Chapter XXI (11)

[Alas! my kind friend was no prophet. Not many months after, sitting by him at a dinner-party in New York, he said to me, "So I hear you are engaged to be married, and you are going to settle in this country. Well, you will be told that this country is like your own, and that living in it is like living in England: but do not believe it; it is no such thing, it is nothing of the sort; which need not prevent your being very happy here if you make the best of things as you find them. Above all, whatever you do, don't become a creaking door." "What's that?" asked I, laughing. He then told me that his friend Leslie, the painter, who was, I believe, like his contemporary and charming rival artist, Gilbert Stewart Newton, an American by birth, had married an Englishwoman, whom he had brought out to America, "but who," said Irving, "worried and tormented his and her own life out with ceaseless complaints and comparisons, and was such a nuisance that I used to call her 'the creaking door.'"]

Good-by, and God bless you, dearest H----.

I am affectionately yours,
FANNY KEMBLE.

BOSTON, Sunday, April 21, 1833.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

There lies in my desk, and has lain, I am ashamed to say, for a
long time now, an unanswered letter of yours, which smites my
conscience every time I open that useful receptacle (desk, not
conscience), where it has, I am sorry to say, many companions in
its own predicament. My time is like running water, and the
quickest, but the rapids of Niagara, that ever ran, I think; and
every hour, as it flies away, is filled with so much that must be
done, letting alone so much that I would wish to do, that I am
fairly out of breath, and feel as if I were flying myself in a
whirling high wind, and if ever I stop for a moment, shan't be
surprised to find that I have gone crazy. I think I should like to
spend a few days entirely alone in a dark room, secluded from every
sight and sound, for my senses are almost worn out, and my sense
exhausted, with looking, hearing, feeling, going, doing, being, and
suffering. Our work is incessant; we never remain a month in any
one place, and we are scarce off our knees from putting things into
drawers than we are down on them again to take them out and put
them all back into trunks. My health has not suffered hitherto from
this constant exertion, but I am occasionally oppressed with the
dreadful unquietness of our life, and long for a few moments' rest
of body and of mind.

This is our first visit to this place, and I am enchanted with it.
As a town, it bears more resemblance to an English city than any we
have yet seen; the houses are built more in our own fashion, and
there is a beautiful walk called the Common, the features of which
strongly resemble the view over the Green Park just by Constitution
Hill. The people here take more kindly to us than they have done
even elsewhere, and it is delightful to act to audiences who appear
so pleasantly pleased with us....

Only think! a book was sent to me from Philadelphia the other day
which proved to be the "Diary of an Ennuyée." I have no idea who it
came from, or who made so good a guess at that old predilection of
mine. I fell to forthwith--for that book has always had a most
powerful charm for me--and read, and read on, though I have read it
many a time through before, and though I had been acting Bianca,
and my supper was on my plate before me.

I heard the other day mention of another work of yours, since the
Shakespeare book. If you are not weary of writing to me, with such
long intervals between your question and my reply, tell me
something of this new work in your next letter.

Our plans for the summer are yet unsettled.... I was much
disappointed on arriving here to find that Dr. Channing has left
Boston for the South. His health is completely broken, and the
bleak and bitter east wind that blows perpetually here is a
formidable enemy to life, even in stronger frames than his....

The hotel in which we are lodging here is immediately opposite the
box-office, and it is a matter of some agreeable edification to me
to see the crowds gathering round the doors for hours before they
open, and then rushing in, to the imminent peril of life and limb,
pushing and pommeling and belaboring one another like madmen. Some
of the lower class of purchasers, inspired by the thrifty desire
for gain said to be a New England characteristic, sell these
tickets, which they buy at the box-office price, at an enormous
advance, and smear their clothes with treacle and sugar and other
abominations, to secure, from the fear of their contact of all
decently-clad competitors, freer access to the box-keeper. To
prevent, if possible, these malpractices, and secure, to ourselves
and the managers of the theater any such surplus profit as may be
honestly come by, the proprietors have determined to put the boxes
up to auction and sell the tickets to the highest bidders. It was
rather barbarous of me, I think, upon reflection, to stand at the
window while all this riot was going on, laughing at the fun; for
not a wretch found his way in that did not come out rubbing his
back or his elbow, or showing some grievous damage done to his
garments. The opposite window of my room looks out upon a
churchyard and a burial-ground; the reflections suggested by the
contrast between the two prospects are not otherwise than
edifying.... Good-by; God bless you!

I am ever yours, most truly,
FANNY KEMBLE.

NEW YORK, Friday, May 24, 1833.
MY DEAREST H----,

I received your last letter, dated the 22d March, a week ago, when
I was in Boston, which we have left, after a stay of five weeks, to
return here, where we arrived a few days ago....

Boston is one of the pleasantest towns imaginable. It is built upon
three hills, which give it a singular, picturesque appearance, and
I suppose suggested the name of Tremonte Street, and the Tremonte
Hotel, which we inhabited. The houses are many of them of fine
granite, and have an air of wealth and solidity unlike anything we
have seen elsewhere in this country. Many of the streets are
planted with trees, chiefly fine horse-chestnuts, which were in
full leaf and blossom when we came away, and which harmonize
beautifully with the gray color and solid handsome style of the
houses. They have a fine piece of ground, like a park, in one part
of the town, which, together with the houses round it, reminded me
a good deal of the Green Park and the walk at the back of Arlington
Street.

[The addition of the new part of Boston, stretching beyond the Common and the public Gardens, has added immensely to the beauty of the city, and the variety of the buildings and alternate views at the end of the vistas of the fine streets, looking toward Dorchester Heights, and those ending in the blue waters of the bay and Charles River, not unfrequently reminded me both of Florence and Venice, under a sky as rich, and more pellucid, than that of Italy.]

