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

     Extreme Admiration Of Him May Have Thrown Me Into A Deeper

     Disapprobation Than I Should Otherwise Have Expressed. He Has Many

     Excuses, Doubtless: The Total Want Of Early Restraint, The

     Miserable Influence Of The Injudicious Mother Who Alternately

     Idolized And Victimized Him, The Bitter Castigation Of His First

     Plunge Into Literature, And Then The Flattering, Fawning, Fulsome

     Adoration Of His Habitual Associates, Of Course Were All Against

     Him; But, After All, One Cannot Respect The Man Who Strikes Colors

     To The Enemy As One Does The One Who Comes Conqueror Out Of The

     Conflict. I Now Believe That There Is A Great Deal Of Unreality In

     Those Sentiments To Which The Charm Of His Verses Lent An

     Appearance Of Truth And Depth; In Fact, His Poetical Feelings Will

     Sometimes Stand The Test Of Sober Reflection Quite As Little As His

     Grammar Will That Of A Severe Application Of The Rules Of Syntax.

     He Has Written Immensely For Mere Effect, But All Young People Read

     Him, And Young People Are Not Apt To Analyze Closely What They Feel

     Strongly, And, Judging By My Own Experience, I Should Think Byron

     Had Done More Mischief Than One Would Like To Be Answerable For.

     When I Said This The Other Day To My Mother, She Replied By

     Referring To His "Don Juan," Supposing That I Alluded To His

     Profligacy; But It Is Not "Don Juan" Only Or Chiefly That I Think

     So Mischievous, But "Manfred," "Cain," "Lucifer," "Childe Harold,"

     And Through Them All Byron's Own Spirit--The Despondent, Defiant,

     Questioning, Murmuring, Bitter, Proud Spirit, That Acts Powerfully

     And Dangerously On Young Brains And Throws Poison Into Their

     Natural Fermentation.

     Since You Say That My Perpetual Quotation Of That Stupid Song, "Old

     Wilson Is Dead," Worries You, I Will Renounce My Delight In Teasing

     You With It. The Love Of Teasing Is, Of Course, Only A Base Form Of

     The Love Of Power. Mr. Harness And I Had A Long Discussion The

     Other Night About The Cenci; He Maintains Your Opinion, That The

     Wicked Old Nobleman Was Absolutely Mad; But I Argued The Point

     Stoutly For His Sanity, And Very Nearly Fell Into The Fire With

     Dismay When I Was Obliged To Confess That If He Was Not Mad, Then

     His Actuating Motive Was Simply _The Love Of Power_. Do You Know

     That That Play Was Sent Over By Shelley To England With A View To

     Miss O'Neill Acting Beatrice Cenci? If It Were Ever Possible That

     The Piece Could Be Acted, I Should Think An Audience Might Be Half

     Killed With The Horror Of That Entrance Of Beatrice When She

     Describes The Marble Pavement Sliding From Beneath Her Feet.

     Did My Mother Tell You In Her Note That Milman Was At The Play The

     Other Night, And Said I Had Made Bianca Exactly What He Intended? I

     Wish He Would Write Another Tragedy. I Think Perhaps He Will, From

     Something Murray Said The Other Day. That Eminent Publisher Still

     Has My MSS. In His Possession, But You Know I Can Take Things

     Easily, And I Don't Feel Anxious About His Decision. I Act In

     "Fazio" Monday And Wednesday, And Friday And Saturday Mrs. Beverley

     And Belvidera At Brighton.

I Was Inexpressibly Relieved By Receiving A Letter From My Brother, And

The Intelligence That If I Answered Him He Would Be Able To Receive My

Reply, Which I Made Immediate Speed To Send Him.

                                                 GREAT RUSSELL STREET.

     DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

     My Brother John Is Alive, Safe And Well, In Gibraltar. You Deserve

     To Know This, But It Is All I Can Say To You. My Mother Has

     Suffered So Much That She Hardly Feels Her Joy; It Has Broken Her

     Down, And I, Who Have Borne Up Well Till Now, Feel Prostrated By

     This Reprieve. God Be Thanked For All His Mercies! I Can Say No

     More.

                                                              F. A. K.

                               GREAT RUSSELL STREET, February 7, 1831.

