• Mount Vernon, [567].
• Mozart's "Nozze," [159].
• Mrs. Beverley, [245], [246], [290].
• Mrs. Haller, Fanny Kemble in, [315];
  • her success in, [317], [323], [325];
  • dress of, [327].
• Mrs. Oakley, costume for, [364], [385].
• "Much Ado about Nothing," [518].
• Mulgrave, Lord, [562].
• Murphy, Mrs. Jameson's father, [127];
  • "Grecian Daughter," [236], [238].
• Murray, Lord, [142].
• Murray, Wm., [142];
  • joint proprietor of Edinburgh Theatre, [142], [159];
  • his generous price for "Francis I.," [244], [309];
  • publishes Fanny Kemble's poems and plays, [314], [324], [332], [334];
  • £4000 for "Francis I.," [355], [482];
  • publishing "The Star of Seville," and "Francis I.," [497];
  • publishes John Kemble's Anglo-Saxon book, [502].
• Musset, Alfred de, "lament for Malibran," [205], [206].
• Music, modern and ancient, [500].
• Mussy, Dr. Gueneau de, [566].

• Naples, King of, [271];
  • talk of, [421].
• "Napoleon," [364].
• Napoleon, Louis, [63].
• Napoleon, Duke of Reichstadt, death of, [557].
• Nature, love of, [501].
• Negroes, prejudice against, [542].
• Netherlands, revolt in, [294].
• Neukomm, [321], [395].
• Newgate, Fanny Kemble's visit to, [413];
  • Mrs. Fry's visits to, ib.
• Newman Street, [8].
• Newton, "Cardiphonia," [169].
• Newton, Stewart, anecdotes of, Royal Academy, [393].
• Newton, Gilbert Stewart, "Creaking Door," [573].
• New Year, [183]2, [485].
• New York, first sight of, [533];
  • compared with Paris, [535];
  • fires in, [537];
  • water in, [537], [540].
• Niagara, Falls of, [579], [581].
• Nightingale, Florence, [127].
• Nilsson, Mlle., [202].
• Nöel, Sir Gerard, [372].
• Norton, Mrs., [47].
• Norton, George, [174].
• Norton, Mrs., anecdote with Hook, [171], [175], [345], [357], [414], [480];
  • Hayter's picture, [487], [496], [504], [510].
• Normandy, Lord, [176].
• "Notre Dame de Paris," [498];
  • "bad in tendency and shocking in detail," [499].
• Notter, Mr., [372].
• Nottingham Castle, [461].
• Nourrit, [462].
• Nugent, Lady, [216].

• Oatlands, [81], [396], [402], [403], [421], [467], [470].
• "Oberon," [94], [99].
• "Old Plays" compared with "The Gamester," and "Grecian Daughter," [385].
• O'Neill, Miss, [84], [195];
  • appearance, [196];
  • in "Evadne, or the Statue," and "The Apostate," [312];
  • Fanny Kemble compared with, [234].
• Otway's "Venice Preserved," [235].
• Ottley and Saunders, [319].
• Owen, the philanthropist, [316].

