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

     Coach, And Found On Reaching It That, The Fourth Place Being

     Occupied By A Sickly Looking Woman With A Sickly Looking Child

     Nearly As Big As Herself In Her Lap, My Father, Notwithstanding The

     Coldness Of The Morning, Had Put Himself On The Outside. I Went To

     Sleep; From Which Blessed Refuge Of The Wretched I Was Recalled By

     A Powerful And Indescribable Smell, Which, Seizing Me By The Nose,

     Naturally Induced Me To Open My Eyes. Mother And Daughter Were Each

     Devouring A Lump Of Black, Strong, Greasy Plum Cake; As A Specific,

     I Presume, Against (Or For?) Sickness In A Stage-Coach.

     The Late Duke Of Beaufort, When Marquis Of Worcester, Used

     Frequently To Amuse Himself By Driving The Famous Fast Brighton

     Coach, The Highflyer. One Day, As My Father Was Hastily Depositing

     His Shilling Gratuity In His Driver's Outstretched Hand, A Shout Of

     Laughter, And A "Thank Ye, Charles Kemble," Made Him Aware Of The

     Gentleman Jehu Under Whose Care He Had Performed The Journey.

                                          WEDNESDAY, January 12, 1831.

     DEAREST H----,

     I Received Your Letter Dated The 7th The Night Before Last, And

     Purposed Ending This Long Epistle Yesterday Evening With An Answer

     To It, But Was Prevented By Having To Go With My Mother To Dine

     With Mrs. L----, That Witty Woman And More Than Middle-Aged Beauty

     You Have Heard Me Speak Of. I Was Repaid For The Exertion I Had Not

     Made Very Willingly, For I Had A Pleasant Dinner. This Lady Has A

     Large Family And Very Large Fortune, Which At Her Death Goes To Her

     Eldest Son, Who Is A Young Man Of Enthusiastically Religious Views

     And Feelings; He Has No Profession Or Occupation, But Devotes

     Himself To Building Chapels And Schools, Which He Himself

     Superintends With Unwearied Assiduity; And Though He Has Never

     Taken Orders, He Preaches At Some Place In The City, To Which

     Crowds Of People Flock To Hear Him; None Of Which Is At All

     Agreeable To His Mother, Whose Chief Anxiety, However, Is Lest Some

     One Of The Fair Methodists Who Attend His Exhortations Should

     Admire His Earthly Expectations As Much As His Heavenly Prospects,

     And Induce This Young Apostle To Marry Her For Her Soul's Sake; All

     Which His Mother Told Mine, With Many Lamentations Over The Godly

     Zeal Of Her "Serious" Son, Certainly Not Often Made With Regard To

     Young Men Who Are Likely To Inherit Fine Fortunes And Estates. One

     Of This Young Gentleman's Sisters Is Strongly Imbued With The Same

     Religious Feeling, And I Think Her Impressions Deepened By Her Very

     Delicate State Of Health. I Am Much Attracted By Her Gentle Manner,

     And The Sweet, Serious Expression Of Her Face, And The Earnest Tone

     Of Her Conversation; I Like Her Very Much.

     My Mother Is Reading Moore's "Life Of Byron," And Has Fallen In

     Love With The Latter And In Hate With His Wife. She Declares That

     He Was Originally Good, Generous, Humble, Religious--Indeed,

     Everything That A Man Can Be, Short Of Absolute Perfection. She

     Thinks Me Narrow-Minded And Prejudiced Because I Do Not Care To

     Read His Life, And Because, In Spite Of All Moore's Assertions, I

     Maintain That With Byron's Own Works In One's Hand His Character

     Cannot Possibly Be A Riddle To Anybody. I Dare Say The Devil May

     Sometimes Be Painted Blacker Than He Is; But Byron Has A Fancy For

     The Character Of Lucifer, And Seems To Me, On The Contrary, _Très

     Pauvre Diable_. I Have No Idea That Byron Was Half Fiend, Half Man

     (At Least, No More So Than All Of Us Are); I Dare Say He Was Not At

     All Really An Atheist, As He Has Been Reputed; Indeed, I Do Not

     Think Lord Byron, In Spite Of All The Fuss That Has Been Made About

     Him, Was By Any Means An Uncommon Character. His Genius Was Indeed

     Rare, But His Pride, Vanity, And Selfishness Were Only So In

     Degree. You Know, H----, Nobody Was Ever A More Fanatical Worshiper

     Of His Poetry Than I Was: Time Was That I Devoured His Verses

     (Poison As They Were To Me) Like "Raspberry Tarts;" I Still Know,

     And Remember With Delight, Their Exquisite Beauty And Noble Vigor,

     But They Don't Agree With Me. And, Without Knowing Anything Of His

     Religious Doubts Or Moral Delinquencies, I Cannot At All Agree With

     Mr. Moore That Upon The Showing Of His Own Works Byron Was A "Good

     Man." If He Was, No One Has Done Him Such Injustice As Himself; And

     If _He_ Was _Good_, Then What Was Milton? And What Genial And

     Gentle Shakespeare?

