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/ 
 • "^FANNY KEMBLE IN AMERICA: 
 
 JOURNAL OF AN ACTRESS REVIEWED. 
 
 REMARKS ON THE STATE OF SOCIETY 
 
 AMERICA AND ENGLAND. 
 
 'j^Aav*-*-* Avwui^ }(jt\A^i,^ 
 
 BY AN ENGLISH LADY, 
 
 FOUR YEARS RESIDENT IN THE UNITED STATES. 
 
 ^:- 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PUBLISHED BY LIGHT & HORTON, 
 
 Samuel Harris, Printer. 
 
 1835. 
 
, ff -3 3 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835, 
 
 BY LIGHT & HORTON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
FANNY KEMBLE IN AMERICA. 
 
 The art of book-making, or of weaving materials for a new title 
 page, is so well known in the old country, and so extensively- 
 practised by the would-be witlings crowding round the public 
 press, that I might spare myself the pains of recurring to its noto- 
 riety, if it was equally well known on the continent of America. 
 
 While it remained, however, a harmless occupation, and em- 
 ployed itself in manufacturing voyages performed in the dark 
 circle of a Grub street attic ; or in the fabrication of travels and 
 adventures, spun in the miserable area of a three cornered closet ; 
 it might be allowed to pass its ordeal, in public opinion, without 
 exciting the severity of criticism. And if the book became toler- 
 ated, it might, in the harmlessness of its intentions, be permitted 
 to continue its uninterrupted course, and reward the needy adven- 
 turer, in such species of literature, with the scanty dinner 
 which it was written to procure. But when it leaves its old and 
 time worn track, as no longer profitable, and, in the boldness of its 
 daring, assumes a new mode of raising the ' necessary supplies,' by 
 dipping the pen in gall, retailing the thrice told slander, and in 
 fabricating more ; it becomes our duty to expose the fraud, and 
 stigmatize the offender. 
 
 Basil Hall, the travelling captain, not very celebrated for his 
 veraciousness on any subject ; Feron, the gin seller on Holborn 
 Hill, whose shop is the daily resort of all the dissolute of the 
 British metropolis ; Mrs. Trollope, the chaste and delicate friend 
 
of Fanny Wright ; the Rev. Mr. Fidler, the refugee, who, faihng 
 in his pursuits at home — as one disquaUfied — sought shelter in the 
 States, to educate, to improve, and to adorn — and who, faiUng 
 there, looked to indemnify himself by the malignancy of his pen, 
 and the vulgar flippancy of his clerical wit ; — each have written a 
 book on that never failing theme, the manners and customs of the 
 Americans, and each has received the reward of his labors in the 
 thriving trade of slander, and malevolent misrepresentation. 
 
 Several of the smaller tribe have followed the harvestings of 
 these veracious and disinterested personages, who have contented 
 themselves with the mere gleanings of the abundant field : and 
 among the last, though not the least, is to be classed Mrs. 
 Frances Anne Butler, according to the title page of her 
 journal ; but I see no reason why ^\ e should forget her identity 
 v/ith Fanny Kemble, the actress ; and in speaking of her work, 
 I shall deal with her in her maiden name — thus endeavoring to 
 show my respect to the several members of that honorable family 
 into which she has been introduced, and with which she has 
 become allied. 
 
 I feel that I have no right to enter the sanctuary of private 
 life ; and Mrs. Butler, as Mrs. Butler, is unknown to the world but 
 by the journal now before us. As Fanny Kemble, however, from 
 the moment she put her foot on the boards of a theatre, she 
 became public property, as far as public opinion went ; and we 
 claim the right of stricture on her journal, her manners, and her 
 morals, in the same degree as she has thought proper, although 
 W'ithout the same pretensions, to exercise in the case of the man- 
 ners and the morals of the Americans. 
 
 The love of slander is unhappily like the love of idleness — the 
 polluted source from whence it springs — too prevalent ; and hence 
 .such works as the journal of Fanny Kemble. These books 
 are seized with avidity in the old world, and with not much less of 
 relish in the new. Praise may beget pleasure, but censure insures 
 the deepest interest, and hence the most extensive demand. So 
 the restaurateur, by the peculiar piquancy of his stores, obtains 
 the larger share of customers to his refectory ; and he or she 
 is indeed but a shallow book-maker, who will not profit by the 
 
same experience. But when we consider the end — that is, 
 money making — we should also consider the means employed ; 
 and I see no reason why the public slanderer should be any more 
 sheltered from public obloquy and scorn, than the public robber. 
 Shakspeare, with whose works Fanny Kemble ought to be famil- 
 iar, has said, in the old and hackneyed quotation, which we adopt 
 in its aptitude to the occasion, 
 
 ' Who steals my purse, steals trash : 
 But he who filches from me my good name, 
 Robs me of that which not enriches hun, 
 But renders me poor indeed.' 
 
 In taking up my pen, in examination of the journal of the 
 actress ; and in my feeble attempt at delineating American charac- 
 ter, as it has appeared to my judgment; I am not influenced by 
 any considerations of a private nature. I have lived too long 
 in America, I have mixed too much with society, to fear the 
 expression of my mind, or the utterance of my opinions. I have 
 never found myself restrained in the liberty of speech ; and if 
 '"I have never found my name adorning a title page, it is because I 
 have had as little confidence in my own powers, as inclination for 
 the idle trade, and perliaps less of time to abstract from the ina- 
 lienable claimiS of my husband and my children. But as an 
 English woman, and a resident in America, in default of an abler 
 pen, I have felt it an imperative duty, to deny that the journal of 
 Fanny Kemble, so far as relates to manners in America, is con- 
 ceived in common candor, or with common honesty, even with the 
 bias of prejudice on its side, I also feel it not less my duty to de- 
 fend my fair countrywomen, in their purity, from the opinion 
 which may be formed of their worth, taking Fanny Kemble as a 
 woman in their resemblance. 
 
 Ardently attached to my dear country as the land of my birth, 
 I am not the less attached to America, as the country of my adop- 
 tion. I visited it but for a season. Under circumstances of ill 
 health, I sought the milder climate of New York, in exchange for a 
 winter in Canada. But I became attached to tlie people and the 
 soil, and I have remained among them in the reciprocation of tliose 
 *1 
 
friendly feelings with which I was received, and which I trust will 
 continue with me until my last adieu, when I feel that I shall 
 leave it with sorrow and regret. 
 
 Moral feeling, delicacy of sentiment and actions, purity of soul, 
 and refinement of manners, are not the pecsliar property of any one 
 country. Their genial influence is felt and found wherever 
 Christianity has spread, and the polished arts of social life are cul- 
 tivated ; and it would indeed be to deny to America all that can 
 give it dignity and grace, the denial of its fair claim to these, the 
 distinguishing characteristics of its national character. 
 
