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

Recollection Of The House, Garden, And Whole Place That Justified My

Regret In Not Being Able, While Staying At Blackheath Fifteen Years

After, To Find Or Identify It.

                                JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, May 2d.

     MY DEAREST H----,

     I Received Your Kind Letter The Other Night (That Is, Morning) On

     My Return From A Ball, And Read Your Reflections On Dissipation

     With An Attention Heightened By The Appropriate Comment Of A Bad

     Headache And Abject Weariness From Top To Toe With Dancing. The Way

     In Which People _Prosecute_ Their Pleasures In This Good Town Of

     London Is Certainly Amazing; And We Are (Perforce) Models Of

     Moderation, Compared With Most Of Our Acquaintance. I Met At That

     Very Ball Persons Who Had Been To One And Two Parties Previously,

     And Were Leaving That Dance To Hurry To Another. Independently Of

     The Great Fatigue Of Such A Life, It Seems To Me So Strange That

     When People Are Enjoying Themselves To Their Hearts' Content In One

     Place, They Cannot Be Satisfied To Remain There Until They Wish To

     Return Home, But Spend Half The Night In The Streets, Running From

     One House To Another, Working Their Horses To Death, And Wasting

     The Precious Time When They Might Be DANCING. You See My Folly Is

     Not So Great But That I Have Philosophy To Spare For My Neighbors.

     Let Me Tell You Again, Dear H----, How Truly I Rejoice In Your

     Niece's Restored Health. The Spring, Too, Is The Very Time For Such

     A Resurrection, When Every Day And Every Hour, Every Cloud And

     Every Flower, Offer Inexhaustible Matter For The Capabilities Of

     Delight Thus Regained. Indeed, "The Drops On The Trees Are The Most

     Beautiful Of All!" [E---- T----'S Exclamation During One Of Her

     First Drives After The Long Imprisonment Of Her Nervous Malady.] A

     Wonderful Feeling Of Renewed Hope Seems To Fill The Heart Of All

     Created Things In The Spring, And Even Here In This Smoky Town It

     Finds Its Way To Us, Inclosed As We Are By Brick Walls, Dusty

     Streets, And All Things Unlovely And Unnatural! I Stood Yesterday

     In The Little Court Behind Our House, Where Two Unhappy Poplars And

     A Sycamore Tree Were Shaking Their Leaves As If In Surprise At The

     Acquisition And To Make Sure They Had Them, And Looked Up To The

     Small Bit Of Blue Sky Above Them With Pleasurable Spring Tears In

     My Eyes. How I Wish I Were Rich And Could Afford To Be Out Of Town

     Now! I Always Dislike London, And This Lovely Weather Gives Me A

     Sort Of _Mal Du Pays_ For The Country. My Dearest H----, You Must

     Not Dream Of Leaving Ardgillan Just When I Am Coming To See You;

     That Would Be Indeed A Disappointment. My Father Is Not At Home At

     This Moment, But I Shall Ask Him Before I Close This Letter The

     Exact Time When We Shall Be In Dublin. I Look Forward With Much

     Pleasure To Making My Aunt Dall Known To You. She Is, I Am Happy To

     Say, Coming With Me, For Indeed She Is In Some Sense My "All The

     World." You Have Often Heard Me Speak Of Her, But It Is Difficult

     For Words To Do Justice To One Whose Whole Life Is An Uninterrupted

     Stream Of Usefulness, Goodness, And Patient Devotion To Others. I

     Know But One Term That, As The Old Writers Say, "Delivers" Her

     Fully, And Though It Is Not Unfrequently Applied, I Think She Is

     The Only Person I Know Who Really Deserves It; She Is _Absolutely

     Unselfish_. I Am Sure, Dear H----, You Will Excuse This Panegyric,

     Though You Do Not Know How Well It Is Deserved; The Proof Of Its

     Being So Is That There Is Not One Of Us But Would Say The Same Of

     Aunt Dall.