• Paganini, [416], [434], [466].
• Panizzi, [267], [546].
• "Paradise Lost," [59].
• Paris, [276].
• Parliament, [421].
• Pasta, Mme., [428], [441];
  • Pasta's Medea, [400];
  • Anna Bolena, [444].
• Pasta's daughter, [181].
• Paton, Miss, [97], [98], [437].
• Patti, Adalina, [163].
• "Paul Clifford," [286].
• Peaches, in America, [559].
• Peacock, Mr., [110], [119].
• "Pedro the Cruel," [354].
• "Peerage and Peasantry, Tales of the," [348].
• Percival, Mr., in House of Commons, [498].
• Peterborough, Earl of, marriage to Anastasia Robinson, [437].
• Petrarch's sonnets, [346].
• "Philaster," [385].
• Philippe, Mons., [64], [65].
• Phillips, Miss, [464].
• Phrenological Museum, [527].
• Pickersgill, portrait of Fanny Kemble, [362];
  • portrait of Charles Kemble in Macbeth, [366];
  • picture "Medora," [390].
• Planché, [95].
• Plague, the, [308].
• Plessis, Mlle., [258].
• Plymouth, [416], [443], [444];
  • farewell to, [44]
• Plymouth Rock, [426].
• Poitier, [66];
  • in the "Vaudeville," [483].
• Poland, discussion between Charles Kemble and Kean, [440];
  • early history of, [495].
• Poles, the, [359].
• Polly, Miss Sheriff as, [471].
• Ponsonby, Miss, [345].
• Poole, Miss, as Tom Thumb, [480].
• Portia, [187];
  • Fanny Kemble's first appearance as, [247], [248];
  • character of, [248];
  • costumes of, [249], [336], [352];
  • compared with Camiola, [367], [397], [414];
  • at Bristol, [431], [532].
• Portland, [450].
• Portmore Park, [388].
• Portsmouth, [451].
• Power, Mr., [485].
• Power, Tyrone, [489].
• Princes Street, incident with Scott on, [262].
• Procter, Adelaide, her "doomed" appearance, [499];
  • reading description of Esmeralda and sketch of Quasimodo's life, [499], [516].
• Procter, Bryan Waller (Barry Cornwall), marriage to Anne Skeeper, [353];
  • "White Devil," [353].
• Proctor, [124], [342].
• Proctor, Mrs., her habit of crediting others with her wise sayings, [127], [401].
• Proctor, Emily, [401].
• "Prometheus unbound," [496].
• Prospero, [252], [338].
• "Provoked Husband, The," [315], [328], [504];
  • at Southampton, [453];
  • at Fanny Kemble's benefit, [529].
• Pickersgill, [365].

• Queen, the, at Bridgewater House, [422].
• "Quentin Durward," [444].
• Quarterly Review, its critique of "Francis I.," [516].

• Rachel, Mlle., her performance of Camille, [191];
  • Jules Janin's first notice of her, [436].
• Racine, [307], [410].
• Radley, Mr., of the Adelphi, [303].
• Railroads in England, [443];
  • between Liverpool and Manchester, [278].
• Ramahun Roy, the Rajah, [178], [479];
  • general appearance, [515].
• Raphael, his skull, [528].
• Reade, Charles, "The King's Wager," [308].
• Redcliffe Church, [433].
• Reeve compared with Liston, [508].
• Reform Bill, [344], [394], [459], [460], [478].
• Regalia, Scottish, incident of, [157].
• Reichardt, or Reis, [100].
• Religious faith, [476].
• Retsch's illustrations of "Hamlet," [373];
  • disinclination for illustrating "Romeo and Juliet," ib.;
  • illustrations of "Faust," [374].
• Revolution of [183]0, the, [276].
• Revolution, Spanish, [335], [336], [356], [359], [478], [479], [484].
• Rhodez, scene of the Fauldes Tragedy, [466].
• "Richard III.," [119].
• Richter, [80].
• "Rienzi," [354].
• Rigby, Mr., [4].
• Rio, M., [73].
• Ristori, [571].
• Rivens, Lady, [4].
• "Robert the Devil" at Covent Garden, [507];
  • M. Levassor's ludicrous account of, [507], [509].
• Robertson, Frederick, [168].
• Robinson, Anastasia, marriage to Earl of Peterborough, [437].
• "Rob Roy," [488].
• Rogers, [379], [504]
• "Roman de la Rose." [357].
• "Romeo and Juliet," [257], [342], [414];
  • at Bristol, [424], [443];
  • at Weymouth, [449];
  • at Southampton, [452], [485];
  • John Mason's first appearance in, [486], [523];
  • in New York, [542].
• Romilly, Mrs. Edward, [342].
• Romillys, the, [183].
• Rossini, [100].
• Roxelane, [68].
• Rowden, Mrs., [45], [47], [67].
• Russell, Earl, [347], [404];
  • appearance of, [492];
  • incident of Sir Robert Inglis, [493];
  • responsibility in Reform Bill, [494].
• "Rush-bearing," a, [296].
• Ruthven, his proceeding toward Mary Stuart, [489].
• Rutland, Duke of, [22].
• Rye, [521].