 I know not in what society Fanny Kemble may have moved ; 
 but if I am to judge by popular report, more than by her own 
 journal, I should imagine that good society had been opened to 
 her ; but if it was not to her taste, that ought not to operate in its 
 discommendation. There is an essential difference in taste ; and 
 the delicate manners of private life, I can easily imagine, are in as 
 little accordance with the taste of a public performer, as the for- 
 ward demeanor and presuming airs of an exhibitionist, are to the 
 retiring deportment of a lady in private life. 
 
 The Americans, in their eagerness of patronage, in their ambi- 
 tion to promote the arts in their own country, are, unhappily, too 
 much in the habit of forgetting what is due to themselves, and 
 to their own dignity. This is a fault, and a great one ; and, 
 as Fanny Kemble has found so many, I shall equally indulge my- 
 self with the privilege of finding a few. I say again, it is a great 
 one : but I have the vanity to think, with the aid of Fanny 
 herself, it is one not very likely to be often repeated ; and that by 
 cur joint efforts, we shall be able to reduce it, in a retrospect 
 of its mischievous practice, to a proper sense of its own shame. 
 
 This foult has unhappily existed to a great extent, and has, 
 most unhappily, been assiduously encouraged by those who have 
 found it their interest to misrepresent the state of society at home. 
 The Americans, in the natural warmth of their ardent disposition ; 
 unuilling that their hospitality should be questioned; believing that 
 the talented of the stage are fostered and caressed in private 
 circles at home ; dazzled by the glare of a great name \\'afted 
 across the Atlantic by newspaper writers and play-goers ; and not 
 
 h 
 
^t all familiar with that exquisite art of puffing, by which the pre- 
 tender is inflated into popular notice, (but which art, by the way, 
 has long lost its influence on the other side of the water) ; too fre- 
 quently lead themselves away in their eagerness to commend, and 
 yield themselves voluntarily to an association ^\ ith persons not at 
 all qualified for their private circles, and who, under other circum- 
 stances, could never have obtained an entre beyond the green 
 room of the theatre — the only congenial atmosphere they may be 
 said to breathe. 
 
 Borne away by this impetuous feeling, without any considera- 
 tion yielded to the demands of propriety, and knowing nothing of 
 the arcana of the stage ; gratified by the public exhibition they 
 have witnessed ; enthusiastic in the encomiums extorted from 
 them in the generous warmth of their feelings ; led away no less 
 by that inherent love of liberty, and that spirit of equality which 
 scarcely admits of distinctions in society, at least such distinctions 
 as are natural to other countries ; they vie with each other in 
 their efforts to honor the mimic stranger, and shower on him 
 or her the gifts of fortune, throw open their houses for their recep- 
 tion, and publicly receive them with banquetings and balls ; while 
 propriety, outraged, starts back with the inquiry — ' Who and what 
 are these, that are received \\ ith all the ostentation and parade of 
 a Roman triumph ? ' — ' Actors ! ' responds trutli — ' Actors ! ' — 
 the more fortunate and roving descendants of the vagrant Tlies- 
 pis, pampered by folly ! — in whose licentious veins still flows the 
 helot's inebriation, the helot's wanton passions — \\'ild, immoral, 
 and impure. 
 
 It would be too much to ascribe this weakness of patronage to 
 all of society in America. Among the reflective, among those 
 more sober-minded, among the morally intellectual, who could 
 neither be allured by the pomp of pageant, or the glare of fashion, 
 or could gather aught of amusement from nature outraged, or the 
 ribald jest ; among these, indeed, neither the actor or his preten- 
 sions could prevail, and the social circle of the fireside was never 
 tainted. 
 
 The moralist, in his refinement of feeling, whose taste for social 
 society was limited to the tranquil enjoyments of a private life ; 
 
8 
 
 whose admiration could never be excited by deportment unchast- 
 ened by that dehcacy of mind and manner which is the charm of 
 either sex — he found his pleasures in his home, in the endear- 
 ments of his family, in the rational treasures of his library, and in 
 the intellectual converse of his friend. For him the actor's 
 trumpet-sounding fame raised its shrill notes in vain ; and the 
 impure incense, offered at its shrine, ascended not his roof, or pol- 
 luted the dwelling of his tenderest affections. 
 
 It may be advanced that we are too sweeping in our censure ; 
 that there are many estimable characters on the stage ; and 
 that Fanny Kemble herself, in private life, is one of its brightest 
 ornaments. In this we mean not to impugn her ; but virtue, mere 
 female virtue, undignified by that peculiar delicacy which is the 
 sovereign charm of woman, while it is to be prized, is not of that 
 chastened nature to win us to its love ; and the profession of an 
 actor, in its very range, is one, only to be sustained by the 
 sacrifice of all those charms that lend to virtue brightness. 
 
 I have said, I know not in what society Fanny Kemble may 
 have moved ; but of this I am sure — the circle from which she has 
 gleaned her knowledge of manners in America, is so limited in its 
 extent, that its existence is almost unknown to the country in 
 which it draws its vital air. She may have drawn her picture 
 faithfully — she may have limned it in all its proportions ; for we 
 know of no country where vice is not to be found, where immor- 
 ality does not vegetate, and where coarseness and vulgarity of 
 manners are not to be met with. But it remains with those who 
 basked in the sunshine of Fanny's rays — it remains with those 
 who were attracted to her orbit, to vindicate themselves. I 
 cannot figlit witli shadows ; I cannot aim an efiective blow at the 
 mere monster of imagination ; I know nothing of his existence, 
 and cannot detect him in the ' Mr. D — 's,' ' Mr. H — 's,' and the 
 ' Mr. B — 's,' and the ' Mr. J — 's,' crowding the pages of the 
 journal. 
 
 But if there is one, who has unfortunately been led, by the 
 love of novelty, into this degenerate circle, and should there hap- 
 pily be anything left of self-esteem, the blush of shame must 
 mantle on the cheek, with a poignant sense of past humiliation 
 
and present retribution : for it cannot be denied that Fanny has 
 taken ample vengeance of those who have been allured by her 
 smiles, who have been fascinated by her acting, both on and 
 off the stage, and have wantoned in the meridian of her studied 
 playfulness. 
 