The country all round the neighborhood of Boston is charming. The
rides I took in every direction were lovely, and during the last
fortnight of our stay nothing could exceed the exquisite brightness
of the spring weather. The apple trees were all in bloom, the
lilacs in flower, and everything as sweet, fresh, and enchanting as
possible.... How I wish you could have seen the glorious Hudson
with me the other day, now that the woods on its banks are dark
with the shade of their thick and varied foliage! How you would
have rejoiced in the beautiful and noble river scenery! This is "a
brave new world," more ways than one, and we are every way bound to
like it, for our labor has been most amply rewarded in its most
important result, money; and the universal kindness which has
everywhere met us ever since we first came to this country ought to
repay us even for the pain and sorrow of leaving England. We are to
remain here about ten days longer, and then proceed to
Philadelphia, where we shall stay a fortnight, and then we start
for cool and Canada, taking the Hudson, Trenton Falls, and Niagara
on our way; act in Montreal and Quebec for a short time, and then
adjourn, I hope, to Newport in Rhode Island, to rest and recruit
till we begin our autumnal work.... And now I have done grumbling
at "the state of life into which it has pleased God to call me." My
dear H----, I began this letter yesterday, and am this moment
returned from a long visit to Dr. Channing.... The outward man of
the eloquent preacher and teacher is rather insignificant, and
produces no impression at first sight of unusual intellectual
supremacy; and though his eyes and forehead are fine, they did not
seem to me to do justice to the mind expressed in his writings; for
though Shakespeare says,

"There is no art to read the mind's construction in the face,"

I think the mental qualities are more often detected there than the
moral ones. He is short and slight in figure, and looks, as indeed
he is, extremely delicate, an habitual invalid; his eyes, which are
gray, are well and deeply set, and the brow and forehead fine,
though not, perhaps, as striking as I had expected. The rest of the
face has no peculiar character, and is rather plain.

He talked to me a great deal about the stage, acting, the dramatic
art; and, professing to know nothing about it, maintained some
theories which proved he did not, indeed, know much. As far as
knowledge of the stage and acting goes, of course this was not
surprising, his studies, observation, and experience certainly not
having lain in that direction; indeed, if they had, he might not
have shown more comprehension of the subject. Sir Thomas Lawrence
is the only unprofessional person I ever heard speak upon it whose
critical opinion and judgment seemed to me worth anything; but it
appeared to me that, in the course of the discussion, some of Dr.
Channing's opinions (with all respect be it spoken) betrayed an
ignorance of human nature itself, upon which, after all, dramatic
literature and dramatic representation are founded. He asked me if
at the present day, and in our present state of civilization, such
a character as Juliet could be imagined possible; so that I believe
I was a little disappointed, in spite of his greatness, his
goodness, and my reverence and admiration for him.

I went to call on him with a Miss Sedgwick, a person of
considerable literary reputation here, and whose name and books you
may perhaps have heard of. One of them, "Hope Leslie," is, I think,
known in England. Though she is a good deal older than myself, I
have formed a great friendship with her; she is excellent, as well
as very clever and charming. She knows Dr. Channing intimately, and
is a member of his church....

It is now Monday morning, dear H----, and I am presently going to
set off to the races. American races! only think of that! I who
never saw but one in my own country, and was totally uninterested
by it! But I am going chiefly to please a nice little woman who is
just married, and whose husband has several horses that are to run,
so perhaps I shall find these more exciting than I did the races I
attended at home. They are very little supported or resorted to
here; the religious and respectable part of the community
disapprove of them. There is a general prejudice against them, and
they are even preached against; so that they are entirely in the
hands of a few gentlemen of fortune, who keep them up, partly for
their amusement, and partly with a view to the improvement of the
breed of horses in this country. The running is said to be very
good, the show is nothing.... However, I am going, and therefore
you may look hereafter to hear--what you shall hear now--because
I'm just come back, and am happy to inform you that my friend's
husband's horse won the race. The stake was only £2000--no very
great matter--but still enough to make the result interesting, if
not important; though I think the hazard we ran of our lives at
starting was the most exciting part of the day.

The racecourse is on Long Island, and, to reach it, one crosses the
arm of the sea that divides that strip of land from New York in a
steam ferryboat. All these transports were so thronged to-day with
carriages, horses, and a self-governed, enlightened, and very free
people, that in all my life I never saw anything so frightful as
the confusion of the embarking and disembarking....

Dr. Channing was talking to me the other day of Harriet Martineau's
writings, and has sent me "Ella of Garvelock," recommending it
highly as an interesting story, though he does not seem to think
Miss Martineau's principles of political economy sufficiently sound
to make her works as useful upon that subject, or to do all the
good which she herself evidently hopes to produce by these
tales....

God bless you, dear friend! I am ever most truly yours,

F. A. K.

NEW YORK, Sunday, June 24, 1833.

Great was my surprise, dear Mrs. Jameson, to find accompanying your
letter of April 9th a card of Mr. Jameson's. My father called upon
him almost immediately, but had not the good fortune to find him at
home, and I presume he is now gone on to Canada, whither we are
ourselves proceeding, and where we may very possibly meet him. Our
spring engagements are all over, and we are now going away from the
hot weather to Niagara, into which, if all tales be true, I expect
to fall headlong, with sheer surprise and admiration; after which I
shall accompany my father to Montreal and Quebec, where we shall
resume our professional labors....

I am very sorry you have been ill. You do not speak of your eyes,
from which I argue that you were not painfully conscious of the
existence of those valuable luminaries at the time you wrote....

The accounts, public and private, that we receive of the state of
England are not encouraging, and the trouble seems such as neither
Tory, Whig, nor even Radical, can cure. You talk of bringing out a
colony to this country; bring out half of England, and those who
starve at home will have to eat, and to spare, here. How I do wish
our poor laboring people could be made to know how easily they
might exchange their condition for a better one!

