Chapter V: Part 5

Unless Aldabella is irresistibly lovely, as well as wicked, there is no accounting for the conduct of Fazio. My own idea of her, as well as Milman's description, is every thing that can be conceived of splendid in beauty, sparkling in wit, graceful in deportment, gorgeous in apparel, and deep and dangerous in crafty wiliness; in short, the old serpent in the shape of Mrs. ----. I wish Mrs. ---- would act that part: I could act it well enough, but she would both act and look it, to the very life. After rehearsal, walked about the town in quest of some _coques de perle_ for my Bianca dress: could not procure any. I like this town extremely: there is a look of comfort and cleanliness, and withal of age about it, which pleases me. It is quieter, too, than New York, and though not so gay, for that very reason is more to my fancy; the shops, too, have a far better appearance. New York always gave me the idea of an irregular collection of temporary buildings, erected for some casual purpose, full of life, animation, and variety, but not meant to endure for any length of time; a fair, in short. This place has a much more substantial, sober, and city-like appearance. Came home at half-past two. In the hall met Mr. ----, who is grown ten years younger since I saw him last: it always delights me to see one of my fellow-passengers, and I am much disappointed in not finding ---- here. Dined at three; after dinner, read my father some of my journal; went on with letter to ----, and then went and dressed myself. Took coffee, and adjourned to the theatre. The house was very full, but not so full as the Park on the first night of his acting in New York, which accounts for the greater stillness of the audience. I watched my father narrowly through his part to-night with great attention and some consequent fatigue, and the conclusion I have come to is this: that though his workmanship may be, and is, far finer _in the hand_ than that of any other artist I ever saw, yet its very minute accuracy and refinement renders it unfit for the frame in which it is exhibited. Whoever should paint a scene calculated for so large a space as a theatre, and destined to be viewed at the distance from which an audience beholds it, with the laborious finish and fine detail of a miniature, would commit a great error in judgment. Nor would he have the least right to complain, although the public should prefer the coarser yet far more effective work of a painter, who, neglecting all refinement and niceness of execution, should merely paint with such full colouring, and breadth and boldness of touch, as to produce in the wide space he is called upon to fill, and upon the remote senses he appeals to, the _effect_ of that which he intends to represent. Indeed he is the better artist of the two, though probably not the most intellectual man. For it is the part of such a one to know exactly what will best convey to the mass of mind and feeling to which he addresses himself the emotions and passions which he wishes them to experience.[36] Now the great beauty of all my father's performances, but particularly of Hamlet, is a wonderful accuracy in the detail of the character which he represents; an accuracy which modulates the emphasis of every word, the nature of every gesture, the expression of every look; and which renders the whole a most laborious and minute study, toilsome in the conception and acquirement, and most toilsome in the execution. But the result, though the natural one, is not such as he expects, as the reward of so much labour. Few persons are able to follow such a performance with the necessary attention, and it is almost as great an exertion to see it _understandingly_, as to act it. The amazing study of it requires a study in those who are to appreciate it, and, as I take it, this is far from being what the majority of spectators are either capable or desirous of doing; the actor loses his pains, and they have but little pleasure. Those who perform, and those who behold a play, have but a certain proportion of power of exciting, and capability of being excited. If, therefore, the actor expends his power of exciting, and his audience's power of being excited, upon the detail of the piece, and continues through five whole acts to draw from both, the main and striking points, those of strongest appeal, those calculated most to rouse at once, and gratify the emotions of the spectator, have not the same intensity or vigour that they would have had, if the powers of both actor and audience had been reserved to give them their fullest effect. A picture requires light and shadow; and the very relief that throws some of the figures in a fine painting into apparent obscurity, in reality enhances the effect produced by those over which the artist has shed a stronger light. Every note in the most expressive song does not require a peculiar expression; and an air sung with individual emphasis on each note would be utterly unproductive of the desired effect. All things cannot have all their component parts equal, and "nothing pleaseth but rare accidents." This being so, I think that acting the best which skilfully husbands the actor's and spectator's powers, and puts forth the whole of the one, to call forth the whole of the other, occasionally only; leaving the intermediate parts sufficiently level, to allow him and them to recover the capability of again producing, and again receiving, such impressions. It is constant that our finest nerves deaden and dull from over-excitement, and require repose, before they regain their acute power of sensation. At the same time, I am far from advocating that most imperfect conception and embodying of a part which Kean allows himself: literally acting detached passages alone, and leaving all the others, and the entire character, indeed, utterly destitute of unity, or the semblance of any consistency whatever. But Kean and my father are immediately each other's antipodes, and, in adopting their different styles of acting, it is evident that each has been guided as much by his own physical and intellectual individuality, as by any fixed principle of art. The one, Kean, possesses particular physical qualifications; an eye like an orb of light, a voice, exquisitely touching and melodious in its tenderness, and in the harsh dissonance of vehement passion terribly true; to these he adds the intellectual ones of vigour, intensity, amazing power of concentrating effect; these give him an entire mastery over his audience in all striking, sudden, impassioned passages, in fulfilling which he has contented himself, leaving unheeded what he probably could not compass, the unity of conception, the refinement of detail, and evenness of execution.[37] My father possesses certain physical defects, a faintness of colouring in the face and eye, a weakness of voice; and the corresponding intellectual deficiencies, a want of intensity, vigour, and concentrating power: these circumstances have led him (probably unconsciously) to give his attention and study to the finer and more fleeting shades of character, the more graceful and delicate manifestations of feeling, the exquisite variety of all minor parts, the classic keeping of a highly-wrought whole; to all these, polished and refined tastes, an acute sense of the beauty of harmonious proportions, and a native grace, gentleness, and refinement of mind and manner, have been his prompters; but they cannot inspire those startling and tremendous bursts of passion, which belong to the highest walks of tragedy, and to which he never gave their fullest expression. I fancy my aunt Siddons united the excellences of both these styles. But to return to my father's Hamlet: every time I see it, something strikes me afresh in the detail. Nothing in my mind can exceed the exquisite beauty of his last "Go on--I follow thee," to the ghost. The full gush of deep and tender faith, in spite of the awful mystery, to whose unfolding he is committing his life, is beautiful beyond measure. It is distinct, and wholly different from the noble, rational, philosophic conviction, "And for my soul, what can it do to that?" It is full of the unutterable fondness of a believing heart, and brought to my mind, last night, those holy and lovely words of scripture, "Perfect love casteth out fear:" it enchanted me.[38] There is one thing in which I do not believe my father ever has been, or ever will be, excelled; his high and noble bearing, his gallant, graceful, courteous deportment; his perfect good-breeding on the stage; unmarked alike by any peculiarity of time, place, or self (except peculiar grace and beauty). He appears to me the beau ideal of the courtly, thorough-bred, chivalrous gentleman, from the days of the admirable Crichton down to those of George the Fourth. Coming home after the play, the marble buildings in the full moonlight reminded me of the Ghost in Hamlet: they looked like pale majestic spirits, cold, calm, and colourless.