 If there is one who has been involuntarily led into this circle, 
 guided by the popular expression of applause, that applause 
 which was merely extended to the actress, in the discharge of her 
 professional duties, and for the exercise of which she was brought 
 to America, and for which she has been amply, abundantly, 
 remunerated in American money ; if there is one who has been 
 attracted to her by the panegyrics of hired scribblers, the lau- 
 datory strains of dependant parasites, the paid menials of the 
 diurnal press ; — I say, if there is one — and I believe there are 
 many — who have waived prudent consideration in inconsiderate 
 zeal — he, or rather the many, will deplore the want of caution 
 they have displayed in their forwardness of patronage ; and, fur- 
 nished with the lesson which this person has taught them, be very 
 little prone to relapse into the same error on any future occasion. 
 They will feel the force and truth of the fable of the frozen 
 serpent^ — that they have fostered into life the reptile, which, coil- 
 ing its fascinating folds around the bosom that had sheltered it, 
 fixes its envenomed teeth in the hand that had fed it. They will 
 feel this in all the fulness of its practical illustration. 
 
 The journal of Fanny Kemble is perhaps the most extraordi- 
 nary publication that ever was permitted to proceed from the 
 press. It is difficult to conceive that it has been produced in 
 mere prejudice, for it riots in the imaginative of all sorts. It 
 has carefully gleaned the often repeated slanders of a Hall, 
 a Feron, a Trollope, a Hamilton, and a Fidler ; and in their 
 union, aided by a fertile fancy, it outsteps them all. It is diffi- 
 cult to imagine the state of that mind which has given it birth, 
 and committed, from day to day, so gross a tissue of false impres- 
 sions and wilful misrepresentation. But it is more difficult to 
 comprehend the mind itself, in its structure, which could so pow- 
 erfully mask itself in communion with the inartificial society into 
 which she had been introduced ; and could, with so many blan'» 
 
10 
 
 dishments, and so much of grace and pleased demeanor, reveal 
 itself in the treasured pages of her journal, to be pubhshed, 
 forsooth, when a fitting time occurred. This indeed was acting, 
 and with something more than machievalian skill. Whatever 
 doubts may have been entertained, or opinions formed, of Fanny 
 Kemble on the stage, off the boards of a theatre, in the great 
 theatre of life, she has indeed proved herself inimitable. 
 
 In the delivery of my opinions, in a language perhaps more 
 forcible than it may be by some considered the case can justify, I 
 must beg to acquit myself of any personal ill feeling towards the 
 actress herself. I have none. I am free to admit that the pro- 
 fession of the stage is not one at all to my taste, and that its pro- 
 fessors are nof sufficiently in my regard to admit them as the asso- 
 ciates of my children. I am a mother ; and I claim and exercise 
 a mother's right over their mind and morals. I never could be 
 brought to believe that an actress, however estimable in herself, 
 could, in the discharge of those duties on which her success 
 depends — duties demanding the total sacrifice of feminine delicacy, 
 the life, tlie grace, the charm of woman — I repeat, I never could 
 believe them endowed with one of those traits of character, ren- 
 dering them the fit associates of the private circle. I may be sin- 
 gular in this opinion, but it has and will continue to influence 
 my conduct. If I have ever wavered, the journal of Fanny 
 Kemble has dismissed the doubts, and confirmed me in the reso- 
 kition of that reserve A\hich I have hitherto, maintained, and 
 which I may be said to have inherited from the country of my 
 birtli. 
 
 Of the journal itself, I know it may be truly said, it is wholly 
 unworthy of especial notice ;. and that such is the opinion of the 
 most intelligent of its readers, will scarcely admit of a question. I 
 know that ' to break a fly upon the wheel,' is not more unmerciful 
 than unnecessary ; but I am an English woman, and if only one 
 American could believe a Trollope or a Kemble, as belonging to 
 that estimable class, the ladies of my country, that fact alone 
 would justify me in the course I am pursuing. Let Fanny Kem- 
 ble stand alone ; let her be judged alone, and out of her own 
 lips. 
 
11 
 
 I pass over the mawkish sensibility with which she apostro- 
 phizes ' her EngUsh flowers, her dear Enghsh flowers,' and have 
 no objection to her journalizing the progress she makes in her 
 Bible cover, but perhaps a httle more to her expressed admiration 
 of Childe Harold — ^a work which in my happy country is not over- 
 prudlshly considered as unfit for a lady's reading. 
 
 We glean a little more, however, of the censor on American 
 manners, as we proceed : we are not much ecstacised, to use her own 
 expression, in her remark on fiimsy moraUtij, and begin to doubt 
 the propriety of her deportment in mixing with a party, ' dancing, 
 singing, and romping like mad things, on the quarter deck.' She 
 says, page 23, vol. 1 — 
 
 ' It was Saturday holyday on board ship ; the men were all dismissed 
 to their grog. We of the petticoats adjourned to the gentlemen's cabin, 
 to druik "Sweethearts and Wives," accordhig to the approved sailor's 
 practice.' 
 
 From this we should be naturally led to infer that the journalist 
 was not a member of a temperance society, to say the least. 
 She continues — 
 
 'It made me sad to hear them, as they lifled their glasses to their lips, 
 pass roimd the toast " Sweethearts and Wives." I diaiik, ki my heai-t, 
 home and dear H. — ' 
 
 She concludes this bacchanalian scene — one, to which we be- 
 lieve a lady, English or American, is very little accustomed — with 
 the follow ing remark, which I extract without comment : 
 
 ' They sang a song or tsvo, and at hcelve we left them to their medita- 
 tions, which presently readied our ears in the sound, not shape, of 
 "Health to Bacchus," m full chorus, to which tune I said my prayers.^ 
 
 The following day was the Sabbath. She says, page 22, 
 vol. 1 — ' I breakfasted, and then amused myself with finding 
 the lessons, collects, and psalms for the whole ship's company.' 
 She expatiates prettily on the sublime effect of prayers offered up 
 at sea. 
 
 ' The bright, cloudless sky and glorious sea seemed to respond, in their 
 silent magnificence, to our Te Deum, I felt more of the e,\citement 
 
12 
 
 of prayer than I have knoAvii for many a day, and 't was good, oh very 
 good ! * * * * After prayers, \vi-ote journal.' 
 
 And then she concludes her Sabbath, after expressing herself 
 in a vein which would do honor to her feelings, if they were 
 so excited, according to the following chilling sentence, by an act 
 of the highest indelicacy : 
 
 'Came back to our gipsy encampment, where, by the hght of a lantern, 
 we sui)ped, and sang sundry scraps of old songs. At ten came to bed.' 
 
 We have another Saturday night's exhibition in page 41, vol. 1. 
 