     MY DEAR H----,

     I Found Your Lecture Waiting For Me On My Return From Brighton; I

     Call It Thus Because If Your Two Last Were Less Than Letters Your

     Yesterday's One Is More; But I Shall Not Attempt At Present To

     Follow You To The Misty Heights Whither Our Nature Tends, Or Dive

     With You Into The Muddy Depths Whence It Springs. I Have Heard From

     My Brother John, And Now Expect Almost Hourly To See Him. The

     Spanish Revolution, As He Now Sees And As Many Foresaw, Is A Mere

     Vision. The People Are Unready, Unripe, Unfit, And Therefore

     Unwilling; Had It Not Been So They Would Have Done Their Work

     Themselves; It Is As Impossible To Urge On The Completion Of Such A

     Change Before The Time As To Oppose It When The Time Is Come. John

     Now Writes That, All Hope Of Rousing The Spaniards Being Over, And

     Their Party Consequently Dispersing, He Is Thinking Of Bending His

     Steps Homeward, And Talks Of Once More Turning His Attention To The

     Study Of The Law. I Know Not What To Say Or Think. My Cousin,

     Horace Twiss, Was Put Into Parliament By Lord Clarendon, But The

     Days Of Such Parliamentary Patronage Are Numbered, And I Do Not

     Much Deplore It, Though I Sometimes Fancy That The House Of

     Commons, Could It By Any Means Have Been Opened To Him, Might

     Perhaps Have Been The Best Sphere For John. His Natural Abilities

     Are Brilliant, And His Eloquence, Energy, And Activity Of Mind

     Might Perhaps Have Been Made More And More Quickly Available For

     Good Purposes In That Than In Any Other Career.

     I Am Not Familiar With All That Burns Has Written; I Have Read His

     Letters, And Know Most Of His Songs By Heart. His Passions Were So

     Violent That He Seems To Me In That Respect To Have Been Rather A

     Subject For Poetry Than A Poet; For Though A Poet Should Perhaps

     Have A Strongly Passionate Nature, He Should Also Have Power Enough

     Over It To Be Able To Observe, Describe, And, If I May So Say,

     Experimentalize With It, As He Would With The Passions Of Others. I

     Think It Would Better Qualify A Man To Be A Poet To Be Able To

     Perceive Rather Than Liable To Feel Violent Passion Or Emotion. May

     Not Such Things Be Known Of Without Absolute Experience? What Is

     The Use Of The Poetical Imagination, That Lower Inspiration, Which,

     Like The Higher One Of Faith, Is The "Evidence Of Things Not Seen"?

     Troubled And Billowy Waters Reflect Nothing Distinctly On Their

     Surface; It Is The Still, Deep, Placid Element That Gives Back The

     Images By Which It Is Surrounded Or That Pass Over Its Surface. I

     Do Not Of Course Believe That A Good Man Is Necessarily A Poet, But

     I Think A Devout Man Is Almost Always A Man With A Poetical

     Imagination; He Is Familiar With Ideas Which Are Essentially

     Sublime, And In The Act Of Adoration He Springs To The Source Of

     All Beauty Through The Channel By Which Our Spirits Escape Most

     Effectually From Their Chain, The Flesh, And Their Prison-House,

     The World, And Rise Into Communion With That Supreme Excellence

     From Which They Originally Emanated And Into Whose Bosom They Will

     Return. I Cannot Now Go Into All I Think About This, For I Have So

     Many Other Things To Talk About. Since I Began This Letter I Have

     Heard A Report That John Is A Prisoner, That He Has Been Arrested

     And Sent To Madrid. Luckily I Do Not Believe A Word Of This; If He

     Has Rendered Himself Obnoxious To The British Authorities In

     Gibraltar They May Have Locked Him Up For A Week Or Two There, And

     I See No Great Harm In That; But That He Should Have Been Delivered

     To The Spaniards And Sent To Madrid I Do Not Believe, Because I

     Know That The Whole Revolutionary Party Is Going To Pieces, And

     That They Have Neither The Power Nor The Means To Render Themselves

     Liable To Such A Disagreeable Distinction. We Expect Him Home Every

     Day. Only Conceive, Dear H----, The Ill-Fortune That Attends Us: My

     Father, Or Rather The Theater, Is Involved In Six Lawsuits I He And

     My Mother Are Neither Of Them Quite Well; Anxiety Naturally Has

     Much Share In Their Indisposition.

     I Learned Beatrice This Morning And The Whole Of It, In An Hour,

     Which I Tell You Because I Consider It A Feat. I Am Delighted At

     The Thoughts Of Acting It; It Will Be The Second Part Which I Shall

     Have Acted With Real Pleasure; Portia Is The Other, But Beatrice Is

     Not Nearly So Nice. I Am To Act It Next Thursday, When Pray Think

     Of Me.

     I Do Not Know Whether You Have Seen Anything In The Papers About A

     Third Theater; We Have Had Much Anxiety, Vexation, And Expense

     About It, But I Have No Doubt That