     Good-By, Dear H----; Write Me Along "Thank You" For This Longest Of

     Mortal Letters, And Believe That I Am Your Ever Affectionate

                                                              F. A. K.

     I Began Living Upon My Allowance On New Year's Day, And Am Keeping

     A Most Rigorous Account Of Every Farthing I Spend. I Have A

     Tolerable "Acquisitiveness" Among My Other Organs, But Think I

     Would Rather Get Than Keep Money, And To Earn Would Always Be

     Pleasanter To Me Than To Save. I Act In "Fazio" To-Night, Friday,

     And Monday Next, So You Will Know Where To Find Me On Those

     Evenings.

                                                         MONDAY, 27th.

     DEAR H----,

     Horace Twiss Has Been Out Of Town, And I Have Been Obliged To Delay

     This For A Frank. You Will Be Glad, I Know, To Hear That "Fazio"

     Has Made A Great Hit. Milman Is Coming To See Me In It To-Night; I

     Wish I Could Induce Him To Write Me Such Another Part.

     We Are Over Head And Ears In The Mire Of Chancery Again. The

     Question Of The Validity Of Our--The Great Theater--Patents Is Now

     Before Lord Brougham; I Am Afraid They Are Not Worth A Farthing. I

     Am To Hear From Mr. Murray Some Day This Week; Considering The

     Features Of My Handwriting, It Is No Wonder It Has Taken Him Some

     Time To Become Acquainted With The MSS.

                               GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 29, 1831.

     MY DEAR H----,

     All Our Occupations Have Been Of A Desultory And Exciting Kind, And

     All Our Doings And Sayings Have Been Made Matter Of Surprise And

     Admiring Comment; Of Course, Therefore, We Are Disinclined For

     Anything Like Serious Or Solid Study, And Naturally Conclude That

     Sayings And Doings So Much Admired And Wondered At _Are_ Admirable

     And Astonishing. A---- Is Possessed Of Strong Powers Of Ridicule,

     And The Union Of This Sarcastic Vein With A Vivid Imagination Seems

     To Me Unusual; Their Prey Is So Different That They Seldom Hunt In

     Company, I Think. When I Heard That She Was Reading "Mathilde"

     (Madame Cottin), I Was Almost Afraid Of Its Effect Upon Her. I

     Remember At School, When I Was Her Age, Crying Three Whole Days And

     Half Nights Over It; But I Sadly Overrated Her Sensibility. Her

     Letter To Me Contained A Summary, Abusive Criticism Of "Mathilde"

     As A Book, And Ended By Presenting To Me One Of Those Ludicrous

     Images Which I Abhor, Because, While They Destroy Every Serious Or

     Elevated Impression, They Are So Absurd That One Cannot Defend

     One's Self From The "Idiot Laughter" They Excite, And Leave One No

     Associations But Grinning Ones With One's Romantic Ideals. Her

     Letters Are Very Clever And Make Me Laugh Exceedingly, But I Am

     Sorry She Has Such A Detestation Of Mrs. Marcet And Natural

     Philosophy. As For Her Letters Being Shown About, I Am Not Sorry

     That My Indiscretion Has Relieved A---- From A Restraint Which, If

     It Had Only Been Disagreeable To Her, Would Not Have Mattered So

     Much, But Which Is Calculated To Destroy All Possibility Of Free

     And Natural Correspondence, And Inevitably Renders Letters Mere

     Compositions And Their Young Authors Vain And Pretentious. I Have

     Always Thought The System A Bad One, For Under It, If A Girl's

     Letters Are Thought Dull, She Feels As If She Had Made A Failure,

     And If They Are Laughed At And Passed From Hand To Hand With Her

     Knowledge, The Result Is Much Worse; And In Either Case, What She

     Writes Is No Longer The Simple Expression Of Her Thoughts And

     Feelings, But Samples Of Wit, Ridicule, And Comic Fancy Which Are

     To Be Thought Amusing And Clever By Others Than Those To Whom They

     Are Addressed.

     You Say My Mother In Her Note To You Speaks Well Of My Acting In

     Bianca. It Has Succeeded Very Well, And I Think I Act Some Of It

     Very Well; But My Chief Pleasure In Its Success Was Certainly Her

     Approbation. She Is A Very Severe Critic, And, As She Censures

     Sharply, I Am Only Too Thankful When I Escape Her Condemnation. I

     Think You Will Be Pleased With Bianca. I Was Surprised When I Came

     To Act It At Finding How Terribly It Affected Me, For I Am Not

     Naturally At All Jealous, And In This Play, While Feigning To Be

     So, It Seemed To Me That It Must Be Really The Most Horrible

     Suffering Conceivable; I Am Almost Sorry That I Can Imagine It Well

     Enough To Represent It Well.

     You Say That We Love Intellect, But I Do Not Agree With You; I Do

     Not Think Intellect Excites Love. I Do Not Even Think That It

     Increases Our Love For Those We Do Love, Though It Adds Admiration

     To Our Affection. I Certainly Do Admire Intellect Immensely; Mental

     Power, Which Allied To Moral Power, Goodness, Is A Force To Uphold

     The Universe.

     I Have Forsworn All Discussions About Byron; My Mother And I Differ

     So Entirely On The Subject That, As I Cannot Adopt Her View Of His

     Character, I Find It Easier To Be Silent About My Own.