_Thursday, 11th._

Rose rather late. After breakfast, wrote journal; at twelve, went to rehearsal.

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After rehearsal, came home, habited, and went to the riding-school to try some horses. _Merci de moi!_ what quadrupeds! How they did wallop and shamble about; poor half-broken dumb brutes! they know no better; and as the natives here are quite satisfied with their shuffling, rollicking, mongrel pace, half trot, half canter, why it is not worth while to break horses in a christian-like fashion for them.[39] I found something that I think my father can ride with tolerable comfort, but must go again to-morrow and see after something for myself. Came home: the enchanting Mr. Head has allowed me a piano-forte; but in bringing it into the room, the stupid slave broke one of its legs off, whereat I was like to faint, for I thought Mr. Head would wish me hanged therefor. Nothing can exceed the civility of the people here, and the house is extremely well kept, quiet, and comfortable. Came home in high delight with this Quaker city, which is indeed very pretty and pleasant. Played on the piano: dressed for dinner. After dinner, practised till tea-time, finished journal, discussed metaphysics with D----, for which I am a fool; wrote to-day's journal, and now to bed. I have a dreadful cold and cough, and have done nothing but hack and snivel the whole day long: this is a bad preparation for to-morrow's work. Howsoever----

_Friday, 12th._

Rose at eight. After breakfast, sat writing journal and letter to ----. At half-past eleven, went to rehearsal. Afterwards walked down to the riding-school with my father. The horse I was to look at had not arrived; but my father saw the grey. We were there for some time; and during that whole some time a tall, thin, unhappy-looking gentleman, who had gotten up upon a great hulking rawboned horse, kept trotting round and round, with his legs dangling down, _sans_ stirrups, at the rate of a mile and a quarter an hour; occasionally ejaculating in the mildest of tones, "keome--keome up;" whereat the lively brute, nothing persuaded, proceeded in the very same pace, at the very same rate; and this went on till I wondered at the man and the beast. Came home and put out things for the theatre. My cold and cough are dreadful. After dinner, practised: invented and executed a substitute for the _coques de perle_ in my Bianca dress; and lay down to rest a little before my work. At six, went to the theatre: the house was very full; and D---- and my father say that I was extremely ungracious in my acknowledgment of their greeting. I cannot tell; I did not mean to be so; I made them three courtesies, and what could woman do more? Of course, I can neither feel nor look so glad to see them as I am to see my own dear London people: neither can I be as profound in my obeisance, as when my audience is civil enough to rise to me: "there is differences, look you."

