Part 19

I wish you a merry Christmas, poor child! away from home and friends. Truly, the curse of the old Scriptures has come upon me; my lovers and my acquaintance are far off from me. After breakfast, practised for and hour; went and saw Mrs. ----; drove out shopping; saw ---- walking with my father. Came home and wrote journal: went out with D----; bought a rocking-horse for Mrs. ----'s chicks, whose merry voices I shall miss most horribly by and by. Dragged it in to them in the midst of their dinner. Dined at three. After dinner, went and sat with her till coffee-time. When I came into the drawing-room, found a beautiful work-box sent me by that very youthful admirer of mine, Mr. ----. I was a little annoyed at this, but still more so at my father's desiring me to return it to him, which I know will be a terrible mortification to him. Went to the theatre: the house was crammed with men, and very noisy,--a Christmas audience. Play, Macbeth: I only played so-so. Oh, me! these marks in the stream of time, over which it breaks as over a dam, drawing our attention, which without them would even less often note its rapid, rapid current! They do but become halting-posts for our souls, round which gather the memories of days and hours escaped and gone from us for ever.[77]

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_Wednesday, 26th._

After breakfast, put out things for theatre. When I came down to the drawing-room, I found a middle-aged gentleman of very respectable appearance sitting with my father. He rose on my coming in, and, after bowing to me, continued his discourse to my father thus:--"Yes, sir, yes; you will find as I tell you, sir, the winter is our profitable theatrical season, sir; so that if any thing should take you to England, you can return again at the beginning of next fall." I modestly withdrew to another end of the room, supposing they were engaged upon business. But my curiosity was presently attracted by the continuation of his discourse. "And recollect, sir, and this lady, your daughter, too, if you please, that what I have said must not on any account be repeated out of this room. I am myself going immediately to England, and from thence direct to _Jerusalem_!" I stared. "There, sir, is my real name, ----: the card I sent up to you is not my real name. You see, sir, I am an Irishman, that is to say, in fact, I am really a Jew. _I am one of those of the tribe of Ephraim who refused to cross the Red Sea: we were not to be humbugged by that damned fellow, Moses,--no, sir, we were not!_" Here my heart jumped into my throat, and my eyes nearly out of my head with fright and amazement. "Well," continued the poor madman, "I suppose I may deliver this to the young lady herself;" giving me a small parcel, which I took from him as if I thought it would explode and blow me up. "And now, sir, farewell. Remember remember, my words,--in three years, perhaps, but _certainly_ in ten, _He_ that will come _will come_, and it's all up with the world, and the children of men!" This most awful announcement was accompanied with a snap of his fingers, and a demi-pirouette. He was then rushing out of the room, leaving his cloak behind him. My father called him back to give it him. He bundled himself into it, exclaimed, "God bless you both! God bless you both!--remember, what I have said requires the profoundest secrecy, as you perceive," and darted out of the room, leaving my father and myself with eyes and mouth wide open, gaping in speechless astonishment. At last I bethought me of opening the little packet the madman had left me. It was a small box, on the cover of which was written, To Miss Kemble, with the compliments of St. George. I then recollected, that some time past I had received some verses, in which love and religion were very crazily blended, signed St. George. But, as I am abundantly furnished with epistles of this sort, I had flung them aside, merely concluding the writer to be gone a short way from his wits. The box contained a most beautiful and curious ornament, something like a Sévigné, highly wrought in gold and enamel, and evidently very costly. I was more confounded than ever, and did not recover from my amazement and fright for a long time. I went in to Mrs. ---- to tell her the event. Thence we began talking about young ----'s box; and, upon her advice, I again spoke to my father and obtained his leave not to send it back; so I indited him a thankful epistle. Practised for a short time, and then went to the riding-school. It was quite empty: I put on my cap and skirt, and was sitting, thinking of many things, in the little dressing-room, when I heard the school-door open, and Mr. ---- walked straight up to me.

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Dr. ---- called to-day. I was quite glad to see him: he gave me all the New York news, and brought with him a gentleman, a friend of his, who nearly made me sick by very deliberately spitting upon the carpet. Mercy on me! I thought I should have jumped off my chair, I was so disgusted. Mr. ----, too, does this constantly.

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After dinner, went and sat with Mrs. ----; was called away to see Mr. ----, whom I thanked for his present.