• Sackville, [462].
• "Sacrament," preparation, [403].
• "Sakuntalà," [178].
• De Sales, Francis, [426].
• Salisbury, Lady, in "Isaure," [382];
  • "Wednesday Morning" at Hatfield House, [394].
• Salmon, [89].
• "Salmonia," [539].
• Sandwich, Earl of, [124].
• Saunders and Ottley, [319].
• Savoy, Louisa of, [509].
• Schiller, [169];
  • "Mary Stuart," [312].
  • "School for Scandal," incident of Miss Farren and Lord Derby in, [452];
  • at Southampton, [454], [487], [498];
  • in New York, [543].
• Schlegel's "Dramatic Lectures," [486]
• Scotland, regalia of, [261].
• Scotsman, The, [158].
• Scott, Anne, [260].
• Scott, Walter, [3], [36], [58], [87], [108], [142],157;
  • "Border Minstrelsy," [160], [166];
  • criticisms on Fanny Kemble's acting, [260];
  • anecdote of Scottish regalia, [261];
  • opinion of Fanny Kemble as compared with Mrs. Siddons, [262];
  • incident at Abbotsford, [263], [444];
  • caution in regard to Waverley Novels, [488], [521], [527];
  • death, [557].
• Scottish Regalia, incident of, [157].
• Scribe's "Les premières Amours," [419].
• Searle, Miss, [87].
• Sedgwick's, Miss, "Hope Leslie," [577].
• Semiramis, Queen, as a dramatic writer, [447].
• Sentiment, books of, [506].
• Serenading, [470].
• Sévigné, Madame de, [277], [320].
• Shakespeare, Plays at Paris, [115], [169], [182];
  • Portia, [187];
  • "Romeo and Juliet," the ending restored, [207];
  • claim of his plays to perfect representation, [220];
  • his plays compared with "Grecian Daughter," [238], [247], [255], [260];
  • compared with Goethe, [338];
  • "Romeo and Juliet," [342];
  • treatment of passion of hatred, [351], [389];
  • knowing and knowing about him, [396];
  • Mrs. Siddons' admiration for, [416], [486];
  • discussion about, [522];
  • beauty of his songs, [505];
  • reiteration of expressions of grief, [514];
  • Mrs. Jameson's book on his female characters, issued, [531].
• Shannon, Rev. Win., [164].
• Sharp "conversation," [504].
• Sheil, "Evadne, or the Statue," and "The Apostate," [312].
• Shelley, [166];
  • his passion for fire-gazing, [325], [334];
  • the Cenci;
  • translation of Calderon's "El Magico Prodigioso;"
  • "Faust," [384];
  • "Prometheus Unbound," [496], [498];
  • "The Sensitive Plant," and "Rosalind and Helen," [498];
  • "The Two Sisters," [499].
• Shelley, Capt., in "Hernani", [404].
• Sheriff, Miss, her début, [464];
  • in "Artaxerxes," [465];
  • in "Fra Diavolo," [469];
  • in "Polly," [471].
• Sheridan, Caroline, [174], [178].
• Sheridan, Chas., [173];
  • manager of Drury Lane, [174], [175], [399], [498].
• Sheridan, Georgiana, [173], [510].
• Sheridan, Mrs. (Miss Callender), [173].
• Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, [173].
• Shirley's "Gentleman of Venice," [513].
• Shylock, [351];
  • analysis of the character, [430].
• Siddons, Cecilia, [91], [94], [108], [123], [180], [239], [323], [400];
  • picture by Clint, [405];
  • plans after her mother's death, [416], [466].
• Siddons, Elizabeth, [291].
• Siddons, "Lizzy," [119].
• Siddons, "Sally and Lizzy," [342].
• Siddons, George, [158], [323]; Mrs. George, [158]
• Siddons, Harriet, [323].
• Siddons, Henry, management of the Edinburgh Theatre, [142];
  • death, ib.;
  • arrival in India and departure for Delhi, [119], [470].
• Siddons, Mrs. Henry, [140], [141], [143], [158], [164], [180], [193], [259], [261], [286], [291], [305], [359], [364].
• Siddons. Maria, [17],
  • engaged to Sir Thomas Lawrence, [207];
  • death, ib.
• Siddons, Sarah, [17], [91];
  • in Louisa of Savoy, [117], [129];
  • painting by Gainsborough, [162];
  • in Elvira, [174];
  • costume in the "Grecian Daughter," [190];
  • as Hamlet, [200];
  • Lawrence's admiration for, [207];
  • wishes to be carried to her grave by Lawrence, [211];
  • indifference, [223];
  • Fanny Kemble compared with, [234];
  • in Euphrasia, [236];
  • shocked at Lawrence's death, [237], [239];
  • Edinburgh audiences, [261]:
  • repeating Lady Macbeth to an enthusiastic audience, [262];
  • opinion of, [262];
  • dearest friend, [270];
  • in Mrs. Haller and "The Fair Penitent," [318];
  • Christmas eve at her house, [322], [337];
  • advantage over Fanny Kemble, [336], [345];
  • Lord Lansdowne's admiration for, [349], [396];
  • failing health, [399];
  • Milton and Shakespeare, [416];
  • her death, [416];
  • her abuse of Austria in "King John," [446];
  • her letters, [452];
  • Queen Katharine, [459];
  • her letters revised by Emily Fitzhugh, [477];
  • Lady Macbeth, [478];
  • "sketches" of Constance and Lady Macbeth, [517].
• Siddons, Mrs. Scott-, [158].
• Shaw, [60].
• Sismondi, [83].
• Sinclair, [123].
• Skeeper, Anne, marriage to Barry Cornwall, [353].
• Skerries, [273], [329].
• Slavery in America, [543].
• Smart, Sir George, [95], [100], [395].
• Smiles, his biography of Stephenson, [279].
• Smith's "National Scottish Songs," [160].
• Smith, Bobus, [347].
• Smith, James, [86].
• Smith, Sidney, [142], [173], [347], [504]
• Smithson, Miss, [115].
• Solomon, [166].
• Somerset, Duchess of, [173], [510].
• "Sonnambula," [507].
• Sontag, appearance with Malibran in "Romeo and Juliet," [201], [202].
• Sotheby ("the poet"), [350];
  • "Darnley," [370];
  • comments on Fanny Kemble's beauty, [370].
• Southampton, [271], [416], [451].
• Spain, [293].
• Spaniards, John Kemble delivered to the, [336].
• Spanish expedition, [326].
• Spanish revolution, [335], [336], [356], [359], [478];
  • Torrijos and his friends shot, [479].
• Spedding, James, [183].
• Spenser, poetry of, [358].
• Spurzheim, his philosophy of phrenology, [151];
  • death in Boston, [558].
• Stafford, [92], [113], [297].
• St. Albans, Duke of, marriage, [392].
• St. Albans, Duchess of, Miss Mellon and Mrs. Coutts, [391].
• St. Anne's Hill, [418].
• St. Aubin, Mr., in "Hernani" at Bridgewater House, [376], [396], [421].
• Stansbury, Mr., [472].
• "Star of Seville," [319], [389];
  • finished, [395];
  • unbecoming language of, [423], [435], [445], [472], [478], [479]. [480];
  • reading it to the family, [489];
  • "cut" for the stage, [495];
  • publication, [497], [514];
  • brought out first in New York, [554].
• Stein, Madame von, Goethe's letters to, [339]
• Stephens (see [Essex, Countess of]).
• Stephenson, Geo., first experiment at a railway, [278];
  • characteristics, [279], [298], [455];
  • contrasted with Lord Alvanley, [456].
• Sterling, John, [183];
  • daily promise, [185], [293];
  • marriage, [326];
  • in Spanish expedition, ib.
• Sterky, Mr., [321].
• Stewart, Charles Edward (the Pretender), relics of, [156].
• Stewart, Mary, [489].
• St. Lawrence, Rapids of the, [380].
• St. Maur, Lady (nee Georgiana Sheriden).
• St. Paul's, Lawrence's burial in, [240].
• "Stranger, The," [315], [327];
  • at Plymouth, [445];
  • Charles Young in, [462].
• St. Sidwell's church, [440].
• Storace, [500].
• Stukely, [440], [446].
• Singer, a diminutive, [453].
• Sullivan, Mrs., [341], [348];
  • Rev. Fred., [348].
• Sully, his picture of Fanny Kemble as Beatrice, [367].
• Sumner, Charles, [543].
• Switzerland, [277].