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My Fazio had a pair of false black whiskers on, which distilled a black stripe of trickling cement down his cheeks, and kept me in agony every time he had to embrace me. My voice was horrible to hear; alternately like Mrs. ---- and ----, and every now and then it was all I could do to utter at all. This audience is the most unapplausive I ever acted to, not excepting my _excitable_ friends north of the Tweed. They were very attentive, certainly, but how they did make me work! 'Tis amazing how much an audience loses by this species of hanging back, even where the silence proceeds from unwillingness to interrupt a good performance: though in reality it is the greatest compliment an actor can receive, yet he is deprived by that very stillness of half his power. Excitement is reciprocal between the performer and the audience: he creates it in them, and receives it back again from them; and in that last scene in Fazio, half the effect that I produce is derived from the applause which I receive, the very noise and tumult of which tends to heighten the nervous energy which the scene itself begets. I know that my aunt Siddons has frequently said the same thing. And besides the above reason for applause, the physical powers of an actor require, after any tremendous exertion, the rest and regathering of breath and strength, which the interruption of the audience affords him; moreover, as 'tis the conventional mode of expressing approbation in a theatre, it is chilling and uncomfortable to go toiling on, without knowing whether, as the maidservants say, "one gives satisfaction or no." They made noise enough, however, at the end of the play. Came home, supped, and to bed; weary to death, and with a voice like a cracked bagpipe.

_Saturday, 13th._

Rose at half-past eight. After breakfast, wrote journal; practised for an hour; got things ready for to-morrow; put on my habit, which I had no sooner done than the perverse clouds began to rain. The horses came at two, but the weather was so bad that I sent them away again. Practised for another hour, read a canto in Dante, and dressed for dinner. After dinner, worked and practised. Came to my own room, and tried to scribble something for the Mirror, at my father's request; the editors having made an especial entreaty to him that I might write something for them, and also sit to some artist for them. I could not accomplish any thing, and they must just take something that I have by me: as for my physiognomy, that they shall certainly not have with my own good leave. I will never expend so much useless time again as to sit for my picture; nor will I let any unhappy painter again get abused for painting me as I am, which is any thing but what I look like. Lawrence alone could do it: there is no other that could see my spirit through my face; and as for the face without that, the less that is seen of it the better. Came down to tea, and found a young gentleman sitting with my father; one Mr. ----.

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He was a pretty-spoken _genteel_ youth enough: he drank tea with us, and offered to ride with me. He is, it seems, a great fortune; consequently, I suppose (in spite of his inches), a great man. Now I'll go to bed: my cough's enough to kill a horse.

_Sunday, 14th._

Rose late; so late that, by the time I had breakfasted, it was no longer time to go to church.

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Finished my first letter to ----. Mr. ---- called, and told us that he was going about _agitating_, and that Jackson was certainly to be re-elected.

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At three o'clock D---- and I sallied forth to go to church. Following the silver voices of the Sabbath bells, as they called the worshippers to the house of prayer, we entered a church with a fine simple façade, and found ourselves in the midst of a Presbyterian congregation. 'Tis now upwards of eight years since, a school girl, I used to attend a dissenters' chapel. The form of worship, though displeasing to me in itself, borrowed a charm to-day from old association. How much of the past it did recall!

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Came home and dressed for dinner. After dinner, half-killed myself with laughter over an Irish version of Fazio, ycleped Grimaldi, from which the author swears Milman has shamefully filched the plot, characters, and even the language, I believe, of his drama. A gentleman of the press, by name ----, paid us an evening visit. He seems an intelligent young man enough; and when he spoke of the autumnal woods, by the Oneida lake, his expressions were poetical and enthusiastic; and he pleased me.[40] He seems to think much of having had the honour of corresponding with sundry of the small literati of London. _Je lui en fais mon compliment._ When he was gone, wrote another letter to ----; journal, and now to bed.

