Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2) by Frances Ann Kemble (best e reader for android .txt) 📕

Answered My Expectations Entirely. I Had Been Acting In Boston Every

Night For A Whole Week, And On Saturday Night Had Acted In Two Pieces,

And Was To Start At One O'clock In The Morning For New York, Between

Which And Boston There Was No Railroad In Those Days. I Was Not Feeling

Well, And Was Much Exhausted By My Hard Work, But I Was Sure That If I

Could Only Begin My Journey On Horseback Instead Of In The Lumbering,

Rolling, Rocking, Heavy, Straw-And-Leather-Smelling "Exclusive Extra"

(That Is, Private Stage-Coach), I Should Get Over My Fatigue And The

Rest Of The Journey With Some Chance Of Not Being Completely Knocked Up

By It. After Much Persuasion My Father Consented, And After The Two

Pieces Of Our Farewell Night, To A Crowded, Enthusiastic House, All The

Excitement Of Which Of Course Told Upon Me Even More Than The Actual

Exertion Of Acting, I Had Some Supper, And At One O'clock, With Our

Friend, Major M----, And ----, Got On Horseback, And Rode Out Of Boston.

Major M---- Rode With Us Only About Three Miles, And Then Turned Back,

Leaving Us To Pursue Our Road To Dedham, Seven Miles Farther, Where The

Carriage, With My Father And Aunt, Was To Meet Us.

The Thermometer Stood At Seventeen Degrees Below Zero; It Was The Middle

Of A Massachusetts Winter, And The Cold Intense. The Moon Was At The

Full, And The Night As Bright As Day; Not A Stone But Was Visible On The

Iron-Hard Road, That Rang Under Our Horses' Hoofs. The Whole Country Was

Sheeted With Snow, Over Which The Moon Threw Great Floods Of Yellow

Light, While Here And There A Broken Ridge In The Smooth, White Expanse

Turned A Sparkling, Crystalline Edge Up To The Lovely Splendor. It Was

Wonderfully Beautiful And Exhilarating, Though So Cold That My Vail Was

All Frozen Over My Lips, And We Literally Hardly Dared Utter A Word For

Fear Of Swallowing Scissors And Knives In The Piercing Air, Which,

However, Was Perfectly Still And Without The Slightest Breath Of Wind.

So We Rode Hard And Fast And Silently, Side By Side, Through The Bright,

Profound Stillness Of The Night, And Never Drew Rein Till We Reached

Dedham, Where The Carriage With My Father And Aunt Had Not Yet Arrived.

Not A Soul Was Stirring, And Not A Sound Was Heard, In The Little New

England Village; The Country Tavern Was Fast Shut Up; Not A Light

Twinkled From Any Window, Or Thread Of Smoke Rose From Any Chimney;

Every House Had Closed Its Eyes And Ears, And Gone To Sleep. We Had

Ridden The Whole Way As Fast As We Could, And Had Kept Our Blood Warm By

The Violent Exercise, But There Was Every Danger, If We Sat Many Minutes

On Our Saddles In The Piercing Cold, That We Should Be All The Worse

Instead Of The Better For That Circumstance. Mr. ---- Rode Along The

Houses, Looking For Some Possible Shelter, And At Last, Through The

Chink Of A Shutter, Spying A Feeble Glimmer Of Light, Dismounted, And,

Knocking, Asked If It Were Possible For Me To Be Admitted There For A

Few Minutes, Till The Carriage, Which Could Not Be Far Distant, Came Up.

He Was Answered In The Affirmative, And I Jumped Down From My Saddle,

And Ran Into The Friendly Refuge, While He Paced Rapidly To And Fro

Before The House, Leading The Horses, To Keep Himself And Them Alike

From Freezing; A Man Was To Come On The Coach-Box With The Driver, To

Take Them Back To Boston. On Looking Round I Found Myself In A Miserable

Little Low Room, Heated Almost To Suffocation By An Iron Stove, And

Stifling With The Peculiar Smell Of Black Dye-Stuffs. Here, By The Light

Of Two Wretched Bits Of Candle, Two Women Were Working With The Utmost

Dispatch At Mourning-Garments For A Funeral Which Was To Take Place That

Day, In A Few Hours. They Did Not Speak To Me After Making Room For Me

Near The Stove, And The Only Words They Exchanged With Each Other Were

Laconic Demands For Scissors, Thread, Etc.; And So They Rapidly Plied

Their Needles In Silence, While I, Suddenly Transported From The Cold

Brightness Without Into This Funereal, Sweltering Atmosphere Of What

Looked Like A Black Hole Made Of Crape And Bombazine, Watched The

Lugubrious Occupation Of The Women As If I Was In A Dream, Till The

Distant Rumbling Of Wheels Growing More And More Distinct, I Took Leave

Of My Temporary Hostesses With Many Thanks (They Were Poor New England

Workwomen, By Whom No Other Species Of Acknowledgment Would Have Been

Received), And Was Presently Fast Asleep In The Corner Of The Carriage,

And Awoke Only Long After To Feel Rested And Refreshed, And Well Able To

Endure The Fatigue Of The Rest Of The Journey. In Spite Of This

Fortunate Result, I Do Not Now, After A Lapse Of Forty Years, Think The

Experiment One That Would Have Answered With Many Young Women's

Constitutions, Though There Is No Sort Of Doubt That The Nervous Energy

Generated By Any Pleasurable Emotion Is In Itself A Great Preservative

From Unfavorable Influences.