I wish you could have heard what my father was reading to us this
morning out of Stewart's "North America;" not Utopian dreams of
some imaginary land of plenty and fertility, but sober statements
of authentic fact, telling of the existence of unnumbered leagues
of the richest soil that ever rewarded human industry an
hundredfold; wide tracts of lovely wilderness, covered with
luxuriant pasture, and adorned profusely with the most beautiful
wild flowers; great forests of giant timber, and endless rolling
prairies of virgin earth, untouched by ax or plow; a world of
unrivaled beauty and fertility, untenanted and empty, waiting to
receive the over-brimming populations of the crowded lands of
Europe, and to repay their labor with every species of abundance.
It is strange how slow those old-world, weary, working folk have
hitherto been to avail themselves of God's provision for them
here.... You tell me you are working hard, but you do not say at
what. Innumerable are the questions I have been asked about you,
and a Philadelphian gentleman, a very intelligent and clever
person, who is a large bookseller and publisher here, bade me tell
you that you and your works were as much esteemed and delighted in
in America as in your own country. He was so enthusiastic about you
that I think he would willingly go over to England for the sole
purpose of making your acquaintance.

[It is a pity that the American law on the subject of copyright should have rendered Mr. Carey's admiration of my friend and her works so barren of any useful result to her. Any tolerably just equivalent for the republication of her books in America would have added materially to the hardly earned gains of her laborious literary life.]

I am already half moulded into my new circumstances and
surroundings; and though England will always be home to my heart,
it may be that this country will become my abiding-place; but if
you come out to Canada we shall meet on this side of the Atlantic
instead of the other....

Believe me ever yours truly,
F. A. K.

TO MISS FITZHUGH.

MONTREAL, July 24, 1833.
MY DEAREST EMILY,

Within the last fortnight we have progressed, as we say in this
country, over about nine hundred and fifty miles of land and water.
We have gone up the Hudson, seen Trenton, the most beautiful, and
Niagara, the most awful, of waterfalls. As for Niagara, words
cannot describe it, nor can any imagination, I think, suggest even
an approximate idea of its terrible loveliness. I feel half crazy
whenever I think of it. I went three times under the sheet of
water; once I had a guide as far as the entrance, and twice I went
under entirely alone. If you fancy the sea pouring down from the
moon, you still have no idea of this glorious huge heap of tumbling
waters. It is worth crossing the Atlantic to see it.... As I stood
upon the brink of the abyss when I first saw it, the impulse to
jump down seemed all but an irresistible necessity, and but for the
strong arm that held mine fast I think I might very well have taken
the same direction as the huge green glassy mountain of water that
was pouring itself headlong into--what no eye can penetrate. It
literally seemed as if everything was going down there, and one
must go along with everything. The chasm into which the cataract
falls is hidden by dense masses of snowy foam and spray, rising in
an everlasting creation of cloud up into the sky, and vailing the
frantic fury of the caldron below, where the waves churn and tread
each other underfoot in the rocky abyss that receives them, in
darkness which the sun's rays cannot penetrate nor the strongest
wind for a moment disperse; a mystery, of which its thousand voices
reveal nothing. It is nonsense writing about it--seeing and hearing
are certainly, in this case, the only reasons for believing. I
think it would be delightful to pass one's life by this wonderful
creature's side, and quite pleasant to die and be buried in its
bosom....

We left that wonderful place a few days ago, steamed across Lake
Ontario, came down the rapids of the St. Lawrence in an open boat,
sang the Canadian boat song, and are now safe and sound, only half
roasted, in his Majesty's dominions. Of all that we have seen,
Niagara is, of course, the old object beyond all others, but we
were delighted with the softness and beauty of a great deal of the
scenery that we saw in traversing the State of New York--one of
twenty States, not the largest of the twenty, but large enough to
hold England in its lap.

The rapids of the St. Lawrence, though, I believe, really rather
dangerous to descend, have so little appearance of peril that I
derived none of the excitement I had expected, and which a little
danger always produces, from going through them. Instead of
shooting down long sheets of rushing water, which was what I
expected, we were tossed and tumbled and shaken up and down, in the
midst of a dozen conflicting currents and eddies, which break the
whole surface of the river into short pitching waves, and dance
about in frantic white whirligigs, like the circles of the bad
nuns' ghosts, in Meyerbeer's devilish Opera....

Good-by, my dearest Emily. I am always affectionately yours,

F. A. K.

STEAMBOAT ST. PATRICK, ON THE ST. LAWRENCE,
August 17, 1833.
MY DEAREST H----,

There is lying in my desk an unfinished letter to you, begun about
a week ago, which is pausing for want of an opportunity to go on
with it; but here I am, a prisoner in a steamboat, destined to pass
the next four and twenty hours on the broad bosom of the St.
Lawrence, and what can I do better than begin a fresh chapter to
you, leaving the one already begun to be finished on my next
holiday. My holidays, indeed, are far from leisure time, for when I
have nothing to do I have all the more to see; so that I am as busy
and more weary than if I were working much harder.

We have been staying for the last fortnight in Quebec, and are now
on our way back to Montreal, where we shall act a night or two, and
then return to the United States, to New York and Boston.... The
greater part of these poems of Tennyson's which you have sent me we
read together. The greater part of them are very beautiful. He
seems to me to possess in a higher degree than any English poet,
except, perhaps, Keats, the power of writing pictures. "The
Miller's Daughter," "The Lady of Shalott," and even the shorter
poems, "Mariana," "Eleänore," are full of exquisite form and color;
if he had but the mechanical knowledge of the art, I am convinced
he would have been a great painter. There are but one or two things
in the volume which I don't like. "The little room with the two
little white sofas," I hate, though I can fancy perfectly well both
the room and his feeling about it; but that sort of thing does not
make good poetry, and lends itself temptingly to the making of good
burlesque.