_Monday, 15th._

Rose at eight; took a hot bath. The more I read of Grahame, the better I like him and his history. Those early settlers in Massachusetts were fine fellows, indeed; and Cotton, one of the finest samples of a Christian priest imaginable. After breakfast, went to rehearsal. The day was cold, but beautifully bright and clear. The pure, fresh, invigorating air, and gay sunlight, together with the delightfully clean streets, and pretty mixture of trees and buildings in this nice town, caused me to rejoice, as I walked along.[41] After rehearsal, saw Sinclair and his wife. So--we are to act the Gamester here. Went and ordered a dress for that same, my own being at New York. Came home, put out things for the theatre, practised an hour; dined at three. After dinner, read a canto in Dante: he is my admiration!--great, great master!--a philosopher profound, as all poets should be; a glorious poet, as I wish all philosophers were. Sketched till dark. Chose a beautiful claret-coloured velvet for Mrs. Beverley, which will cost Miss Kemble eleven guineas, by this living light. At six, went to the theatre. I never beheld any thing more gorgeous than the sky at sunset. Autumn is an emperor here, clothed in crimson and gold, and canopied with ruddy glowing skies. Yet I like the sad russet cloak of our own autumnal woods; I like the sighing voice of his lament through the vaporous curtain that rises round his steps; I like the music of the withered leaves that rustle in his path; and oh, above all, the solemn thoughts that wait upon him, as he goes stripping the trees of their bright foliage, leaving them like the ungarlanded columns of a deserted palace. The play was Romeo and Juliet. My father was the "youngest of that name," for want of a better, or, rather, of a worse. How beautiful this performance must have been, when the youthful form made that appear natural which now seems the triumph of art over nature. Garrick said, that to act Romeo required a grey head upon green shoulders. Indeed, 'tis difficult! Oh, that our sapient judges did but know half how difficult. It is delightful to act with my father. One's imagination need toil but little, to see in him the very thing he represents; whereas, with all other Romeos, although they were much younger men, I have had to do double work with that useful engine, my fancy: first, to get rid of the material obstacle staring me in the face, and then to substitute some more congenial representative of that sweetest vision of youth and love. Once, only, this was not necessary.

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The audience here are, without exception, the most disagreeable I ever played to. Not a single hand did they give the balcony scene, or my father's scene with the friar: they are literally immovable. They applauded vehemently at the end of my draught scene, and a great deal at the end of the play; but they are, nevertheless, intolerably dull; and it is all but impossible to act to them.

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The man who acted Capulet did it better than any Capulet I ever acted with; and the nurse, besides looking admirably, acted her part very well: and 'tis hard to please me, after poor dear old Mrs. Davenport. The house was literally crammed from floor to ceiling. Came home tired and hoarse; though my voice was a good deal better to-day. Mr. ---- supped with us. My father expected a visit from the haggling Boston manager, and chose to have a witness to the conference.

_Tuesday, 16th._

Rose at nine. After breakfast, read a canto in Dante; wrote journal; practised for an hour. The Boston manager, it seems, does not approve of our terms; and after bargaining till past two o'clock last night with my father, the latter, wearied out with his illiberal trafficking, and coarse vulgarity of manner, declined the thing altogether: so, unless the gentleman thinks better of the matter, we shall not go to Boston this winter.[42] At one o'clock, habited; and at two, rode out with my father. The day was most enchanting, mild, bright, and sunny; but the roads were deplorable, and the country utterly dull. My horse was a hard-mouthed half broken beast, without pace of any christian kind soever; a perfect rack on hoofs: how it did jog and jumble me! However, my bones are young, and my courage good, and I don't mind a little hard work; but the road was so villanously bad, and the surrounding country so weary, dull, stale, and unprofitable, that I was heartily sick of my ride, when we turned towards Fairmount, the site of some large water-works on the Schuylkill, by which Philadelphia is supplied with water. On our right I descried, over some heights, a castellated building of some extent, whose formidable appearance at least bespoke an arsenal; but it was the entrance to the Penitentiary instead: and presently the river, bright, and broad, and placid as a lake, with its beautiful banks, and rainbow-tinted woods, opened upon us. We crossed a covered wooden bridge, and followed the water's edge. The rich colours of the foliage cast a warm light over the transparent face of the mirror-like stream; and, far along the winding shores, a mingled mantle of gorgeous glowing tints lay over the woody banks, and was reflected in the still sunny river. Indeed, it was lovely! But our time was growing short, and we had to turn home; which we did by a pleasant and more direct path. My horse, towards the end of the ride, got more manageable; and I doubt whether it would not be wiser to continue to ride it than try another, which may be just as bad, and, moreover, a _stranger_. My riding-cap seemed to excite universal marvel wherever we passed. We came in at five o'clock; dressed, and dined. Just as I had finished dinner, a most beautiful, fragrant, and delicious nosegay was brought to me, with a very laconic note from a Philadelphia "_friend_," dashed under, as though from a Quaker. Whoever 'tis from, Jew or Gentile, Puritan or Pagan, he, she, or it hath my most unbounded gratitude. Spent an ecstatic half hour in arranging my flowers in glasses; gave orders about my Mrs. Beverley's gown, and began marking journal; while doing so, a card was brought up.

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Presently Mr. ---- came in, another of our Pacific fellow-sailors. It pleases me to see them: they seem to bring me nearer to England. He gave a dreadful account of his arrival in Baltimore, and of the state to which the cholera had reduced that city. Mr. ---- amused me, by telling me that he had heard my behaviour canvassed with much censure by some man or other, who met me at Mr. ----'s, and who was horrified at my taking up a book, and then a newspaper, and, in short, being neither tragical nor comical, at a dinner-party. Of course, I must seem a very strange animal to them all; but they seem just as strange to me.