• Taglioni, [400], [564].
• Talbot, Colonel, [346].
• Tales of a chaperon, [348].
• Talma, [25], [65].
• "Tasso," [351]
• Taylor, Jeremy, [104].
• Taylor, Tom, "The King's Wager," [308].
• Taylor, Miss, as Helen in the "Hunchback," [378], [519];
  • as Margaret de Valois in "Francis I.," [508];
  • in "The Hunchback," [519].
• "Tempest, The," [269], [555].
• Tennyson, Alfred, [167];
  • his brothers, [483];
  • first poems, [184];
  • "The May Queen," "Œnone," and the "Miller's Daughter," [185], [294];
  • an unpromising exterior, [519];
  • poems of, [581].
• Terry, [142].
• Thackeray, W.M., [126], [167], [183];
  • broken nose, [490], [496].
• Thackeray, Dr., [393].
• Thames Tunnel, [120].
• Theatre Français, [258].
• Theatre patents, [339].
• Therëse Heyne (Madame Huber), [347].
• Thorwaldsen, [343].
• Tieck, [29], [80], [353];
  • "The Elves," [516].
• Titian's Venuses, and "Venus and Adonis," [271];
  • Bacchus and Ariadne, [475].
• Tiverton, the member for, [270].
• Tom Thumb, Miss Poole as, [480].
• Torrijos, General, [293], [326], [356].
• Tree, Miss Ellen, as Romeo, [200].
• Tree, Miss (Mrs. Bradshaw), [497];
  • as Françoise de Foix, in "Francis I.," [508].
• Trelawney, Mr., [436];
  • author of "Adventures of a Younger Son," [582].
• Trench, Richard, [183], [293];
  • return from Spain, [356];
  • share in Spanish exhibition, [376];
  • shot in Spain, [479], [514].
• Trenton Falls, [103].
• "Tristram Shandy," [519].
• Trueba, Don Telesforo de, "The Exquisites," [395], [405].
• Turnerelli, his bust of Fanny Kemble, [365], [499]
• Tweed, Scott's residence on the, [265].
• Twiss, Horace, [86], [87], [170], [236], [331];
  • put into Parliament by Lord Clarendon, [335];
  • aspect at defeat of Reform Bill, [344];
  • speech on Reform Bill, [344], [387].
• Twiss, Horace's father, [107].
• Twiss, John, [15].
• Twiss, Miss, [158].
• Twiss, Mrs., [256];
  • the Misses, [130].
• 
  "Vivian Grey," [122].
• Vinci, Leonardo da, [476].
• Victorine, [507].
• Victoria, Princess, [475].
• Viardot, Mme., [205].
• Vestris, Madame, [383].
• "Vestiges of Creation," [161].
• "Venice, Gentleman of," [513].
• "Venice, History of." [474], [513].
• "Venice Preserved," [425], [433], [444];
  • at Weymouth, [451], [470].
• Vanbrugh, Sir John, [399].
• "Valeria," [436].