I have much to tell you, for in the last two months I have seen
marvelous much. I have seen Niagara. I wish you had been there to
see it with me. However, Niagara will not cease falling; and you
may, perhaps, at some future time, visit this country. You must not
expect any description of Niagara from me, because it is quite
unspeakable, and, moreover, if it were not, it would still be quite
unimaginable. The circumstances under which I saw it I can tell
you, but of the great cataract itself, what can be told except that
it is water?

I confess the sight of it reminded me, with additional admiration,
of Sir Charles Bagot's daring denial of its existence; having
failed to make his pilgrimage thither during his stay in the United
States, he declared on his return to England that he had never been
able to find it, that he didn't believe there was any such thing,
and that it was nothing but a bragging boast of the Americans.

At Albany, our first resting-place from New York, we had been
joined by Mr. Trelawney, who had been introduced to me in New York,
and turned out to be the well-known friend of Byron and Shelley,
and author of "The Adventures of a Younger Son," which is, indeed,
said to be the story of his own life.

[His wild career of sea-adventure with De Ruyter, who was supposed to have left him at his death all his share of the results of their semi-buccaneering exploits, his friendship and fellowship with Byron and Shelley, the funeral obsequies he bestowed upon the latter on the shore of the Gulf of Spezzia, his companionship in the mountains of Greece with the patriot chief Odysseus, and his marriage to that chief's sister, are all circumstances given with more or less detail in his book, which was Englished for him by Mary Shelley, the poet's widow, who was much attached to him; Trelawney himself being quite incapable of any literary effort which required a knowledge of common spelling.... He was strikingly handsome when first I knew him, with a countenance habitually serene, and occasionally sweet in its expression, but sometimes savage with the fierceness of a wild beast. His speech and movements were slow and indolently gentle, his voice very low and musical, and his utterance deliberate and rather hesitating; he was very tall, and powerfully made, and altogether looked like the hero of a wild life of adventure, such as his had been. I hear he is still alive, a very wonderful-looking old man, who sat to Millais for his picture, exhibited in 1874, of the "Old Sea-Captain."]

We all liked him so well that my father invited him to join our
party, and travel with us to Niagara, whither he was bound as well
as ourselves. He had seen it before, and though almost all the
wonders of the world are familiar to him, he said it was the only
one that he cared much to see again.

We reached Queenstown on the Niagara River, below the falls, at
about twelve o'clock, and had three more miles to drive to reach
them. The day was serenely bright and warm, without a cloud in the
sky, or a shade in the earth, or a breath in the air. We were in an
open carriage, and I felt almost nervously oppressed with the
expectation of what we were presently to see. We stopped the
carriage occasionally to listen for the giant's roaring, but the
sound did not reach us until, within three miles over the thick
woods which skirted the river, we saw a vapory silver cloud rising
into the blue sky. It was the spray, the breath of the toiling
waters ascending to heaven. When we reached what is called the
Niagara House, a large tavern by the roadside, I sprang out of the
carriage and ran through the house, down flights of steps cut in
the rock, and along a path skirted with low thickets, through the
boughs of which I saw the rapids running a race with me, as it
seemed, and hardly faster than I did. Then there was a broad,
flashing sea of furious foam, a deafening rush and roar, through
which I heard Mr. Trelawney, who was following me, shout, "Go on,
go on; don't stop!" I reached an open floor of broad, flat rock,
over which the water was pouring. Trelawney seized me by the arm,
and all but carried me to the very brink; my feet were in the water
and on the edge of the precipice, and then I looked down. I could
not speak, and I could hardly breathe; I felt as if I had an iron
band across my breast. I watched the green, glassy, swollen heaps
go plunging down, down, down; each mountainous mass of water, as it
reached the dreadful brink, recoiling, as in horror, from the
abyss; and after rearing backward in helpless terror, as it were,
hurling itself down to be shattered in the inevitable doom over
which eternal clouds of foam and spray spread an impenetrable
curtain. The mysterious chasm, with its uproar of voices, seemed
like the watery mouth of hell. I looked and listened till the wild
excitement of the scene took such possession of me that, but for
the strong arm that held me back, I really think I should have let
myself slide down into the gulf. It was long before I could utter,
and as I began to draw my breath I could only gasp out, "O God! O
God!" No words can describe either the scene itself, or its effect
upon me.

We staid three days at Niagara, the greater part of which I spent
by the water, under the water, on the water, and more than half in
the water. Wherever foot could stand I stood, and wherever foot
could go I went. I crept, clung, hung, and waded; I lay upon the
rocks, upon the very edge of the boiling caldron, and I stood alone
under the huge arch over which the water pours with the whole mass
of it, thundering over my rocky ceiling, and falling down before me
like an immeasurable curtain, the noonday sun looking like a pale
spot, a white wafer, through the dense thickness. Drenched through,
and almost blown from my slippery footing by the whirling gusts
that rush under the fall, with my feet naked for better safety,
grasping the shale broken from the precipice against which I
pressed myself, my delight was so intense that I really could
hardly bear to come away.

The rock over which the rapids run is already scooped and hollowed
out to a great extent by the action of the water; the edge of the
precipice, too, is constantly crumbling and breaking off under the
spurn of its downward leap. At the very brink the rock is not much
more than two feet thick, and when I stood under it and thought of
the enormous mass of water rushing over and pouring from it, it did
not seem at all improbable that at any moment the roof might give
way, the rock break off fifteen or twenty feet, and the whole huge
cataract, retreating back, leave a still wider basin for its floods
to pour themselves into. You must come and see it before you die,
dear H----.

