Records Of A Girlhood Volume 1 (1 Of 2) - Frances Ann Kemble (sad books to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Frances Ann Kemble
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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.
Volume 1 Chapter 14 Pg 54
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.
Volume 1 Chapter 14 Pg 55Let 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
Volume 1 Chapter 14 Pg 56Seem 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
Volume 1 Chapter 14 Pg 57James 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
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