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_Wednesday, 17th._

Rose at eight. After breakfast, put out things for the theatre. At eleven, went to rehearsal. It seems there has been fighting, and rushing, and tearing of coats at the box-office; and one man has made forty dollars by purchasing and reselling tickets at an increased price. After rehearsal, came home. Mr. ---- called, and sat some time: he sails for England on the twenty-fourth. England, oh England!--yet, after all, what is there in that name? It is not my home; it is not those beloved ones' whose fellowship is half the time what we call _home_. Is it really and truly the yearning of the roots for the soil in which they grew? Perhaps it is only the restless roving spirit, that still would be where it is not. I know not. His description of American life and manners (and he knows both, for he has lived constantly in this country, and his particularities are, I believe, fairly divided between it and his own,) is any thing but agreeable.

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The dignified and graceful influence which married women, among us, exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of home to the charms of social life, and bearing, at once, like the orange-tree, the fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is utterly unknown here. Married women are either house-drudges and nursery-maids, or, if they appear in society, comparative ciphers; and the retiring, modest, youthful bearing, which among us distinguishes girls of fifteen or sixteen, is equally unknown. Society is entirely led by chits, who in England would be sitting behind a pinafore; the consequence is, that it has neither the elegance, refinement, nor the propriety which belongs to ours; but is a noisy, rackety, vulgar congregation of flirting boys and girls, alike without style or decorum.[43] When Mr. ---- was gone, practised till dinner-time. After dinner, practised for half an hour; marked journal, till time to go to the theatre; took coffee, and away. The house was crammed again, and the play better acted than I have ever seen it out of London, though Mrs. Candour had stuck upon her head a bunch of feathers which threatened the gods; and Lady Sneerwell had dragged all her hair off her face, which needed to be as pretty as it was, to endure such an exposure. I do not wonder the New Yorkians did not approve of my Lady Teazle. If, as ---- tells me, Mrs. ---- is their idea of the perfection of good-breeding, well may my delineation of a lady be condemned as "nothing particular." Yet I am sorry I must continue to lie under their censure, for I, unfortunately for myself, have seen ladies, "ripe and real," who, from all I can see, hear, and understand, differ widely from the good manners of their "beau ideal." The fact is, I am not "_genteel_" enough, and I am conscious of it. The play went off remarkably well. Came to bed at half-past eleven.

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_Thursday, 18th._

Here is the end of October, the very mourning-time of the year with us, and my room is full of flowers, and the sun is so bright and powerful, that it is impossible to go out with a shawl, or without a parasol. Went to rehearsal at twelve; at two, came in and habited; and at half-past two, rode out with my father. We took the road to the Schuylkill at once, through Arch Street, which is a fine, broad, long street, running parallel with Chestnut Street. We walked along the road under the intense sunlight that made all things look sleepy around. Turning between some rising banks, through a defile where the road wound up a hill, we caught a glimpse of a white house standing on the sunny slope of a green rise. The undulating grounds around were all bathed in warm light, relieved only by the massy shadows of the thick woods that sheltered them. It was a bit of England.

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Some good farming and tidy out-houses, and dependencies, completed the resemblance, and made me think that this must be the dwelling of some of my own country people. How can they live here? Here, even in the midst of what is fair and peaceful in nature, I think my home would haunt me, and the far-off chiming of the waves against her white shores resound in my ears through the smooth flowing of the Schuylkill.[44] After pursuing a level uninteresting road for some time, we turned off to the right, and, standing on the brow of a considerable declivity, had a most enchanting glimpse of the Schuylkill and its woody shores. The river makes a bend just above the water-works, and the curving banks scooping themselves form a lovely little sunny bay. It was more like a lake, just here, than a flowing stream. The sky was so blessedly serene, and the air so still, that the pure deep-looking water appeared to sleep, while the bright hues of the heavens, and the glowing lints of the woody shores, were mirrored with wondrous vividness on its bosom. I never saw such gorgeousness, and withal such perfect harmony of colouring. The golden sky, the mingled green, brown, yellow, crimson, and dark maroon, that clothed the thickets; the masses of grey granite, with the vivid mossy green that clung round them; the sunny purple waters; the warm red colour of the road itself, as it wound down below, with a border of fresh-looking turf on either side of it; the radiant atmosphere of rosy light that hung over all; all combined to present a picture of perfect enchantment. The eye was drunk with beauty.[45] How I though t of Mr. ----. Indeed a painter would have gone crazy over it, and I, who am not a painter, was half crazy that I was not. Though if I had been, what would it have availed? Such colours are from God's pallet, and mortal hand may no more copy, than it could mingle them. We rode on through scenery of the same description, passing in our way a farm and dairy, where the cattle were standing, not in open pastureland, but in a corner of forest-ground, all bright with the golden shedding of the trees; it was very picturesque. A little runlet of water, too, that held the middle of a tangled ravine, ran glittering like a golden snake through the underwood, while the stems of the trees, and the light foliage on the edge of the thick woody screens, were bathed in yellow sunshine. All around was beautiful, and rich, and harmonious to the eye, and should have been so to the spirit.