• Wade, his plays "The Jew of Aragon" and "Griselda," [306];
  • self-control, [307].
• Wainwright, Dr., [544].
• Waldegrave, Lord, [417].
• Wales, Prince of, [3].
• Wales, Princess of, [251].
• Wallack, J.W., [539].
• Wallenstein, [474].
• Walpole, Horace, [303], [414].
• Ward, [366], [484];
  • Joseph Surface, [487];
  • in "Katharine of Cleves," [489];
  • as Fazio, [323];
  • as The Monk in "Francis I.," [508].
• Warwick Castle, [106].
• Warwick, Lord, [90].
• Washington, George, [567].
• Water in New York, [537].
• Watson, Dr., [463].
• Weber, Baron Carl Maria von, "Der Freyschütz," [94];
  • "Oberon," [95];
  • "Always my music, but never myself," [96];
  • appearance and manner, [97];
  • impatience with Braham and Miss Paton, [97];
  • Huon's opening song, [98];
  • death, [100].
• Webster, Daniel, speeches of, [547];
  • letters of introduction to, [561].
• "Wednesday Morning," [390], [393], [394].
• Wellington, Duke of, [101], [124], [244];
  • at opening of new railroad, [284], [299], [304];
  • bitter pill to Lawrence, [393], [460];
  • threatening to pull down his statue, [461], [474].
• Welsh, Mr., Miss Sheriff's instructor, [464].
• West Indies, [483].
• West India Dock, [120].
• Westmacott, editor of the Age, thrashed by Charles Kemble, [310], [314].
• Westminster Abbey, John Kemble's monument, [65], [240].
• Westminster, Henry Kemble's education at, [108], [110], [267], [482].
• Westminster Committee, The, [278].
• Weybridge, [75], [79], [81], [111], [388], [396], [399], [442].
• Weymouth, [449].
• Wieland, [80], [95].
• Willet, [108].
• William IV., [95], [96].
• Wharncliffe, Earl of (see [Wortley, James], [349]).
• "White Devil, The," [353].
• Whitelock, Mrs., [15], [105], [106], [355], [418], [420].
• "Wife of Antwerp, The," [475].
• "Wilhelm Meister," [339].
• Wilkes, [490].
• Wilkinson, Mrs., [466].
• Willett, Mr., [513].
• William IV., his natural son by Mrs. Jordan, [227], [390];
  • ignorance of art, [393].
• Wilmot, Mr., [348].
• Wilson, Dr., [462], [463].
• Wilson, [142], [178]; in "Artaxerxes," [465].
• Winckelmann, his work on classical art, [217].
• Wood, Mr., [98].
• Worcester (see [Beaufort, Duke of]).
• Wordsworth, [166].
• Worsley, [270].
• Worsley Hall, [375].
• Wortley, James, [342], [349].
• Wraxall, [104].
• Wray, Miss. [124].
• Wroxton Abbey, [388].

