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

     Lump In My Throat.

     I Hope I May See You Again, Dear H----. You Are Wrong When You Say

     You Cannot Be Of Service To Me; I Can Judge Better Of The Value Of

     Your Intercourse To Me Than You Can, And I Wish I Could Have The

     Advantage Of More Of It Before I Plunge Back Into "Toil And

     Trouble." I Have Two Very Opposite Feelings About My Present

     Avocation: Utter Dislike To It And Everything, Connected With It,

     And An Upbraiding Sense Of Ingratitude When I Reflect How

     Prosperous And Smooth My Entrance Upon My Career Has Been. I Hope,

     Ere Long, To Be Able To Remember Habitually What Only Occasionally

     Occurs To Me Now, As A Comfort And Support, That Since It Was Right

     For Me To Embrace This Profession, It Is Incumbent Upon Me To

     Banish All Selfish Regrets About The Surrender Of My Personal

     Tastes And Feelings, Which Must Be Sacrificed To Real And Useful

     Results For Myself And Others. You See, I Write As I Talk, Still

     About Myself; And I Am Sometimes Afraid That My Very Desire To

     Improve Keeps Me Occupied Too Much About Myself And Will Make A

     Little Moral Egotist Of Me. I Am Going To Bid Good-By To Miss W----

     This Morning; I Should Like Her To Like Me; I Believe I Should

     Value Her Friendship As I Ought. Good Friends Are Like The Shrubs

     And Trees That Grow On A Steep Ascent: While We Toil Up, And Our

     Eyes Are Fixed On The Summit, We Unconsciously Grasp And Lean Upon

     Them For Support And Assistance On Our Way. God Bless You, Dear

     H----. I Hope To Be With You Soon, But Cannot Say At Present How

     Soon That May Be.

                                                              F. A. K.

A Very Delightful Short Visit To My Friend At Ardgillan Preceded My

Resuming My Theatrical Work At Liverpool, Whence I Wrote Her The

Following Letter:

                                            LIVERPOOL August 19, 1830.

     DEAR H----,

     I Received Your Letter About An Hour Ago, At Rehearsal, And Though

     I Read It With Rather Dim Eyes, I Managed To Swallow My Tears, And

     Go On With Mrs. Beverley.

     The Depth And Solemnity Of Your Feelings, My Dear H----, On Those

     Important Subjects Of Which We Have So Often Spoken Together,

     Almost Make Me Fear, Sometimes, That I Am Not So Much Impressed As

     I Ought To Be With Their _Awfulness_. I Humbly Hope I _Fear_ As I

     Ought, But It Is So Much Easier For Me To Love Than To Fear, That

     My Nature Instinctively Fastens On Those Aspects Of Religion Which

     Inspire Confidence And Impart Support, Rather Than Those Which

     Impress With Dread. I Was Thinking The Other Day How Constantly In

     All Our Prayers The Loftiest Titles Of Might Are Added To That Name

     Of Names, "Our Father," And Yet His Power Is Always Less Present To

     My Mind Than His Mercy And Love. You Tell Me I Do Not Know You, And

     That May Very Well Be, For One Really _Knows_ No One; And When I

     Reflect Upon And Attempt To Analyze The Various Processes Of My Own

     Rather Shallow Mind, And Find Them Incomprehensible, I Am Only

     Surprised That There Should Be So Much Mutual Affection In A World

     Where Mutual Knowledge And Understanding Are Really Impossible.