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Returned home at about half-past five, dined at six; found another beautiful nosegay waiting for me, from my unknown furnisher of sweets. This is almost as tantalising as it is civil; and I would give half my lovely flowers to find out who sends them to me. Distributed them all over the room, and was as happy as a queen. Mr. ---- called. My father was obliged to go out upon business, so D---- and I had to entertain that worthy youth. He seems to have a wonderful veneration for a parcel of scribblers, whose names were never heard of in England, beyond the limits of their own narrow coteries. But he speaks like an enthusiast of the woods and waters of his glorious country, and I excuse his taste in poetry. Now isn't this strange, that a man who can feel the amazing might, majesty, and loveliness of nature, can endure for a moment the mawkish scribbling of these poetasters? Verily, we be anomalous beasts.

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AUTUMN.

Thou comest not in sober guise,
In mellow cloak of russet clad--
Thine are no melancholy skies,
Nor hueless flowers pale and sad;
But, like an emperor, triumphing,
With gorgeous robes of Tyrian dyes,
Full flush of fragrant blossoming,
And glowing purple canopies.
How call ye this the season's fall,
That seems the pageant of the year,
Richer and brighter far than all
The pomp that spring and summer wear?
Red falls the westering light of day
On rock and stream and winding shore;
Soft woody banks and granite grey
With amber clouds are curtain'd o'er;
The wide clear waters sleeping lie
Beneath the evening's wings of gold,
And on their glassy breast the sky
And banks their mingled hues unfold.
Far in the tangled woods, the ground
Is strewn with fallen leaves, that lie
Like crimson carpets all around
Beneath a crimson canopy.
The sloping sun with arrows bright
Pierces the forest's waving maze;
The universe seems wrapt in light,--
A floating robe of rosy haze.
Oh, Autumn! thou art here a king;
And round thy throne the smiling Hours
A thousand fragrant tributes bring
Of golden fruits and blushing flowers.

Oh, not upon thy fading fields and fells
In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee,
My home!--but o'er thy mountains and thy dells
His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly.
Nor flower nor bud remaineth there to him,
Save the faint-breathing rose, that, round the year
Its crimson buds and pale soft blossoms dim
In lowly beauty constantly doth wear.
O'er yellow stubble lands, in mantle brown,
He wanders through the wan October light;
Still, as he goeth, slowly stripping down
The garlands green that were the Spring's delight.
At morn and eve thin silver vapours rise
Around his path; but sometimes at mid-day
He looks along the hills with gentle eyes,
That make the sallow woods and fields seem gay.
Yet something of sad sovereignty he hath--
A sceptre crown'd with berries ruby red;
And the cold sobbing wind bestrews his path
With wither'd leaves that rustle 'neath his tread;
And round him still, in melancholy state,
Sweet solemn thoughts of death and of decay,
In slow and hush'd attendance, ever wait,
Telling how all things fair must pass away.

_Tuesday, 23d._

At ten o'clock, went to rehearsal. Rehearsed the Hunchback, and then Fazio: this is tolerably hard work, with acting every night: we don't steal our money, that's one comfort. Came home, found a letter for me in a strange hand.

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Went on with my letter to ----: while doing so, was interrupted by the entrance of a strange woman, who sat herself down, apparently in much confusion. She told me a story of great distress, and claimed my assistance as a fellow-countrywoman. I had not a farthing of money: D---- and my father were out; so I took the reference she gave me, and promised to enquire into her condition. The greatest evil arising from the many claims of this sort which are made upon us, wherever we go, is the feeling of distrust and suspicion which they engender, and the sort of excuse which they teach us to apply plausibly to our unwillingness to answer such demands. "Oh, ten to one, an impostor," is soon said, and instances enough may unfortunately be found to prove the probability of such a conclusion. Yet in this sweeping condemnation one real case of misery may be included, and that possibility should make us pause, for 'tis one that, if afterwards detected, may be the source of heavy condemnation, and bitter regret to ourselves.[46]

* * * * *

* * * * *

The fact is, that, to give well, one should give equally one's trouble with one's money: the one in all cases, the other where one's enquiries are satisfactorily answered.--Received a purple-bound gilt-edged periodical, published at Boston, from Mr. ----.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The literary part of the book seems much on a par with that of similar works in England, but there was a wide difference in the excellence of the engravings. There was one from that pretty picture, the Bride's-Maid; a coarse bad engraving, but yet how much of the sadness of the original it recalled to me! It is a painful thing to look at: it brings before one too much of the sorrow of life, of the anguish that has been endured, that is daily, hourly, endured, in this prison-house of torments. After dinner, went on writing to ----, till time to go to the theatre. The house was not as full as I had expected, though a good one enough. My father looked wonderfully well and young: there is certainly some difference in acting with him; but this part fatigues me horribly.