 * Lord bless us ! What foul nonsense people do talk, and what much 
 fouler nonsense it is to answer them ! Got very sick, and lay on the 
 ground till dinner time ; went to tal)le, but withdrew again, while it was 
 yet in my power to do so gi-acefully. Lay on the Jloor all the evening, 
 singing for veiy sea sickness. Suddenly it occurred to me that it was our 
 last Saturday night on board ; whereupon I indited a song, to the time of 
 " To Ladies' eyes around Boys," and havmg duly instructed Mr. — " how 
 to speak the speech," we went to supper. Mr. — sung my song, and kept 
 my secret: the song was encored, and niy father innocently demanded the 
 author. I gave him a tremendous pinch, and looked very silly. — (Poor, 
 innocent, retirhig creature!) — Merit, like murder, will out; so I fancy that 
 when they drank the health of the author, the whole table was aware 
 of the genius that sat among them. Came to bed at about half past 
 twelve.' 
 
 I cannot possibly omit the song itself; it is a delicate morsel, 
 and so characteristic of the piety and the refinement of that 
 chaste and pure spirit which has so reluctantly yielded itself to 
 the improvement of the morals of the American ladies. It is 
 headed in the journal, ' Saturday Night Song.' 
 
 ' Come fill the can again, boys. 
 One parting glass, one parting glass ; 
 Ere we shall meet agaui, boys. 
 Long years may pass, long years may pass. 
 We '11 drink the gallant bark, boys, 
 That's borne us through, that 's borne us through, 
 Bright waves and billows dark, boys. 
 Our ship and crew, our ship and crew. 
 
 * We '11 drink those eyes that bright, boys, 
 With smiling ray, with smiling ray. 
 
13 
 
 Have shone like stars to light, boys, 
 
 Our wat'iy way, our wat'iy way. 
 
 We '11 drink our English home, boys, 
 
 Our father land, our father land, 
 
 And the shores to which we 're cQme, boys, 
 
 A sister strand, a sister strand.' 
 
 There is something singularly novel in a modern female bard of 
 ■song, presiding at a bacchanalian board, joining in the shout and 
 hurra of excited tipplers, and handing glasses round. But Fanny- 
 is speaking for herself — I will not interrupt her. I make no 
 comment, but my readers may. Still I must enter my protest 
 against the opinion, that anything in the shape of an English lady 
 would or could have been so seen. 
 
 These are the night orgies of a coming Sabbath ! consequently 
 we find Fanny, having shaken her tresses in the morning, again 
 engaged in ' tidying the cabin for prayers,' and ' looking out the 
 lessons.' She also 'wrote journal,' and 'spent some time in 
 seeing a couple of geese take a swim with strings tied to their 
 legs. After dinner, sat in my cabin some time ; walked on deck ; 
 when the gentlemen joined us, ive danced the sun down and the 
 moon up.^ But this is not all. This was to be the last Sunday 
 on ship-board ; and after the dance, on the evening of the day of 
 prayer, — but take it from Fanny's journal : 
 
 'The sky was like the jewel shop of angels ; I never saw such brilliant 
 stars, nor so deep an azure to hang them in. The moon was gi-own pow- 
 erful, and flooded the deck where we sat playing at blind man's huff, 
 magic music, and singing and talking of shore, till midnight — when we 
 came to bed.' 
 
 These extracts, selected from pages of rhapsody, wild without 
 much beauty ; rambling through politics and religion ; wandering 
 through the shallow mazes of poetry and philosophy, shallow 
 only in the cbannel in which they flowed ; will exhibit the singu- 
 lar mind of the intellectual Fanny, and that peculiar delicacy and 
 refinement of sentiment, qualifying her to become the censor of 
 the morals and the manners of the people among whom she was 
 going for a time to sojourn. 
 2 
 
14 
 
 I have no opportunity of getting at the context of this jour- 
 nal ; but what I have extracted, has been written by herself, 
 and of herself. And surely, it will not be denied, we could not 
 possibly obtain a better evidence of her manners and deportment. 
 A lady ! — why, a lady's maid, or a washer-woman, proverbial for 
 vulgarity, or the chamber maid at a public inn, even in hershame- 
 lessness, would have been ashamed of the public confession of her 
 night broils, and would never have dared to join in the dance or 
 blind man's buff, on the Sabbath eve. And this is the person to 
 write a book, and scare the immoral in America ! this is the wo- 
 man who, by the impurity of her own example, is to check the 
 current of immorality in others! Check — it can scarcely be 
 called checking, to reduce to her own standard ! 
 
 I might have extracted much more from this part of her 
 exquisite journal — breathing at times the most tender sensibility, 
 professing but without practising, and always at variance with 
 itself. But I trust I have done enough to show from her own 
 pen, that — to speak of her in the mildest terms we can connnand 
 — she was more masculine than feminine in her nature, and wholly 
 deficient in that chastened delicacy of conduct, which can alone 
 give a charm to woman, even in her beauty. 
 
 The scene changes. She arrives in New-York, a candidate for 
 public favor — the lion of the day — her den, the stage of the 
 Park theatre. The press, in the old and the new world, had 
 paved the way for her reception ; and in the excitement, it was 
 natural to suppose she would have many introductions to fashiona- 
 ble amateurs and lovers of tlie drama. 
 
 In London, Fanny had blazed the star of the night, and was 
 only in her meridian in the glare of the stage lights, in the tinsel 
 drapery of the scenic mantuamaker, and surrounded by all the 
 pomp and glitter of scenic arrangement. Her days were passed 
 in study of the mimic art, in rehearsals, and in the arrangement. of 
 her dresses. The dlurnallsts lavished forth their columned 
 praises, as of the news of tlie day; and her admirers, 'whose 
 admiration, limited to that of her pul)llc efforts, never dreampt of 
 disturbing the delectable Fanny in her private sphere, sought her 
 
% , r 
 
 15 
 
 at the box and pit prices of the theatre alone, and were content to 
 lavish their plaudits, and testify their approbation, in public. 
 
 It must have been a new scene to the actress, the homage that 
 was paid to her in private. In London, her privacy was never 
 invaded but by a few of her mother's old friends — a few of the 
 actors and professionals, composing the exclusive circle of the 
 drama. But in New- York, she found a warmth of heart and 
 desire of patronage, exhibiting itself in another form. She found 
 the great and the good — the merchant, the senator, the man of 
 taste, and the lady of condition — forgetting what was due to 
 themselves, in the honest nature of that free constitution, which 
 sheds a glow over all their actions, even to a fault. She found 
 them all uniting in a hospitable welcome of the talented stranger; 
 and she thus speaks of it, page 50, vol. 1 : 
 
 'I liave been in a snlky fit half the day, because people will keep walk- 
 ing in and out of our room without leave or license, which is commg 
 a gi'eat deal too soon to hope's idea of heaven.' 
 
 There are many passages similar to this pervading the volumes 
 of the journal ; but as they were probably written at the time 
 merely for the purpose of producing on effect on the other side of 
 the water, against her return to the Covent Garden boards, 
 which she must at that time have contemplated, I forbear to 
 extract them, as wholly useless and unnecessary to my purpose. 
 Indeed Fanny Kemble has furnished us with enough of matter, 
 and I only regret that there is so little to commend, so much to 
 disparage both the head and the heart. 
 