     My Side-Ache Was Much Better Yesterday. I Believe It Was Caused By

     The Pain Of Leaving You And Ardgillan: Any Strong Emotion Causes

     It, And I Remember When I Last Left Edinburgh Having An Attack Of

     It That Brought On Erysipelas. You Say You Wish To Know How Juliet

     Does. Why, Very Well, Poor Thing. She Had A Very Fine First House

     Indeed, And Her Success Has Been As Great As You Could Wish It; Out

     Of Our Ten Nights' Engagement, "Romeo And Juliet" Is To Be Given

     Four Times; It Has Already Been Acted Three Successive Nights To

     Very Great Houses. To-Night It Is "The Gamester," To-Morrow "Venice

     Preserved," And On Saturday We Act At Manchester, And On Monday

     Here Again. You Will Hardly Imagine How Irksome It Was To Me To Be

     Once More In My Stage-Trappings, And In The Glare Of The Theater

     Instead Of The Blessed Sunshine In The Country, And To Hear The

     Murmur Of Congregated Human Beings Instead Of That Sound Of Many

     Waters, That Wonderful Sea-Song, That Is To Me Like The Voice Of A

     Dear Friend. I Made A Great Effort To Conquer This Feeling Of

     Repugnance To My Work, And Thought Of My Dear Mrs. Harry, Whom I

     Have Seen, With A Heart And Mind Torn With Anxiety, Leave Poor

     Lizzy On What Seemed Almost A Death-Bed, To Go And Do Her Duty At

     The Theater. That Was Something Like A Trial. There Was A Poor Old

     Lady, Of More Than Seventy Years Of Age, Who Acted As My Nurse, Who

     Helped Also To Rouse Me From My Selfish Morbidness--Age And

     Infirmity Laboring In The Same Path With Rather More Cause For

     Weariness And Disgust Than I Have. She May Have Been Working, Too,

     Only For Herself, While I Am The Means Of Helping My Own Dear

     People, And Many Others; She Toils On, Unnoticed And Neglected,

     While My Exertions Are Stimulated And Rewarded By Success And The

     Approval Of Every One About Me. And Yet My Task Is Sadly

     Distasteful To Me; It Seems Such Useless Work That But For Its Very

     Useful Pecuniary Results I Think I Would Rather Make Shoes. You

     Tell Me Of The Comfort You Derive, Under Moral Depression, From

     Picking Stones And Weeds Out Of Your Garden. I Am Afraid That

     Antidote Would Prove Insufficient For Me; The Weeds Would Very Soon

     Lie In Heaps In My Lap, And The Stones Accumulate In Little

     Mountains All Round Me, While My Mind Was Sinking Into

     Contemplations Of The Nature Of Slow Quicksands. Violent Bodily

     Exercise, Riding, Or Climbing Up Steep And Rugged Pathways Are My

     Best Remedies For The Blue Devils.

     My Father Has Received A Pressing Invitation From Lord And Lady

     W---- To Go To Their Place, Heaton, Which Is But Five Miles From

     Manchester.

     You Say To Me In Your Last Letter That You Could Not Live At The

     Rate I Do; But My Life Is Very Different Now From What It Was While

     With You. I Am Silent And Quiet And Oppressed With Irksome Duties,

     And Altogether A Different Creature From Your Late Companion By The

     Sea-Shore. It Is True That That _Was_ My Natural Condition, But If

     You Were Here With Me Now, In The Midst Of All These Unnatural

     Sights And Sounds, I Do Not Think I Should Weary You With My

     Overflowing Life And Spirits, As I Fear I Did At Ardgillan. I Was

     As Happy There As The Birds That Fly In The Clear Sky Above The

     Sea, And Much Happier, For I Had Your Companionship In Addition To

     The Delight Which Mere Existence Is In Such Scenes. I Am Glad Lily

     Made And Wore The Wreath Of Lilac Blossoms; I Was Sure It Would

     Become Her. Give Her My Love And Thanks For Having Done As I Asked

     Her. Oh, Do Not Wish Ardgillan Fifteen Miles From London! Even For

     The Sake Of Seeing You, I Would Not Bring You Near The Smoke And

     Dirt And Comparative Confinement Of Such A Situation; I Would Not

     Take You From Your Sea And Sky And Trees, Even To Have You Within

     Reach Of Me.

     Certainly It Is The Natural Evil Of The Human Mind, And Not The

     Supernatural Agency In The Story Of Its Development, That Makes

     Macbeth So Terrible; It Is The Hideousness Of A Wicked Soul, Into

     Which Enter More Foul Ingredients Than Are Held In The Witches'

     Caldron Of Abominations, That Makes The Play So Tremendous. I Wish

     We Had Read That Great Work Together. How It Contrasts With What We

     Did Read, The "Tempest," That Brightest Creation Of A Wholesome

     Genius In Its Hour Of Happiest Inspiration!

     I Believe Some People Think It Presumptuous To Pray For Any One But

     Themselves; But It Seems To Me Strange To Share Every, Feeling With

     Those We Love And Not Associate Them With Our Best And Holiest

     Aspirations; To Remember Them Everywhere But There Where It Is Of

     The Utmost Importance To Us All To Be Remembered; To Desire All

     Happiness For Them, And Not To Implore In Their Behalf The Giver Of

     All Good. I Think I Pray Even More Fervently For Those I Love Than

     For Myself. Pray For Me, My Dear H----, And God Bless You And Give

     You Strength And Peace. Your Affectionate

                                                              F. A. K.

     I Have Not Seen The Railroad Yet; If You Do Not Write Soon To Me,

     We Shall Be Gone To Manchester.

My Objection To The Dramatic Profession On The Score Of Its Uselessness,

In This Letter, Reminds Me Of What My Mother Used To Tell Me Of Miss

Brunton, Who Afterward Became Lady Craven; A Very Eccentric As Well As

Attractive And Charming Woman, Who Contrived, Too, To Be A Very Charming

Actress, In Spite Of A Prosaical Dislike To Her Business, Which Used To

Take The Peculiar And Rather Alarming Turn Of Suddenly, In The Midst Of

A Scene, Saying Aside To Her Fellow-Actors, "What Nonsense All This Is!

Suppose We Don't Go On With It." This Singular Expostulation My Mother

Said She Always Expected To See Followed Up By The Sadden Exit Of Her

Lively Companion, In The Middle Of Her Part. Miss Brunton, However, Had

Self-Command Enough To Go On Acting Till She Became Countess Of Craven,

And Left Off The _Nonsense_ Of The Stage For The _Earnestness_ Of High

Life.

A Very Serious Cause For