_Wednesday, 24th._

Went to rehearsal at eleven; at half-past one, went with D---- to find out something about my yesterday's poor woman. The worst of it is, that my trouble involves necessarily the trouble of somebody else, as I cannot go trotting and exploring about by myself. The references were sufficiently satisfactory, that is, they proved that she was poor, and in distress, and willing to work. I gave her what I could, and the man by whom she is employed seems anxious to afford her work: so I hope she will get on a little. The "God bless you," of gratitude, even if uttered by guileful and unworthy lips, is surely yet a blessing if it alights on those who are seeking to do good. And if I were assured that that woman was the veriest impostor under the sun, I still should hope her prayer might descend with profit on my head; for I was sincere in my desire to do well by her. Came home, wrote a letter to ----, finished one to ----; and went to the theatre. It seems there have been

"Bloody noses and crack'd crowns,
And all the currents of a heady fight,"

at the box-office, and truly the house bore witness thereto; for it was crammed from floor to ceiling. The play was the Hunchback. I played very well, in spite of no green carpet, and no letter in the letter scene, which lost one of my favourite points; one, by the by, that I am fond of, because it is all my own.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_Thursday, 25th._

After breakfast, went to rehearsal. Came home, put out things for the theatre, made myself a belt; received a whole bundle of smart annuals from Mr. ----; spent some time in looking over their engravings. My gown looked very handsome, but my belt was too small; had to make another. The house was good, but not great. I played only so-so: the fact is, it is utterly impossible to play to this audience at all. They are so immovable, such very stocks and stones, that one is fairly exhausted with labouring to excite them, before half one's work is done.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AUTUMN SONG.

The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when the leaves begin to fall,
When the chestnut-trees turn yellow and sear,
And the flowers are withering one and all;

When the thick green sward is growing brown,
And the honeysuckle berries are red,
And the oak is shaking its acorns down,
And the dry twigs snap' neath the woodman's tread.

The merriest dance that e'er was seen
Is the headlong dance of the whirling leaves,
And the rattling stubble that flies between
The yellow ranks of the barley sheaves.

The merriest song that e'er was heard
Is the song of the sobbing autumn wind;
When the thin bare boughs of the elm are stirr'd,
And shake the black ivy round them twined.

The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when all things fade and fall,
When the sky is bleak, and the earth is drear,
Oh, that's the merriest month of all.

_Friday, 26th._

While I was dressing, D----, like a good angel, came in with three letters from England in her hand.

* * * * *

The love of excellent friends is one of God's greatest blessings, and deserves our utmost thankfulness. The counsel of sound heads and the affection of Christian spirits is a staff of support, and a spring of rejoicing through life.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A Mr., Mrs., and young Mr. ----, called upon us: they are the only inhabitants of this good city who have done us that honour.

* * * * *

As soon as my father came in, we sallied forth to see the giantess of a ship the Americans have been building, to thresh us withal. I hooked myself up to ----, and away we strode; D---- and my father struggling after us, as best they might. The day was most beautiful; bright, sunny, and fresh. After walking at an immense pace for some time, we bethought us of looking for our _poursuivants_; but neither sign nor vestige appeared of them. We stood still and waited, and went on, and stood still again. ---- looked foolish at me, and I foolish at him: at length we wisely agreed that they had probably made the best of their way to the Navy-yard, and thither we proceeded. We found them, according to our expectations, waiting for us, and proceeded to enter the building where this lady of the seas was propped upon a hundred stays, surrounded with scaffolding, with galleries running round from the floor to the ceiling. We went on deck; in fact, the Pennsylvania has been boarded by the English in our person, before she sets foot on the sea. How I should like to see that ship launched; how she will sweep down from her holdings, and settle to the water, as a swan before swimming out! How the shores will resound with living voices, applauding her like a living creature; how much of national pride, of anticipated triumph, will be roused in every heart, as her huge wings first unfold their shadow over the sea, and she moves abroad, the glory and the wonder of the deep! How, if this ship should ever lie in an English harbour! If I were an American on board of her, I would sooner blow her up, with all the "precious freighting souls" within her, than see such a consummation. When my wonderment had a little subsided, it occurred to me that she would not, perhaps, be so available a battle-ship as one of a smaller size: it must be impossible to manoeuvre her with any promptitude.