After our short stay at Niagara, we came down Lake Ontario and the
St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec. Before I leave off speaking of
that wonderful cataract, I must tell you that the impression of awe
and terror it produced at first upon me completely wore away, and
as I became familiar with it, its dazzling brightness, its soothing
voice, its gliding motion, its soft, thick, furry beds of foam, its
vails and draperies of floating light, and gleaming, wavering
diadems of vivid colors, made it to me the perfection of loveliness
and the mere magnificence of beauty. It was certainly not the
"familiarity" that "breeds contempt," but more akin to the "perfect
love" which "casteth out fear;" and I began at last to understand
Mr. Trelawney's saying that the only impression it produced on him
was that of perfect repose; but perhaps it takes Niagara to
mesmerize him.

[The first time I attempted to go under the cataract of Niagara I had a companion with me, and one of the local guides, who undertook to pilot us safely. On reaching the edge of the sheet of water, however, we encountered a blast of wind so violent that we were almost beaten back by it. The spray was driven against us like a furious hailstorm, and it was impossible to open our eyes or draw our breath, and we were obliged to relinquish the expedition. The next morning, going down to the falls alone, I was seduced by the comparative quietness and calm, the absence of wind or atmospheric disturbance, to approach gradually the entrance to the cave behind the water, and finding no such difficulty as on the previous day, crept on, step by step, beneath the sheet, till I reached the impassable jutting forward of the rock where it meets the full body of the cataract. My first success emboldened, me to two subsequent visits, the small eels being the only unpleasant incident I encountered. The narrow path I followed was a mere ledge of shale and broken particles of the rock, which is so frayable and crumbling, either in its own nature, or from the constant action of the water, that as I passed along and pressed myself close against it, I broke off in my hands the portions of it that I grasped.]

A few miles below the falls is a place called the whirlpool, which,
in its own kind, is almost as fine as the fall itself. The river
makes an abrupt angle in its course, when it is shut in by very
high and rocky cliffs--walls, in fact--almost inaccessible from
below. Black fir trees are anchored here and there in their cracks
and fissures, and hang over the dismal pool below, most of them
scathed and contorted by the fires or the blasts of heaven. The
water itself is of a strange color, not transparent, but a pale
blue-green, like a discolored turquoise, or a stream of verdigris,
streaked with long veins and angry swirls of white, as if the angry
creature couldn't get out of that hole, and was foaming at the
mouth; for, before pursuing its course, the river churns round and
round in the sullen, savage, dark basin it has worn for itself, and
then, as if it had suddenly found an outlet, rushes on its foaming,
furious way down to Ontario. We had ridden there and alighted from
our horses, and sat on the brink for some time. It was the most
dismal place I ever beheld, and seemed to me to grow horribler
every moment I looked at it: drowning in that deep, dark,
wicked-looking whirlpool would be hideous, compared to being dashed
to death amid the dazzling spray and triumphant thunder of Niagara.

[There are but three places I have ever visited that produced upon me the appalling impression of being accursed, and empty of the presence of the God of nature, the Divine Creator, the All-loving Father: this whirlpool of Niagara, that fiery, sulphurous, vile-smelling wound in the earth's bosom, the crater of Vesuvius, and the upper part of the Mer de Glace at Chamouni. These places impressed me with horror, and the impression is always renewed in my mind when I remember them: God-forsaken is what they looked to me.]

I do not believe this whirlpool is at all as generally visited as
the falls, and perhaps it might not impress everybody as it did me.

Quebec, where we have been staying, is beautiful. A fortress is
always delightful to me; my destructiveness rejoices in guns and
drums, and all the circumstance of glorious war. The place itself,
too, is so fiercely picturesque--such crags, such dizzy, hanging
heights, such perpendicular rocky walls, down to the very water's
edge, and such a broad, bright bay. The scenery all round Quebec is
beautiful, and we went to visit two fine waterfalls in the
neighborhood, but of course to us just now there is but one
waterfall in the world.... God bless you, dear!

Ever affectionately yours,
F. A. K.

TO MRS. JAMESON.

NEW YORK, Tuesday, October 15, 1833.

You are wandering, dear Mrs. Jameson, in the land of romance, the
birthplace of wild traditions, the stronghold of chivalrous
legends, the spell-land of witchcraft, the especial haunt and home
of goblin, specter, sprite, and gnome; all the beautiful and
fanciful creations of the poetical imagination of the Middle Ages.
You are, I suppose, in Germany; intellectually speaking, almost the
antipodes of America. Germany is now the country to which my
imagination wanders oftener than to any other. Italy was my wishing
land eight years ago, but many things have dimmed that southern
vision to my fancy, and the cloudier skies, wilder associations,
and more solemn spirit of Germany attract me more now than the
sunny ruin-land....

I shall not return to England, not even to visit it now--certainly
never to make my home there again. "The place that knew me will
know me no more," and you will never again have the satisfaction of
coming to me after a first night's new part to say all manner of
kind things about it to me. My feelings about the stage you know
full well, and will rejoice with me that there is a prospect of my
leaving it before its pernicious excitements had been rendered
necessary to me by habit. Yet when I think of my "farewell night,"
I cannot help wishing it might have taken place in London, before
my own people, who received my first efforts so kindly, and where I
stood in the very footprints, as it were, of my kindred.... Thank
you for your long and entertaining letter, and for the copy of the
second edition of "Shakespeare's Women." You cannot think how
extremely popular you are in this country. A lady assured me the
other day, that when you went to heaven, which you certainly would,
Shakespeare would meet you and kiss you for having understood, and
made others understand, him so well. If ever you do come to this
side of that deep, dividing ditch, which you speak of as not an
improbable event, you will find as much admiration waiting for you
here as you can have left behind; whether it is equally valuable,
it is for you to judge.... I have seen Niagara since last I wrote
to you, and it was in a balcony almost overhanging it that I saw
your husband, and that he gave me long accounts of your literary
plans.