 A great deal of slip-slop follo\\ s ; a great deal of the affectation 
 of refinement, of abuse and ill feeling. She views New- York 
 with a prejudice which could have been produced only by com- 
 munion with a Trollope herself. But the impertinence of the 
 following passage, from page 54, vol. I — the impertinence, to say 
 tlie least of it — can scarcely be exceeded, and is not paralleled in 
 the libels of any one of the junta of writers on American 
 manners : 
 
 'I do not know how it is to be accounted for, but in spite of much 
 lighter duties, every article of dress, particularly sillis, embroideries, and 
 
16 
 
 all French manufactures, are more expensive here than m England. The 
 extravagance of the American women, in this jjart of their expenditure, 
 is, considering the average fortunes of this country, quite extraordinary. 
 They never walk in the streets but m the most sho^vy and extreme 
 toilette ; and I have known twenty, forty, and sixty dollars paid for a bon- 
 net to wear in a morning samiter up Broadway.' 
 
 But, by the bye, this extract, properly read, will show at one 
 glance, how very little Fanny Kemble is familiar with the haul 
 ton in London. The Broadway is the fashionable promenade of 
 the belles of New-York, in the same degree as Bond street or 
 Regent street is of the fashionables of the metropolis. Nothing 
 can exceed the profusion or costliness of dress, as exhibited in 
 the fashionable season, in these streets ; but impertinence has 
 never yet inquired into the means by which that profusion has 
 been sustained. 
 
 At page 59, vol. 1, the re/?«efZ journalist says: 
 
 'The roughness and want of refinement, which is legitimately com- 
 plamed of in this country, is often, however, mitigated by instances of 
 civility, which would not be found commonly elsewhere. As I have 
 noticed above, the demeanor of men towards women in the streets, is infi- 
 nitely more courteous here than with us. Women can walk too, with 
 perfect safety, by themselves, either in New-York, Philadelpliia, or Boston. 
 On board tlie steamboats, no person sits down to table until the ladies are 
 accommodated with seats ; and I have mj^selfj in church, benefitted by the 
 civility of men who have left their pew, and stood during the whole ser- 
 vice m order to afford me room.' 
 
 Hey-day ! — Why, this is an astounding admission, and I should 
 really fear the men were getting into Fanny's favor. But no, 
 no ; this is merely one of Fanny's voluntaries, which she forgot, 
 m her eagerness to print, to expunge from her veracious journal. 
 But, in the following twenty-four or five pages, the plot thickens, 
 and Fanny's miseries are approaching to a climax. She does not 
 live, but rather vegetates, at a miserable hotel, called the Ameri- 
 can ! — a house which, in the estimation of some persons — such 
 v\tlgar personages, to wit, as the British Charge d'Affairs, or 
 Ambassador to the States — might be considered decent enough ; 
 but which, in the estimation of the inimitable actress, is scarcely 
 endurable. Her rooms were slovenly — tlie table cloth at dinner 
 
Yjrtif. 
 
 
 17 
 
 patched — the provisions miserably cooked, and worse served — the 
 waiters low Irish, and, what is worse, the wines — oh ye gods and 
 goddesses ! — the wines were scarcely tolerable, and only half 
 iced ! She attempts to console herself by reading a canto in 
 
 Dante. But oh, the misery ! IMr. lends her a volmne of 
 
 ' Bryant's poetry,' which she did not like half so well as her own. 
 And then she ' read a sort of satirical burlesque, by Halleck, 
 called Fanny,' which she did not like half so well as herself In 
 page 81, vol. 1, however, she summons her philosophy to her res- 
 cue, and pours forth her thoughts in the following pleasing and 
 unassuming strain. The reader will be delighted with that 
 charming diffidence with which she speaks of her feelings and of 
 herself, and will commiserate with her situation. What can be 
 more afflicting, than that one so highly gifted sliould be degraded 
 to a communion with a most degenerate race of people — that is, 
 the Americans themselves — who may be said to vegetate like 
 cabbages, and to be equally insensible of their situation. But 
 perhaps some snarl will respond — ■ 
 
 ' Where ignorance is bliss, 't were folly to be wise.' 
 Now listen to Fanny : 
 
 ' These peo})le are happy — their wants are satisfied, their desires fulfilled 
 — their caj)acities of enjoyment meet Avith full employment — they are well 
 fed, well clothed, Avell housed. Blodcrate labor ensures them all this, and 
 leaves them leisure for such recreations as they are cajiable of enjoying. 
 But now IS IT AviTH ME? aiul I mean not me myself alone, but all who, 
 xiKE MYSELF, liave reccived a higher degree of intellectuai, culti- 
 VATio\, whose estimate of hapj)iness is therefore so much higher, Avhose 
 capacity for enjoyment is so much more expanded and cultivated. Can I 
 be satisfietl with a race m a cu-cular rail-road car, or a swing between the 
 line trees ? ' 
 
 This is truly great. I could laugh, as Fanny says, into very 
 fits ; for I cannot forget, for the life of me, the intdlectiial game 
 of blind man's buff, on the deck of the Pacific, &ic. &:c. But 
 Fanny is now in one of her musing moods, and we must even let 
 her proceed. 
 
 * Where are my peculiar objects of pleasure and recreation ? Where 
 are the picture galleries ' — (Has Fanny ever seen Peter Parley's Picture 
 *2 
 

 18 
 
 magazine?) — 'the sculptures — the works of art and science — the countless 
 wonders of human ingenuity and skill — the cultivated and refined society — 
 the intercourse with men — (Oh fie, Fanny !) — of genius, literature, scientific 
 knowledge — where are all the sources from which I am to draw my 
 recreations ? They are not.' 
 
 Oh dire calamity — unutterable woe ! Fanny says, they are 
 not ! Sad, sad truth ! How tenderly do I feel for her ! No 
 pictures — no sculpture — nothing, nothing but that boorish thing, 
 content, which a high degree of mental cultivation would natur- 
 ally feel ashamed of; nothing — nothing, but the good humor and 
 smihng faces, indicative of a half civilized state of society ; a 
 state which the poetry of the mind sentimental cordially abhors. 
 Poor Fanny ! — but she pursues the delicate strain of intellectual 
 refinement in a higher tone of philosophy, as follows : 
 
 ' The heart of a philanthropist may indeed be satisfied, but the intellec- 
 tual man feels a dearth that is mexpressibly jminful ; and in spite of the 
 real and great pleasui-e which I derived from the sight of so much enjoy- 
 ment, I could not help desiring that enjoyment of another order were 
 combined with it. Perhaps the two are incompatible ; if so, I would not 
 alter the present state of things if I could.' 
 