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Went to the theatre at half-past five. The house was very fair, considering the weather, which was very foul. Play, School for Scandal. They none of them knew their parts, or remembered their business--delightful people, indeed! I played only so-so. ---- supped with us. He is a very gentlemanly nice person, and I am told he is extremely amiable.

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He told me sundry steam-boat stories that made my blood curdle; such as, a public brush, a public comb, and a public _tooth-brush_. Also, of a gentleman who was using his own tooth-brush,--a man who was standing near him said, "I'll trouble you for that article when you've done with it." When he had done with it, the gentleman presented it to him, and on receiving it again, immediately threw it into the river, to the infinite amazement of the borrower, who only exclaimed, "Well, however, you're a queer fellow."[78]

_Thursday, 27th._

After breakfast, went to rehearsal. Katharine and Petruchio. After rehearsal, went to the riding-school. It was quite empty, except of Mr. ----, and Mr. ----.

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Came home: found a letter to me from that strange madman. On opening it, it proved a mere envelope, containing a visiting-card with the name St. George upon it. After dinner, wrote journal; went and sat with Mrs. ---- till coffee-time. I have had a most dreadful side-ach all day.

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At half-past five, went to the theatre. Play, Much Ado about Nothing; farce, Katharine and Petruchio.

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At the end I was so tired, and so overcome with the side-ach, that I lay down on the floor perfectly done up.

_Friday, 28th._

After breakfast, ---- called. Settled to ride, if possible, to-morrow. I would give the world for a good shaking. I'm dying of the blue devils: I have no power to rouse myself.

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When ---- was gone, sat down to practise. Tried Mrs. Hemans's Messenger Bird, but the words were too solemn and too sad: I sobbed instead of singing, and was a little relieved. Went in to see Mrs. ----. She seemed better; she was _en toilette_, in a delicate white wrapper, with her fine hair twisted up round her classical head. She is a beautiful person; she is better--an amiable, a sensible, and a pious one; I am very deeply interested by her; I like her extremely. At half-past one, went to the riding-school. I met there a daughter of old Lady ----'s, who introduced herself to me, and asked leave to stay and see me ride, which leave I gave her. The bay pony is, however, fairly ruined. A little wretch not twelve years old had just been riding it: it had fallen from all its paces, and went so lame that I gave up riding, and sat disconsolately enough in the little dressing-closet, looking through a window six inches square, at the blessed mild blue heavens, and longing for wings, till my soul was like to faint.

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After dinner, wrote journal. Went in and sat with Mrs. ----. By the by, that worthy youth, Mr. ----, dined with us. I got rid of some of my vapours by sundry hearty laughs at him. I am sorry to leave Philadelphia on Mrs. ----'s account. I am growing to her. Oh, Lord! how soon, how soon we do this!--how we do cling to every thing in spite of the pitiless wrenches of time and chance! Her dear babies are delightful to me; their laughing voices have power to excite and make me happy,--and when they come dancing to meet me, my heart warms very fondly towards them.

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She amuses me much by her intense anxiety that I should be married. First, she wishes ---- would propose to me; then she thinks Mr. ----'s estates in Cuba would be highly acceptable; in short, my single blessedness seems greatly to annoy her, and I believe she attributes every thing evil in life to that same. She seemed surprised, and a little shocked, when I said I would accept death most thankfully in preference to the happiest lot in life,--and so I would--I would. Yet death----. 'Tis strange, that Messenger Bird threw more than a passing gloom over me. If the dead do indeed behold those whom they have loved, with loving eyes and fond remembrance, do not the sorrows, the weariness, the toiling, the despairing of those dear ones rise even into the abodes of peace, and wring the souls of those who thence look down upon the earth, and see the woe and anguish suffered here? Or, if they do not feel,--if, freed from this mortal coil, they forget all they have suffered, all that we yet endure, oh! then what fourfold trash is human love! what vain and miserable straws are all the deep, the dear, the grasping affections twined in our hearts' fibres,--mingled with our blood! How poor are all things,--how beggarly is life! Oh! to think that while we yet are bowed in agony, and mourning over the dead,--while our bereaved hearts are aching, and our straining eyes looking to that heaven, beyond which we think they yet may hear our cries, they yet may see our anguish, the dead, the loved, the mourned, nor see, nor hear; or if they do, look down with cold and careless gaze upon the love that lifts our very souls in desperate yearning towards them. Yet one of the two must surely be: either the other life is like this, a life of pain, though not like this, perhaps, a life of selfishness; or this earth, and time, and all they hold, are a more hollow mockery than even I sometimes dream they are. I will not think any more of it. We went to the theatre at half-past five. Play, Hunchback; after it, Katharine and Petruchio. I thought I should have died of the side-ach,--I was in perfect agony. The people here are more civil and considerate than can be imagined. I sent, yesterday evening, for some water-ice: the confectioner had none; when, lo! to-night he brings me some he has made on purpose for me, which he entreats my acceptance of. I admired a very pretty fan Mrs. ---- had in her hand; and at the end of the play she had it sent to my dressing-room;--and these sort of things are done by me, not once, but ten times every day. Nothing can exceed the kindness and attention which has encountered us every where since we have been in this country. I am sure I am bound to remember America and Americans thankfully; for, whatever I may think of their ways, manners, or peculiarities, to me they have shown unmingled good will, and cordial real kindness. Remained up, packing, till two o'clock.