Dear Mrs. Jameson, this is a short and stupid letter, but I have
been working awfully hard, and have not been well for the past
month, and am not capable of much exertion. It is quite a novelty
to me, and not an agreeable one, to feel myself weak, and worn out,
and good for nothing. Good-by; write to me from some of your
halting-places, and believe me ever yours truly,

F. A. K.

I noted the altered frontispiece of my little book.

BOSTON, April 16, 1834.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

I received a kind and interesting letter from you, dated "Munich,"
some time past, and lately another from London, telling me of the
alarm you experienced with regard to your father's health, and your
sudden return from Germany, which I regretted very much, for
selfish as well as sympathetic motives. You were not only enjoying
yourself there, but were gathering materials for the enjoyment of
others; and I am as loath to lose the benefit of your labors as
sorry that your pleasant holiday was thus interrupted.

It is now probable, unless the Atlantic should like me better going
than it did coming, and that it should take me to its bosom, that I
may be in London in July, when I hope I shall find you there.... I
am coming back to England, after all, and shall, I think, remain on
the stage another year....

I received, a few days ago, a letter from dear H----, in which she
mentioned that you had an intention of writing a memoir or
biographical sketch of "the Kemble family," in which, if I
understood her right, you thought of introducing the notice which
you wrote for Hayter's drawings of me in Juliet. She said that you
wished to know whether I had any objection or dislike to your doing
so, and I answered directly to yourself, "None in the world." I had
but one fault to find with that notice of me, that it was far too
full of praise; I thought it so sincerely. But, without wishing to
enter into any discussion about my merits or your partiality, I can
only repeat that you are free to write of me what you will, and as
you will; but, for your own sake, I wish you to remember that
praise is, to the majority of readers, a much more vapid thing than
censure, and that if you could admire me less and criticise me
more, I am sure, as the housemaids say, you would give more
satisfaction. However, keep your conscience by you; praise or
blame, it is none of my business. Talking of that same Juliet, I
received a letter from Hayter the other day which gave me some
pain. He tells me that he has all those sketches on his hands, and
asks me if I am inclined to take them of him. I fear his applying
to me, at such a distance, on this subject, is a sign that he is
not prosperous or doing well. He is an amiable, clever little man,
and I shall feel very sorry if my surmise proves true. My father
wishes to have the collection, and I shall write to tell him so
forthwith.

It is no slight illustration to me of the ephemeral nature of the
popularity which I enjoyed, to think that those drawings, which, as
works of art, were singularly elegant and graceful, should go
a-begging for a purchaser. Verily "all is vanity!"

[My friend, Lord Ellesmere, purchased the series of drawings Mr. Hayter made from my performance of Juliet; and on my last visit to Lady Ellesmere at Hatchford, she pointed them out to me round a small hall that led to her private sitting-room, over the writing-table of which hung a miniature of me copied from a drawing of Mrs. Jameson's by that charming and clever woman, Miss Emily Eden.]

You will be sorry for me and for many when I tell you that our
good, dear friend Dall is dangerously ill. I am writing at this
moment by her bed.... This is the only trial of the kind I have
ever undergone; God has hitherto been pleased to spare all those
whom I love, and to grant them the enjoyment of strength and
health. This is my first lonely watching by a sick-bed, and I feel
deeply the sadness and awfulness of the office.... Now that I am
beginning to know what care and sorrow really are, I look back upon
my past life and see what reason I have to be thankful for the few
and light trials with which I have been visited. My poor dear
aunt's illness is giving us a professional respite, for which my
faculties, physical and mental, are very grateful. They needed it
sorely; I was almost worn out with work, and latterly with anxiety
and bitter distress.

We terminated our last engagement here on Friday last, when the
phlegmatic Bostonians seemed almost beside themselves with
excitement and enthusiasm: they shouted at us, they cheered us,
they crowned me with roses. Conceive, if you can, the shocking
contrast between all this and the silent sick-room, to which I went
straight from the stage....

Surely, our profession involves more intolerable discords between
the real human beings who exercise it and their unreal vocation,
than any in the world!... In returning to England, two advantages,
which I shall value much, will be obtained: a fortnight's rest
during the passage, and, I hope, not quite such hard work when I
resume my labors.... As for the hollowness and heartlessness of the
world, by which one means really the people that one has to do with
in it, I cannot say that I trouble my mind much about it. In their
relations with me I commit every one to their own conscience; if
they deal ill by me, they deal worse by themselves.... I hope you
may be in London when we reach it. Farewell.

I am ever yours truly,
FANNY KEMBLE.

NEW YORK, Thursday, April 24, 1834.
MY DEAR H----,

This will be but a short letter, the first short one you will have
received from me since we parted. Dear Dall has gone from us. She
is dead; she died in my arms, and I closed her eyes.... I cannot
attempt to speak of this now, I will give you all details in my
next letter. It has been a dreadful shock, though it was not
unexpected; but there is no preparation for the sense of desolation
which oppresses me, and which is beyond words.... I wrote you a
long letter a few days ago, which will perhaps have led you to
anticipate this. We shall probably be in England on the 10th of
July.... The sole care of my father, who is deeply afflicted, and
charge of everything, devolves entirely on me now.... We left
Boston on Tuesday.... I act here to-night for the first time since
I lost that dear and devoted friend, who was ever near at hand to
think of everything for me, to care for me in every way. I have
almost cried my eyes out daily for the last three months; but that
is over now. I am working again, and go about my work feeling
stunned and bewildered....

I saw Dr. Channing on Monday; he has just lost a dear and intimate
connection. With what absolute faith he spoke of her! Gone! to the
Author of all good. That which was good must return to Him. It is
true, and I believe it, and know it; but at first I was lost....
God bless you, dear H----. We shall meet erelong, and in the midst
of great sorrow that will be a great joy to

Yours ever affectionately,
F. A. K.