 Amiable, sympathizing journalist ! we cannot but condole with 
 thee, in thy etherial nature, and thy sad condition, toiling thy 
 weary way with such unphilosophical things as these unintellectual 
 Americans ; who cannot comprehend the sweets of melancholy 
 — who know nothing of the imaginative properties of the subli- 
 mated mind ; but who, in the grossness of their appetite for vulgar 
 enjoyments, court the shades of Hoboken for recreation and ruder 
 health — or float in steamers on the Hudson — or in some rail-road 
 car, darting with the rapidity of the wind, fly fi-om the summer 
 sun's meridian ray, to some retreat long favored, some love whis- 
 pering shade or woodland height — or where the glassy stream, 
 springing from the bosom of a lake, s\veeps its wild course along 
 the rocky ledge, and falls with impetuous roar into some deep 
 abyss below ; — this, this is freedom : — wild as nature's self, the poor 
 American pants for its enjoyment. And I really think, my dear 
 Fanny, we had better leave them to their irrational enjoyments. 
 These are their pictures. Nature has sculptured their wild rocks 
 
19 
 
 entirely to their taste ; and I believe it would be quite impossible 
 to amalgamate your etherialized nature with their more earthly 
 substance ! Poor Fanny ! 
 
 Page 87, vol. 1. — We find her again among the Hottentots^ 
 She is invited to a private dinner party r 
 
 * This is one of the first houses here. So I conchide that I am to con- 
 sider what I see as a toleralile sample of the ways and manners of being, 
 doing, and suffering of the best society hi New- York. There were about 
 twenty people ; the women were in a sort of French denii-toilette, with 
 bare necks and long sleeves, heads frizzed out after the very last petit 
 courier, and thread net handkerchiefs and capes, &c. &c.' 
 
 This part of Fanny's journal was addressed to her near relative, 
 the mantuamaker ! 
 
 'The dimier was plenteous, and tolerably well dressed — (better dressed 
 than the women,) — but ill served: and we had neither water glasses nor 
 finger glasses — (but there were wine glasses.) Now, though I do n't eat 
 with my fingers, except peaches — whereat I think the aborigines — (I had 
 no idea before that she was dmmg with the Indians)— who were paruig 
 theu-s like so many potatoes, seemed rather amazed — yet do I hold a finger 
 glass, at the conclusion of my dinner, a requisite to comfort. After din- 
 ner we had coffee, but no tea, whereat my English taste was in high 
 dudgeon.' 
 
 The only consolation that can be offered Fanny, under such 
 sufferings is — the publication of her excellent journal will certainly 
 terminate tlie probability of their recurrence. 
 
 Page 99, vol. 1. — We come to a startling paragraph. What 
 can it mean ? 
 
 ' the latter asked us to dinner to-morrow, to meet Dr. , who, 
 
 poor man, dares neither go to the play nor call upon us ; so strict are the 
 good people liei-e about the heJiaviour of their pastors and masters.' 
 
 What ! — can this be so ? Do we hear aright ? Do we read 
 
 aright ? What ! — the worthy and Rev. Dr. not permitted 
 
 by his unruly congregation, to behold his delectable Fanny, in all 
 her glory, on the stage ! — not permitted to enjoy her charming 
 society at her hotel ! — but he must be sneaked in and sneaked out, 
 like Falstaff in a buck basket ! Shocking — shocking— our very 
 nerves shake again at the startling truth ; and yet the very placid 
 
20 
 
 manner in which Fanny pens the passage, induces us to believe 
 tliat it did not so shake her nerves. She views it passively, in 
 the light of an ordinary occurrence — the leaven of the old world 
 imported into the new. 
 
 1 must confess my surprise that our transcendant heroine of the 
 sock and buskin, has not expressed to us her indignation, and in 
 terms not measured but severe — I say, her indignation — at the 
 puritanic conduct of this not priesl-led but priest-leading congre- 
 gation. But I beg pardon — I am wrong in terms ; I should have 
 said mobocratic congregation ! — this unspiritualized, uncivilized 
 mob ! — and then I should have felt ' ecstaciscd,' in the smooth and 
 tender flow of those exquisite strains of commiseration, which she 
 could so delightfully have poured forth, in bewailing the unhappy, 
 the hard fate, of her dear, her spiritualized doctor. But, in the 
 felicitous language of cur lovely journalist, ' Murder will out,' the 
 'cat will jamp,' — and we ourselves, in spite of all our efforts to 
 the contrary, must be again serious. 
 
 I am delighted with the passage in her journal, and I wish 
 I could transfer it to these pages in letters of burnished gold, 
 bright and refulgent as the sun itself — that, in New- York, was to 
 be found a congregation, bold enough to restrain a play-going 
 pastor, virtuous enough to resist encroachments on the pure path 
 of faithfulness, and w ho would not submit to the contamination of 
 the hailotry of the stage. But let us echo back to Fanny Kem- 
 ble, in her retirement, that such congregations as these are not 
 peculiar to New- York — that they are wide spread over this vast 
 western hemisphere. They are to be found a\ herever the voice 
 of Christianity lifts itself up In praises — \\'hercvcr the name of the 
 Lord is poured forth In thankfulness, for gieat, ])ure, and well 
 enjoyed blessings. The dazzled few may have flickered around 
 her hke the vain moth, tempting the burning light of the gorgeous 
 lamps in wliosc meridian she has existed ; but the number, as 
 compared with the vastness of the population, is limited to the 
 smallest standard. The young, the gay, the ardent — in their 
 reckless search for novelty, careering in imaginary pleasures — will 
 flock to wherever folly holds her court, wherever her cap and 
 bells are heard : but these are no more to be considered a standard 
 
21 
 
 of manners and society in America, than the journahst herself will 
 be considered a fair standard of the morals and manners of the 
 ladies of England — the country which has given her birth — the 
 country which will feel itself iiot honored by her claims. 
 
 The stage is Fanny's home. From the stage she draws all her 
 sentimentality — all her fine and chastened feelings — all her ex- 
 quisite sensitiveness of decency and decorum. She expatiates 
 fluently on American manners ; and as an example of the school 
 in which she has been taught, I will favor my reader with the fol- 
 lowing extract from the journal of the admirer of ' blind man's 
 buff,' and ' magic music,' on the ship's deck. 
 