TO ---- ----.

Many a league of salt sea rolls Between us, yet I think our souls, Dear friend, are still as closely tied As when we wander'd side by side, Some seven years gone, in that fair land Where I was born. As hand in hand We lived the showery spring away, And, when the sunny earth was gay With all its blossoms, still together We pass'd the pleasant summer weather, We little thought the time would come, When, from a trans-Atlantic home, My voice should greet you lovingly Across the deep dividing sea. Oh, friend! my heart is sad: 'tis strange, As I sit musing on the change That has come o'er my fate, and cast A longing look upon the past, That pleasant time comes back again So freshly to my heart and brain, That I half think the things I see Are but a dream, and I shall be Lying beside you, when I wake, Upon the lawn beneath the brake, With the hazel copse behind my head, And the new-mown fields before me spread.

It is just twilight: that sweet time Is short-lived in this radiant clime,-- Where the bright day, and night more bright, Upon the horizon's verge unite, Nor leave those hours of ray serene, In which we think of what has been: And it is well; for here no eye Turns to the distant days gone by:

They have no legendary lore Of deeds of glory done of yore,-- No knightly marvel-haunted years, The nursery tales of adult ears: The busy present, bright to come, Of all their thoughts make up the sum: Little their little past they heed; Therefore of twilight have no need.

Yet wherefore write I thus? In the short span Of narrow life doled out to every man, Though he but reach the threshold of the track, Where from youth's better path, strikes out the worse, If he has breathed so long, nor once look'd back, He has not borne life's load, nor known God's curse.

And yet, but for that glance that o'er and o'er Goes tearfully, where we shall go no more; Courting the sunny spots, where, for a day, Our bark has found a harbour on its way; O! but for this, this power of conjuring Hours, days, and years into the magic ring, Bidding them yield the show of happiness, To make our real misery seem less, Life would be dreary. But these memories start, Sometimes, unbidden on the mourner's heart; Unwish'd, unwelcome, round his thoughts they cling,-- In vain flung off, still dimly gathering, Like melancholy ghosts, upon the path Where he goes sadly, seeking only death.

Then live again the forms of those who lie Gather'd into the grave's dark mystery. Vainly at reason's voice the phantom flies,-- It comes, it still comes back to the fond eyes,-- Still, still the yearning arms are spread to clasp The blessing that escapes their baffled grasp: Still the bewildering memory mutters "Gone!" Still, still the clinging aching heart loves on. Oh, bitter! that the lips on which we pour Love's fondest kisses, feel the touch no more; Oh, lonely! that the voice on which we call In agony, breaks not its silent thrall; Oh, fearful! that the eyes in which we gaze With desperate hope through their thick filmy haze, Return no living look to bless our sight! Oh, God! that it were granted that one might But once behold the secret of the grave,-- That but one voice from the all-shrouding cave Might speak,--that but one sleeper might emerge From the deep death-sea's overwhelming surge! Speak, speak from the grey coffins where ye lie Fretting to dust your foul mortality! Speak, from your homes of darkness and dismay,-- To what new being do ye pass away?-- O _do_ ye live, indeed?--speak, if on high One atom springs whose doom is not to die!-- Where have I wandered?

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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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