We have buried dear Dall in a lonely, lovely place in Mount Orban's
Cemetery, where ---- and I used to go and sit together last spring,
in the early time of our intimacy. I wished her to lie there, for
life and love and youth and death have their trysting-place at the
grave.

* * * * *

My aunt died in consequence of an injury to the spine, received by the overturning of our carriage in our summer tour to Niagara.

* * * * *

I was married in Philadelphia on the 7th of June, 1834, to Mr. Pierce Butler, of that city.

THE END.

INDEX.

Aberdeen, Lord, Lawrence's picture of, 217.

Abbot, Mr., his failure as _Romeo_, 197, 199;
a tumble, 243;
helping Covent Garden, 464.

Abbotsford, appearance after Scott's death, 264, 265.

"Abbot, The," 402.

Abeken, 339.

Aberdeen, Lord, 326.

Abingdon, Mrs., 258.

"Adam Blair," 444.

Addlestone, 105, 418, 420.

_Adorni_, in "The Maid of Honor," 391.

_Age, The_, 170;
its editor thrashed by Charles Kemble, 310.

Alaba, General, 486.

Alfieri, 66.

Algeciras, 293.

Allen, Sir William, 526, 527, 529.

Allison, 142.

Alvanley, Lord, contrasted with Stephenson, 456.

Amelia, Princess, presents a necklace to Mrs. Charles Kemble, 449.

America, incident of Fanny Kemble's last public reading in, 223, 277;
talking of going to, 425;
what it was _not_, 426;
Fanny Kemble's thoughts of, 483;
climate of, 535;
landing at New York, 535;
flies and mosquitoes, 541;
horse-racing in, 577.

"Andromaque," 68, 419.

Angerstein's Gallery, 475, 484.

"_Anglaises pour rire, Les_," 66.

"Anna Bolena," 428, 444.

Anglo-Saxons, John Kemble's history of, 505.

Anson, Colonel, 302.

"Antonio," 351.

Antonio, Countess St., 101, 338.

Antonio, Marc, 528.

Apsley House, windows smashed, 461.

Ardgillan, 111, 133, 240, 253, 273, 289, 290, 318, 329, 348, 363, 457.

Ariel, Goethe compared with, 338.

Arkwright, Mrs. Robert, 29;
Robert, 22.

Arnold, Mr., 336;
speeches on theatre patents, 339.

Art, a few words on, 476.

"Artaxerxes," Miss Sheriff's _début_ in, 464.

Artist Life in England, 5.

Arundel, House of, 265.

Ashburton, Lord and Lady, 302.

Ashley, Wm., Earl of Shaftesbury, married to Miss Bailey, 357.

Augustine, 426.

Augustin's Gallery, 442.

Austen, Jane, 103;
her novels, 441.

Assisi, Francis de, 426.

Aston Hall, 278.

Aston, Clinton, 298.

Bacon, Mr., 88, 125;
his abusive critique in the _Times_ of Fanny Kemble's acting, 464, 481;
Editor of the _Times_, 519.

Bagot, Sir Charles, denial of the existence of Magara, 582.

Bailie, 488.

Baillie, "Count Basil," 342.

Baillie, Miss Joanna, writes the part of "Jane de Montfort" especially for Mrs. Siddons, 349.

Ballantyne, Scott's notes to, 260;
his unfavorable criticisms of Fanny Kemble, 262, 265.

Baltimore, appearance of, 560;
beauty of its women, 562.

Balzac, "Scenes of Parisian Life," 72, 93.

Bannisters, 271, 451, 454.

Barham, his comical poem on "Henri Trois," 484;
critique of "Katharine of Cleves," 493.

Baring, Mr. and Lady Harriet, 302.

Bartley, timidity about success of "The Hunchback," 377;
hearing Knowles read "The Hunchback," 390;
plan for a new theatrical speculation in Covent Garden, 553;
"cutting" "The Star of Seville" for the Stage, 495.

Barton, 293, 326.

Bath, 256, 416.

Batthyany, Count, 299, 302;
Countess, 302.

Bayard, 506.

Bayley, Miss, marriage to Earl of Shaftesbury, 357.

_Beatrice_, 336, 341, 344, 516.

Beauclerc, the young ladies, chaperoned by Duchess of St. Albans, 392.

Beaufort, drives the coach, 330.

Beau, Madame le, 491.

Becher, Lady, (see O'Neill, Miss), anecdotes of, 194.

Becher, Sir (William Wrixon), married to Miss O'Neill, 195.

Bedford, Duke of, 347.

Beechey, Sir William, 393.

"Beggar's Opera, The," Miss Sheriff in, 471.

Bellamy, Mrs., rivalry with Garrick, 452.

Bellini, 100.

_Belvidera_, first dress for, 208;
Fanny Kemble's dislike of the part, 236;
her second part, 235, 336;
in London, 460, 469.

Belvoir Castle burned, 46.

Belzoni, Madame, 37.

_Benedict_, 426.

Bennett, as _Laval_, 508; in "Francis I.," 509.

Bentham, Jeremy, 122;
his philanthropy, 137;
John Kemble's admiration for, 180.

Beowulf, 503.

Berquin, Juvenile dramas, 2.

Berry, the Misses, 106.

Bessborough, 47.

Biagio's Preface to Dante, 448.

Biagioli, 58.

_Bianca_, 325, 332, 523;
Mrs. Kemble's opinion of Fanny Kemble in, 333, 386, 414, 469, 474, 483;
Fanny Kemble's best part, 483;
her first play in New York, 536.

Birmingham, 278.

Bishop, the murderer, 462.

Bishop, his opera "Cortex," 86.

Blackheath, 251.