 Pages 107-108, vol. 1 : 
 
 ' In the parting scene — oh what a scene it was ! — instead of going away 
 from nie Avlien lie said " Farewell forever," he stuck to my skirts, though 
 in the same breath that I adjiu-ed him, in the words of my part, not to 
 leave me, I added, aside, " Get away from me, oh rfo." When I exclaimed, 
 " Not one kiss at partmg," he kept embracing and kissing me like mad ; 
 and when I ought to have been pursuing him, and calling after him, 
 " Leave thy dagger with me," he hung himself up against the wing, and re- 
 mauied dangling there for five minutes. I was half crazy ! and the good 
 people sat and swallowed it all. They deserved it — -by my troth they did. 
 I prompted him constantly ; and once, after struggling in vain to free my- 
 self from liun, was obliged, in the middle of my part, to exclaim — "You 
 hurt me dreadfidly, Mr. Kep})le." He clung to me — cramped me — 
 crumpled me di'eadfully,' &c. &c. to the end of the chapter. 
 
 Now I ask, is it possible to contemplate such a scene as this, 
 without our expressing the strongest feelings of disgust for a pro- 
 fession, which is to be publicly sustained by the exhibition of so 
 much of licentiousness ? Can we entertain a respectful opinion 
 of a female, so devoid of good taste, as to blazon forth in the 
 pages of her journal, a passage so devoid of all interest, and only 
 to be noticed in its grossness ? 
 
 Is there an American father, that could stand by the wings of a 
 theatre, and see his child so treated ? Would he not spurn a pro- 
 fession, in the practice of which it became necessary ? Is there a 
 brother who would endure it ? — No — no. 
 
 Thanks to that difRision of useful knowledge, now rapidly 
 spreading over the two hemispheres, England and America — 
 
22 
 
 thanks to that fine and moral feehng which is now glowing under 
 its influence — the stage is falling to that state from whence it 
 sprung, when freemen would have bluslied at mixing in its mum- 
 meries, and slaves were the only actors. 
 
 In the old country, the stage has long since lost its charm, 
 and the two great theatres, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, 
 have invariably ruined their managers and proprietors. Thousands 
 of pounds are annually lost in these miserable speculations. The 
 play-going public ' is no more ' — to use the favorite expression of 
 Fanny Kenible. The proprietors of Drury Lane lost a sum ex- 
 ceeding half a million of dollars, in the course of a few years, and 
 were obliged to solicit donations to enable them to let it to EUiston, 
 the actor. This unfortunate man and his creditors sustained losses 
 in three years, amounting to about one hundred and fifty thousand 
 dollars. Mr. Stephen Price, his successor, also sustained a loss, 
 in two years, of about fifty thousand dollars : and Captain Polhill, 
 a man of fashion and fortune, tempted by notoriety, also sustained 
 a loss of about one hundred thousand dollars — while Covent 
 Garden was struggling with the same adversity, and was finally 
 involved in the same ruin. But more of this hereafter. 
 
 Fanny exemplifies this state of things to be little better in 
 America, in the follo\\'ing note to page 113, vol. 1 : 
 
 ' It is fortunate for tlie managers of tlie Parf\ Tfieatre, and very unfor- 
 tunate for the citizens of New- York, that the audiences wlio frequent that 
 pface of entertainment, are cMeJly composed of the strangers who are con- 
 stantly iiassing in vast numbei's tln-ough tliis city. It is not wortli the 
 while of the management to pay a good conii)any, when an indifferent 
 one answers the pinpose fully as well. The system upon which theatrical 
 speculations are conducted in this country is, haviiig one or two "stars" 
 for the principal characters, and nine or ten sticks for all the rest. The 
 consequence is, that a play is never decently acted, — (I think so too) — and 
 at such times as " stars " are scarce, the houses are very deservedly empty. 
 The terrestrial andienccs suffer much by this mode of getting up ])lays ; 
 but the celestial performers, the stars, propped ujion sticks, infinitely 
 more.' 
 
 We may add, by way of note to this note, that it affords us 
 great pleasure to hear that these stars, or celestials, are occasionally 
 scarce ; and shall be infinitely more so, when we hear, in very 
 verity, that these lamplight luminaries have ' fallen, to rise no more.' 
 
23 
 
 My reader will be as little interested as I am myself, I believe, 
 in Fanny's breakfasting, or Fanny's horsemanship. Still, how- 
 ever, in the full developement of Fanny in America, it may be 
 necessary I should do justice to her excellence in the latter art. 
 Fanny can tell you, in a short canter, whether her horse has been 
 broken by a snaffle or a curb. She can tell his age by his teeth ; 
 and if you furnish her with the name of his dam or sire, she will 
 go through his pedigree with all the fidelity of a Yorkshire jockey. 
 We notice this merely ' en passant,' as another of the accomplish- 
 ments of our admirable female Crichton. 
 
 In proof of the society Fanny kept in the old world, and in 
 illustration of the state of society in America which she does not 
 approve of, we turn to page 117, vol, 1, where we find the fol- 
 lowing passage : 
 
 ' It seems that the blespefl people here were shocked at my having to 
 hear the coarseness of Farquhar's Inconstant. Humbug ! ' 
 
 Fanny says, ' Humbug ! ' — and in an elaborate note, not worth the 
 reading, on any account, justifies that gross immorality of the 
 writer of the Inconstant, which has been invariably condemned 
 by every author on the drama, and which has finally driven his 
 dramas from the stage. 
 
 Why then the purity of the young mind, and tlie blush drawn 
 upon the cheek of modesty, by licentiousness, is humbug ! Well, 
 in the name of morality, let it be so ; let our clerical monitors 
 preach of it as a charm lending to woman loveliness — and may it 
 long, long continue to prevail. 
 
 But where did Fanny learn that little w'ord, that expressive 
 item in the vulgar tongue, not to be found even in a chamber- 
 maid's vocabulary — humbug ? 
 
 Is there, in the old country, a society, from the garret to the 
 kitchen, under a roof with a moderate claim to respectability — is 
 there, I ask her, one circle, wiiere such a word, so made use of, 
 could have been used with impunity ? Fanny may have acquired 
 it in the stable, but certainly nowhere else ; and she would not 
 have dared to make use of it, even in the green room of the Park 
 Theatre : but in her journal — it is hardly worthy of comment. 
 
S4 
 
 I really begin to be tired of Fanny, and the task I have un- 
 dertaken ; but I have undertaken it — and if the patience of my 
 reader begins to weary with my own, I must even beg his indul- 
 gence ; for I cannot but proceed with that delicate olla jpodrida, 
 tlie Journal. 
 
 In page 123, we find Fanny at the Richmond Hill Theatre, 
 expatiating on the performances of the Italian operatic company. 
 The opera, we presume, was serious ; for she says, ' I had much 
 ado not to laugh-:' and in another place, she declares herself so 
 overpowered that ' she gave herself up as lost.' She is very apt 
 in her similes, and likens two of the performers to ' two blue bot- 
 tles.' She becomes gigglingly severe on the poor Italians, who, 
 like herself, had left their own country to obtain American patron- 
 age and American dollars as their reward : probably with this 
 especial difference only, that they were grateful for public favor, 
 but little inclined to treachery, and as little disposed to calumny. 
 
