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Saturday, 29th.
When I came down to breakfast, found a very pretty diamond ring and some Scotch rhymes, from Mr. ——, what we call a small return of favours. I wish my hand wasn't so abominably ugly,—I hate to put a ring upon it. —— called to see if we would ride; but D—— had too much to do; and, after sitting pottering for some time, I sang him the Messenger Bird, and sent him away. Went for a few moments to Mrs. ——, who seemed much better. Went out to pay sundry bills and visits. Called at Mr. ——'s, and spent half an hour most delightfully in his study. His picture of my father is very like, and very agreeable. 'Tis too youthful by a good deal; but the expression of the face is extremely good, and upon the whole, except that stern-looking thing of Kearsley's, 'tis the likest thing I have seen of him. We had a long discussion about the stage,—the dramatic art; which, as Helen says, "is none," for, "no art but taketh time and pains to learn." Now I am a living and breathing witness that a person may be accounted a good actor, and to a certain degree deserve the title, without time or pains of any sort being expended upon the acquisition of the reputation. But, on other grounds, acting has always appeared to me to be the very lowest of the arts, admitting that it deserves to be classed among them at all, which I am not sure it does. In the first place, it originates nothing; it lacks, therefore, the grand faculty which all other arts possess—creation. An actor is at the best but the filler-up of the outline designed by another,—the expounder, as it were, of things which another has set down; and a fine piece of acting is at best, in my opinion, a fine translation. Moreover, it is not alone to charm the senses that the nobler powers of mind were given to man; 'tis not alone to enchant the eye, that the gorgeous pallet of the painter, and the fine chisel of the statuary, have become, through heavenly inspiration, magical wands, summoning to life images of loveliness, of majesty, and grace; 'tis not alone to soothe the ear that music has possessed, as it were, certain men with the spirit of sweet sounds; 'tis not alone to delight the fancy, that the poet's great and glorious power was given him, by which, as by a spell, he peoples all space, and all time, with undying witnesses of his own existence; 'tis not alone to minister to our senses that these most beautiful capabilities were sown in the soil of our souls. But 'tis that, through them, all that is most refined, most excellent and noble, in our mental and moral nature, may be led through their loveliness, as through a glorious archway, to the source of all beauty and all goodness. It is that by them our perceptions of truth may be made more vivid, our love of loveliness increased, our intellect refined and elevated, our nature softened, our memory stored with images of brightness, which, like glorious reflections, falling again upon our souls, may tend to keep alive in them the knowledge of, and the desire after, what is true, and fair, and noble. But, that art may have this effect, it must be to a certain degree enduring. It must not be a transient vision, which fades and leaves but a recollection of what it was, which will fade too. It must not be for an hour, a day, or a year, but abiding, inasmuch as any thing earthly may abide, to charm the sense and cheer the soul of generation after generation. And here it is that the miserable deficiency of acting is most apparent. Whilst the poems, the sculptures, of the old Grecian time yet remain to witness to these latter ages the enduring life of truth and beauty; whilst the poets of Rome, surviving the trophies of her thousand victories, are yet familiar in our mouths as household words; whilst Dante, Boccaccio, that giant, Michael Angelo, yet live, and breathe, and have their being amongst us, through the rich legacy their genius has bequeathed to time; whilst the wild music of Salvator Rosa, solemn and sublime as his painting, yet rings in our ears, and the souls of Shakspeare, Milton, Raphael, and Titian, are yet shedding into our souls divinest influences from the very fountains of inspiration;—where are the pageants that, night after night, during the best era of dramatic excellence, riveted the gaze of thousands, and drew forth their acclamations?—gone, like rosy sunset clouds;—fair painted vapours, lovely to the sight, but vanishing as dreams, leaving no trace in heaven, no token of their ever having been there. Where are the labours of Garrick, of Macklin, of Cooke, of Kemble, of Mrs. Siddons?—chronicled in the dim memories of some few of their surviving spectators; who speak of them with an enthusiasm which we, who never saw them, fancy the offspring of that feeling which makes the old look back to the time of their youth as the only days when the sun knew how to shine. What have these great actors left, either to delight the sense or elevate the soul, but barren names, unwedded to a single lasting evidence of greatness! If, then, acting be alike without the creating power and the enduring property, which are at once the highest faculty of art, and its most beneficial purpose, what becomes of it when ranked with efforts displaying both in the highest degree? To me it seems no art,[79] but merely a highly rational, interesting, and exciting amusement; and I think men may as well, much better, perhaps, spend three hours in a theatre than in a billiard or bar-room,—and this is the extent of my approbation and admiration of my art. Called on Mrs. ——, whom I like very much. Went to the riding-school to try a new horse, which was ten hands high, all covered with shaggy angry-looking hair, with a donkey's head, and cart-horse legs, with one of which he peached. —— came to see me mount. Dr. ——'s grey horse was standing in the school with a man's saddle on. I persuaded —— to put me on it, and I then sent him away.
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When he was gone, rode for about an hour without any pommel, and found I managed it famously. I slipped my foot out of the stirrup in order to see if I could sit without both; but this proved rather too much, for I presently slid very comfortably off. On my way home, met young ——, with his head so completely in the clouds, that I had bowed to him, and was driving on, when he just perceived me, and fell into a confusion of bows, which he continued long after the coach had passed him. Found the usual token of his having been at our house—a most beautiful nosegay; roses, hyacinths, and myrtle. While I was arranging them, I heard a tremendous shriek of laughter in the hall, which was followed by the appearance of Mr. ——. After sitting with him some time, I went and sat with Mrs. ——. The amiable Chargé d'Affaires dined with us. After dinner, went to see Mrs. ——; but she was too unwell to receive me.
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Saw Dr. ——, who expressed manifold deplorings at my departure: gave him the words of the Sisters. At half-past five, went to the theatre: play, the Wonder. I acted only so-so: my father was a leetle dans les vignes du Seigneur. When the play was over, the folk called for us, and we went on: he made them a neat speech, and I nothing but a cross face and three courtesies. How I do hate this! 'Tis quite enough to exhibit myself to a gaping crowd, when my profession requires that I should do so in a feigned semblance; but to come bobbing and genuflexioning on, as me myself, to be clapped and shouted at, and say, "Thank ye kindly," is odious. After the play, dressed, and off to Mrs. ——, with my father and Mr. ——. On our way thither, the spring of our coach broke, and we had to go halting along for half an hour, with a graceful inclination towards the pavement on one side, which was very pleasant. There was quite a brilliant party at Mrs. ——'s. Told Mr. —— that I had thrown his horse down. Saw and spoke to all Philadelphia. —— was there, and actually sitting still. Fell in love with Mr. ——'s youngest son, who is a youth of some ten years old, and hovers round me with a plenitude of silent admiration and astonishment that is most delightful. Miss ——, who is a very pretty creature (in fact, all American women are pretty creatures, I never saw any prettier), sang Dalla Gioga e del Piacer. She sings very well, but pronounces Italian very Americanly, which is a pity. I don't know any thing so necessary to good singing as a good Italian pronunciation, except perhaps a good voice, and a good school. They made me sing, and I sang them the galley song, after which Miss —— warbled again. They were surrounding me again, with a shower of "pray do's," when perceiving D—— making towards me, with my boa on her arm, I sat down and sang them, "Yes, aunt, I am ready to go," to their infinite edification. I wonder if Mrs. —— would object to this; I should think not, as —— is not here to catch it again.