• Yates, Mr., as a friend, [508].
• Yates, Mrs., in "Victorine," [507].
• York, Archbishop of, [230].
• York, Duchess of, [403].
• York, Duke of, [77], [85].
• Young, Charles, anecdotes of, [10];
  • accomplishments and disposition, [11];
  • death at Brighton, [12], [115], [117], [118], [181];
  • in "Rienzi," [354];
  • at Bridgewater House, [421];
  • as Pierre, [461];
  • in "The Stranger," [462];
  • helping Covent Garden, [464], [472].
• Young, Rev. Julian, [40], [251], [504].

• Zanga, [351].
• Zermatt, Mount. [84].

Transcriber's note

The following names were changed in the index for consistency with the text:

	Changed from
Alleghany	Allegheny
Belzoni	Belzini
Biagioli	Biagoli
Der Freyschütz	Der Freyschutz
Flore, Mlle.	Floré, Mlle.
Foscolo, Ugo	Foscolo, Uga
Nourrit	Nourritt
Pickersgill	Puckersgill
Roxelane	Roxelaine
Sakuntalà	Sakuntala
Sonnambula	Somnambula
Therëse Heyne	Therese Heyne
Winckelmann	Winckelman
César Malan	Cesar Malan (under Kemble, Frances Anne)
Joséphine	Josephine (Bonaparte's letters to, underKemble, Frances Anne)
Françoise de Foix	Francoise de Foix (under Tree, Miss)

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