* * * * *

My father and ---- indulged in sundry right English bits of bragging, as they stood at her stern, looking down the enormous deck. I wish I knew her exact measurements: she is the largest ship ever built, larger than any East Indiaman; the largest ship in the world. How the sea will groan under her; nathless in a storm I would rather be in the veriest nutshell that ever was flung from wave-top to wave-top. How she would sink! she would go down like another Atlantis, poor ship! I have an amazing horror of drowning. Came home just in time to dine. After dinner, wrote letters; at six, went to the theatre; play, Hunchback; played so-so: the audience are detestable. The majority are so silent that they not only do not applaud the acting, but most religiously forbear to notice all noises in the house, in consequence of which some impudent women amused themselves with talking during the whole play, much "louder than the players." At one time their impertinent racket so bewildered me, that I was all but out, and this without the audience once interfering to silence them; perhaps, however, that would have been an unwarrantable interference with the sacred liberties of the people. I indulged them with a very significant glance; and at one moment was most strongly tempted to request them to hold their tongues.

_Saturday, 27th._

The poor sick lady, whose pretty children I met running about the stairs, sent to say she should be very glad if I would go in and see her: I had had sundry inward promptings to this effect before, but was withheld by the real English dread of intruding. At eleven, went to rehearsal: on my return, called on Mrs. ----.

* * * * *

* * * * *

She interested me most extremely: I would have stayed long with her, but feared she might exhaust herself by the exertion of conversing. On my return to my own room, I sent her Mr. ----'s annuals, and the volume of Mrs. Hemans's poetry he lent me. Began practising, when in walked that interesting youth, Mr. ----, with a nosegay, as big as himself, in his hand. Flowers,--sweet blooming, fresh, delicious flowers,--in the last days of October; the very sackcloth season of the year. How they do rejoice my spirit. He sat some time, making most excessively fine speeches to me: while he was here, arrived another bouquet from my unknown friend; how nice, to be sure! all but not knowing who they come from. When my visiter was gone, wrote to ---- till dinner-time. After dinner, spent nearly the whole afternoon in dressing my pretty flowers. Sent some of them in to Mrs. ----. I don't know why, but it seemed a sad present to make to her; for I almost fear she will never see the blossoms of another year. Yet why do I say that?--is not heaven brighter than even this flowery earth?

* * * * *

* * * * *

Finished my letter to ----; went to the theatre. My benefit: the Provoked Husband. The house was very good. I played so-so, and looked very nice. What fine breeding this play is, to be sure: it is quite refreshing to act it; but it must be heathen Greek to the American _exclusives_, I should think.

_Sunday, 28th._

Had only time to swallow a mouthful of breakfast, and off to church. I must say it requires a deal of fortitude to go into an American church: there are no pew-openers, and the people appear to rush indifferently into any seats that are vacant. We went into a pew where there were two women and a man, who did not take up one half of it; but who, nevertheless, looked most ungracious at our coming into it. They did not move to make way or accommodate us, but remained, with very discourteous unchristian-like sulkiness, spread over twice as much space as they required. The spirit of independence seems to preside paramount, even in the house of God. This congregation, by frequenting an Episcopalian temple, evidently professed the form of faith of the English church; yet they neither uttered the responses, nor observed any one of the directions in the Common Prayer-book. Thus, during portions of the worship where kneeling is enjoined, they sat or stood; and while the Creed was being read, half the auditors were reclining comfortably in their pews: the same thing with the Psalms, and all parts of the service. I suppose their love of freedom will not suffer them to be amenable to forms, or wear the exterior of humbleness and homage, even in the house of the Most High God.[47] The whole appearance of the congregation was that of indifference, indolence, and irreverence, and was highly displeasing to my eye. After church, came home, and began writing to ----. ---- called. He sat some time mending pens for me; and at half-past one D----, he, and I packed ourselves into a coach, and proceeded on to Fair Mount, where we got out, and left the coach to wait for us. The day was bright and bitter cold: the keen spirit-like wind came careering over the crisping waters of the broad river, and carried across the cloudless blue sky the golden showers from the shivering woods. They had not lost their beauty yet; though some of their crimson robes were turned to palest yellow, and through the thin foliage the dark boughs and rugged barks showed distinctly, yet the sun shone joyfully on them, and they looked beautiful still; and so did the water, curled into a thousand mimic billows, that came breaking their crystal heads along the curving shore, which, with its shady indentings and bright granite promontories, seemed to lock the river in, and gave it the appearance of a lovely lake. We took the tow-path, by D----'s desire; but found (alas, that it is ever so!) that it was distance lent enchantment to the view. For, though it was very pretty, it had lost some of the beauty it seemed to wear, when we looked down upon it from the woody heights that skirt the road.