     My Father's Benefit Took Place Last Wednesday, When I Acted

     Isabella; The House Was Crowded, And The Play Very Successful; I

     Think I Played It Well, And I Take Credit To Myself For So Doing,

     For I Dislike Both Play And Part Extremely. The Worst Thing I Do In

     It Is The Soliloquy When I Am About To Stab Biron, And The Best, My

     Death. My Dresses Were Very Beautiful, And I Am Exceedingly Glad

     The Whole Thing Is Over. I Suppose It Will Be My Last New Part This

     Season. I Am Reading With Great Pleasure A Purified Edition, Just

     Published, Of The Old English Dramatists; The Work, As Far As My

     Ignorance Of The Original Plays Will Enable Me To Judge, Seems Very

     Well Executed, And I Owe The Editor Many Thanks For Some Happy

     Hours Spent With His Book. I Have Just Heard Something Which Annoys

     Me Not A Little: I Am To Prepare To Act Mrs. Haller. I Know Very

     Well That Nobody Was Ever At Liberty In This World To Do What They

     Liked And That Only; But When I Know With What Task-Like Feeling I

     Set About Most Of My Work, I Am Both Amused And Provoked When

     People Ask Me If I Do Not Delight In Acting. I Have Not An Idea

     What To Do With That Part; However, I Must Apply Myself To It, And

     Try; Such Mawkish Sentiment, And Such Prosaic, Commonplace Language

     Seem To Me Alike Difficult To Feel And To Deliver.

     My Dear H----, I Shall Be In Ireland The Whole Month Of July. I Am

     Coming First To Dublin, And Shall Afterward Go To Cork. You Really

     Must Not Be Away When I Come, For If You Are, I Won't Come, Which

     Is Good Irish, Isn't It? I Do Not Feel As You Do, At All, About The

     Sea. Instead Of Depressing My Spirits, It Always Raises Them; It

     Seems To Me As If The Vast Power Of The Great Element Communicated

     Itself To Me. I Feel _Strong_, As I Run By The Side Of The Big

     Waves, With Something Of Their Strength, And The Same Species Of

     Wild Excitement Which Thunder And Lightning Produce In Me Always

     Affects Me By The Sea-Shore. I Never Saw The Sea But Once Violently

     Agitated, And Then I Was So Well Pleased With Its Appearance That I

     Took A Boat And Went Out Into The Bustle, Singing With All My

     Might, Which Was The Only Vent I Could Find For My High Spirits; It

     Is True That I Returned In Much Humiliation, Very Seasick, After A

     Short "Triumph Of Galatea" Indeed.

     You Ask Me In One Of Your Last Why I Do Not Send You Verses Any

     More, As I Used To Do, And Whether I Still Write Any. So Here I

     Send You Some Which I Improvised The Other Day In Your Honor, And

     Which, Written Hurriedly As They Were, Will Not, I Think, Stand The

     Test Of Any Very Severe Criticism:--

        Whene'er I Recollect The Happy Time

        When You And I Held Converse Sweet Together,

        There Come A Thousand Thoughts Of Sunny Weather,

        Of Early Blossoms, And The Young Year's Prime.

        Your Memory Lives For Ever In My Mind,

        With All The Fragrant Freshness Of The Spring,

        With Odorous Lime And Silver Hawthorn Twined,

        And Mossy Rest And Woodland Wandering.

        There's Not A Thought Of You But Brings Along

        Some Sunny Glimpse Of River, Field, And Sky;

        Your Voice Sets Words To The Sweet Blackbird's Song,

        And Many A Snatch Of Wild Old Melody;

        And As I Date It Still Our Love Arose

        'Twixt The Last Violet And The Earliest Rose.

     I Never Go Anywhere Without A Book Wherein I May Scratch My

     Valuable Ideas, And Therefore When We Meet I Will Show You My

     Present Receptacle. I Take Great Delight In Writing, And Write Less

     Incorrectly Than I Used To Do. I Have Not Time Now To Go On With

     This Letter, And As I Am Anxious You Should Know When To Expect Us,

     I Shall Not Defer It In The Hope Of Making It More Amusing, Though

     I Fear It Is Rather Dull. But You Will Not Mind That, And Will

     Believe Me Ever Your Affectionate

                                                         FANNY KEMBLE.

The Arrangement Of Massinger For The Family Library By My Friend The

Reverend Alexander Dyce, The Learned Shakespearean Editor And

Commentator, Was My First Introduction To That Mine Of Dramatic Wealth

Which Enriched The Literature Of England In The Reigns Of Elizabeth And

James The First, And Culminated In The Genius Of Shakespeare. It Is By

Comparison With Them, His Contemporaries, That We Arrive At A Just

Estimate Of His Supremacy. I Was So Enchanted With These Plays Of

Massinger's, But More Especially With The One Called "The Maid Of

Honor," That I Never Rested Till I Had Obtained From The Management Its

Revival On The Stage. The Part Of Camiola Is The Only One That I Ever

Selected For Myself. "The Maid Of Honor" Succeeded On Its First

Representation, But Failed To Attract Audiences. Though Less Defective

Than Most Of The