Blackshaw, Mrs., 37.

Blackwood, Mrs., 47, 173.

Blaise Castle, 426.

Blangini, 59.

Boaden, his life of Sarah Siddons, 128.

"Bonaparte," the play, 366.

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 364;
melodrama on his life, 399;
at St. Helena, Fanny Kemble's verses on, 441;
letters to Joséphine, 462.

Bonheur, Rosa, 345.

"Borderers, The," 508, 509, 513.

Bordogni, 276.

Boston, enthusiasm at Fanny Kemble's farewell engagement, 588.

Bouilland, Mr., experiments on Brains, 418.

Boulogne, Fanny Kemble at school at, 26;
farewell to, 31.

Bourbon, the Younger of the Orleans branch, 277.

Boyd, 293, 479.

Bradshaw, Mrs. (Maria Tree), in "Hernani" at Bridgewater House, 376;
in _Clari and Mary Copp_, 396, 497.

Braham, 97;
sings "Tom Tug," 395.

Brain, anatomy of the, 528.

Brand, Mr., 346.

Brandon, 286.

Bridgewater House, 374;
"Hernani" at, 376;
first rehearsal of "Hernani" at, 396.

Brighton, 256, 324, 325, 327, 466.

Bristol, 416;
market at, 424;
Abbey church, 425;
unprosperous business, 428;
trouble at theatre, 432.

British Canada, 346.

Brougham, Lord, in Charles Kemble's suit, 88, 142, 332;
his mother, 344, 459;
a man of steel, 474.

Browning, Robert, 126;
compared with Shelley, 384;
"Blot on the Scutcheon" and Pippa Passes, _ib._

Brunet, in "_Les Anglaises pour Rire_," 66.

Bruno, 426.

Brunswick, Caroline of, Princess of Wales, 251.

Brunswick, Duke of, at Brunswick House, 422.

Brunton, manager of theatre at Bristol, in trouble, 431;
his benefit, 433;
effort by Charles Kemble's Company to help him, 433;
in prison, 434.

Brunton, Miss (Lady Craven), 292.

Bryant, William Cullen, poetry of, 545.

Buckingham Gate, see Jones Street, 168, 267.

Buckinghamshire, 277, 297, 304, 305.

Budna, 302.

Burney, Dr., 327.

Burk, the murderer, 462.

Burns, Robert, 80, 161;
adversely criticised, 335.

Bury St. Edmunds, 108;
Henry Kemble at, 482.

Butler, Lady Eleanor, 345.

Butler, Pierce, marriage to Fanny Kemble, June 7, 1834, 590.

Byng, Frederick, 485;
a long call, 485.

Byron, Lord, 104, 110, 165;
"Cain," 165, 333;
"Manfred," 165, 333;
peculiar combination of vices and virtues, 166;
pernicious influence on the young, 167, 270;
play of "Werner," 308;
Mrs. John Kemble's impressions of, 330;
"Don Juan," 333;
"Lucifer," 333;
"Childe Harold," 333;
Sundry opinions on, 333;
his works compared with Hope's "Anastasius," 337.

Byron, Lady, her influence on Mrs. Jameson, 129;
her appearance, 130;
deprecates the publication of a new edition of Byron's works, 167.

Calcott, Lady, 506.

Calcutta, Henry Kemble, Collector of the Port of, 323.

Calderon, 293.

_Caliban_, 338.

_Calista_, in "The Fair Penitent," 318;
a failure, 318, 323, 325.

Cambridge, Duchess of, 303.

Camden Place, 13.

"Camiola," Fanny Kemble in, 255, 257, 367, 385, 388, 391.

Campbell, his life of Sarah Siddons, 128;
life of Lawrence, 239;
the poet, 242;
"Pleasures of Hope," 358;
application to Mrs. Fitzhugh for Mrs. Siddons' letters, 451;
life of Mrs. Sarah Siddons, 504.

Candia, M. de, see Mario, 497.

Canizzaro, Duchess of, 101.

Canning, Lawrence's picture of, 217.

Carey, admiration for Mrs. Jameson's works, 579.

Carlisle, Lord, 418.

Carlo, 505.

Carlyle, his article in _Edinburgh Review_, 80;
biography of Sterling, 185.

Cartwright, Mr., 320;
a pleasant evening at his house, 395.

Cassiobury Park, 90, 305, 397, 400.

Castlereagh, Lord Grey, haunted by a vision of, 474.

Catalani, her last public appearance, 162;
her last appearance, 163.

Catons, The, Lady Wellesley's father and mother, 562.

Catskills, 103.

Cavaliers, Ancient _vs._ Modern, 527.

Cavendish, Miss, on the _stay-at-home_ sensation, 393.

Cavendish, Col. and Lady, 471.

Cawse, Miss, in "Artaxerxes," 465.

Célimène, 258.

Cenci, Beatrice, 302.

Chambers, the Brothers, 161;
"Vestiges of Creation," _ib._

Channing, Essay on Milton, 337;
view of man's nature, 362;
his adversaries, 433;
on the relative merits of England and America, 539, 559;
appearance of, 576;
theatrical opinions, 576;
opinion of Miss Martineau's writings, 578;
infinite faith in a dead friend's happiness, 589.

Chantrey, 345;
Sir Francis, his design of vase presented to Charles Kemble, 354.

"Characters of Shakespeare's Women," Mrs. Jameson's book on, 275.

_Charles de Bourbon_, Kemble as, 508.

Charles X., 276.

Charles I., his resting-place at Edge Hill, 278.

Charles II., 308.

Charles, King, martyrdom of, 499.

Charles X., King of France, 522.

Charlotte, Queen, 449.

Chateaubriand, 166.

Chartier, Alin, 462.

Chatmoss, 279;
drained and healthy, 530.

Cherubino, 391.

Chester, 277.