My Riding-Master Was The Best And Most Popular Teacher In

London--Captain Fozzard--Or, As He Was Irreverently Called Among His

Young Amazons, "Old Fozzard." When My Mother Took Me To The Riding

School, He Recalled, With Many Compliments, Her Own Proficiency As An

Equestrian, And Said He Would Do His Best To Make Me As Fine A

Horsewoman As She Had Been. He Certainly Did His Best To Improve A Very

Good Seat, And A Heavy, Defective Hand With Which Nature Had Endowed Me;

The Latter, However, Was Incorrigible, And So, Though I Was Always A

Fearless Horsewoman, And Very Steady In My Saddle, I Never Possessed The

Finer And More Exquisite Part Of The Accomplishment Of Riding, Which

Consists In The Delicate And Skillful Management Of A Horse's Mouth.

Fozzard's Method Was So Good That All The Best Lady Riders In London

Were His Pupils, And One Could Tell One Of Them At A Glance, By The

Perfect Squareness Of The Shoulders To The Horse's Head, Which Was One

Invariable Result Of His Teaching. His Training Was Eminently Calculated

To Produce That Result, And To Make Us All But Immovable In Our Saddles.

Without Stirrup, Without Holding The Reins, With Our Arms Behind Us, And

As Often As Not Sitting Left-Sided On The Saddle, To Go Through Violent

Plunging, Rearing, And Kicking Lessons, And Taking Our Horses Over The

Bar, Was A Considerable Test Of A Firm Seat, And In All These Special

Feats I Became A Proficient.

One Day, When I Had Gone To The School More For Exercise Than A Lesson,

And Was Taking A Solitary Canter In The Tan For My Own Amusement, The

Little Door Under The Gallery Opened, And Fozzard Appeared, Introducing

A Middle-Aged Lady And A Young Girl, Who Remained Standing There While

He Advanced Toward Me, And Presently Began To Put Me Through All My Most

Crucial Exercises, Apparently For Their Edification. I Was Always

Delighted To Go Through These Particular Feats, Which Amused Me

Excessively, And In Which I Took Great Pride. So I Sat Through Them All,

Till, Upon A Sign From The Elder Lady, Fozzard, With Extreme Deference,

Opened The Door And Escorted Them Forth, And Then Returning To Dismount

Me, Informed Me That I Had Given A Very Satisfactory Sample Of His

Teaching To The Duchess Of Kent And The Princess Victoria, The Latter Of

Whom Was To Be Placed Under His Tuition Forthwith.

This Was The First Time I Ever Saw The Woman Who Holds The Most Exalted

Position In The World, The Queen Of England, Who Has So Filled That

Supreme Station That Her Name Is Respected Wherever It Is Heard Abroad,

And That She Is Regarded By Her Own People With A Loyal Love Such As No

Earthly Dignity But That Of Personal Worthiness Can Command.

                                        JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE.

     DEAREST H----,

     The Kind Exertion You Made In Writing To Me So Soon After Leaving

     London Deserved An Earlier Acknowledgment; But When I Tell You That

     Every Day Since Christmas I Have Fully Purposed Writing To You, And

     Have Not Been Able To Do So Before To-Day, I Hope You Will Excuse

     The Delay, And Believe Me When I Assure You That Not Only The

     Effort You Made In Going To The Theater, But Your Seeing Me At All,

     Are Appreciated By Me As Very Strong Marks Of Your Affection For

     Me.

     Now Let Me Say Something To You About Lady C---- L----'S Criticism

     Of My Performance. In The First Place, Nothing Is Easier Than To

     Criticise By Comparison, And Hardly Anything Much More Difficult

     Than To Form A Correct Judgment Of Any Work Of Art (Be It What It

     May) Upon The Foundation Of Abstract Principles And Fundamental

     Rules Of Taste And Criticism; For This Sort Of Analysis Is Really A

     Study. Comparison Is The Criticism Of The Multitude, And I Almost

     Wonder At Its Being Resorted To By A Woman Of Such Ability As Lady

     C----. I Only Say This By The Way, For To Be Compared With Either

     Mrs. Siddons Or Miss O'Neill Is Above My Expectation. They Were

     Both Professional Actresses, Which I Can Hardly Yet Claim To Be;

     Women Who Had For Years Studied The Mechanical Part Of Their Art,

     And Rendered Themselves Proficients In Their Business; While

     Although I Have Certainly Had Many Advantages, In Hearing The Stage

     And Acting Constantly, Tastefully, And Thoughtfully Discussed, I Am

     Totally Inexperienced In All The Minor Technical Processes, Most

     Necessary For The Due Execution Of Any Dramatic Conception. As To

     My Aunt Siddons--Look At Her, H----; Look At Her Fine Person, Her

     Beautiful Face; Listen To Her Magnificent Voice; And Supposing That

     I Were As Highly Endowed With Poetical Dramatic Imagination As She

     Was (Which I Certainly Am Not), Is It Likely That There Can Ever Be

     A Shadow Of Comparison Between Her And Myself, Even When Years May

     Have Corrected All That Is At Present Crude And Imperfect In My

     Efforts?

     This Is My Sole Reply To Her Ladyship. To You, Dearest H----, I Can