 Fanny leaves the American Hotel for Philadelphia ; and as a 
 caution to all future travellers, denounces the house as inferior in 
 accommodation, and infinitely superior to all others, in the costli- 
 ness of their charges. She gives you the price of their wines, 
 and their quality, from champaigne down to humble port ; and in- 
 deed, proves herself well qualified to ofier an intelligent opinion 
 on the subject. 
 
 She muses most eloquently on board the steam boat ; gives a 
 thorough geographical description of the bays and rivers on the 
 route, is in good humor with everything on board, and delicately 
 admits that the ' breakfast was good, and served and eaten with 
 decency enough.' 
 
 There are some redeeming points about Fanny, at last, not- 
 withstanding all that may be said ; and she goes a great way in 
 her admission that the passengers on board a steam boat may per- 
 chance eat their breakfast, if not with the polished grace and 
 manner of a London exquisite, at least with decency. 
 
 She reads Combe on Phrenology ; and by comparing the bumps 
 on her own head, which she feels diligently, begins to doubt the 
 truth of his system. 
 
25 
 
 Bat unhappily her miseries too promptly return, and the sweet- 
 ness of her temper is ruffled, by the rude and boorish manners 
 and contrivances of the Hottentot people, with whom it is her 
 fate to continue. We find in page 130, vol. 1, that, 
 
 ' At about half past ten, we reached the place where we leave the river, 
 to proceed across a part of tlie State of New^-Jersey, to the Delaware. 
 The lauding was beyond measure w^retched ; the shore shelved down to 
 the water's edge ; and its marshy, clayey, sticky soil, rendered doubly soft 
 and squashy by the damp weather, was strewed over with broken pot- 
 sherds, stones and bricks, by way of pathway ; these, however, presently 
 failed, and some slippery planks, half immersed m mud, were the only 
 roads to the coaches, that stood ready to receive the passengers of the 
 steam boat.' 
 
 This is truly a slippery piece of business ; but I should like to 
 recall to Fanny's recollection the several stairs, as they are called, 
 lining the river Thames, in the old country. It is presumed — 
 and there can be no doubt of the fact — that Fanny is very famil- 
 iar with Billingsgate : but as this place is well known to be fre- 
 quented by a class of ladies, with whom perhaps Fanny would 
 not like to be considered familiar — and I think so, because I have 
 never heard of one of tliem being concerned in ivriting a book, 
 and indeed I have never heard of any of them being educated to 
 the vulgar practice of reading one — I will therefore take her a 
 little farther westward, and drop her at odoriferous Hungerford, 
 where her delicate olfactories have often been regaled by the 
 steams exhaling from pyramids of foetid vegetables, consuming in 
 the rapid march of putrescent decay. I will take her to those 
 ' yellow sands,' where, strewed v.ith the refuse of the piscatory 
 tribe, whose bones dissolving to the action of the tide, and ming- 
 Ihig with the manes of what once were cats — but ' are not ' — and 
 dogs, whose sad and melancholy fate is elegied in ' the rope tied 
 ketde to his tail.' Ah, Fanny, I will take you to the sweets of 
 Hungerford, on the Thames ; and 1 think, upon a little reflection, 
 you may be brought to endure a landing on the Jerseys, from 
 a New-York steamer. — But Fanny breaks forth again : 
 
 * Oh these coaches ! English eye hath not seen, English ear hath not 
 heard, nor hath it entered uito the heart of an Englishman to conceive, 
 3 
 
26 
 
 the surpassing clumsiness and Avretchedness of these leathern inconven- 
 iences.' 
 
 There must have been some sad remissness somewhere, and 
 it appears truly shocking that those bones which had escaped 
 the crumpling of Mr. Kepple, should have been so soon exposed 
 to the danger of crushing, in these miserable vehicles. Is it to be 
 borne, that a queen by descent — we had almost forgotten in our 
 democracy how to spell the word, and had actually written it 
 quean, when we turned to the dictionary, and altered our orthog- 
 raphy — well, then — is it to be borne, or can it be believed, that 
 a queen by descent — a queen of the bowl and dagger by inheri- 
 tance — should be left to toil her way over a miserable landing, and 
 then in a more miserable carriage ? But let me whisper it in your 
 private ear : Hush, Fanny, hush — the truth is, these Americans 
 
 do n't like queans ' i'faith it 's writ ' — ' I could n't help it for the 
 
 life of me ' — ' there it stands,' orthography and all — so let it — 
 there 's no harm done. Fanny is merely imaginative and playful 
 in all she says. She does not spare her friend, and spoil her wit ; 
 and I have merely a touch of her condition. 
 
 Fanny proceeds in her journey : 
 
 ' Away walloped the four horses, trotting with their front, and ga!loj)ing 
 with their Imid legs; and away went nie after thehi, buni])ing, thumping, 
 jumping, jolting, shaking, tossing and tuml)li»g, over the wickedest road, 
 I do think, the crnelest, hard heartedest road, that ever wheel rumbled 
 upon — through bog, and marsh, and ruts, wider and deeper than any 
 cliristian ruts I ever saw,' &c. &c. 
 
 'Bones of me ! what a road. — Our coni])anions seemed nothing dis- 
 mayed l)y these wondrous performances of a coacJi and tour, but laughed 
 and talked incessantly, at the top of their voices, and'with tlie national na- 
 sal twang. The conversation was much of the genteel shopkeeper kind.' 
 
 Fanny doubtless thanks her stars, that none of her family were 
 shopkeepers. We beg leave to testify to that fact, in verification 
 of which we will anon subjoin Fanny's genealogy, paternal and 
 maternal. She continues — 
 
 'The wit of the ladies, and the gallantry of the gentlemen, savouring 
 strongly iy^ ta]ies and yard measures, and the shrieks of laughter of the 
 whole set, enough to drive one to phreuzy.' 
 
27 
 
 Fanny concludes the passage with a beautiful allusion, not more 
 estimable for the pertinency of its wit, than its own natural ease. 
 She declares, that altogether, ' 't was enough to bother a rook- 
 ery ! ' 
 
 The journalist, on her return to the steamer, takes dudgeon on 
 finding ' a white dress, put on fresh in the morning, covered with 
 tobacco stains.' This perhaps is a custom better observed in the 
 breach than in the practice. But Fanny, not at all familiar with 
 the use of tobacco — and this I verily believe — takes the alarm. 
 Spitting is, in her country, a symbol of contempt, and she natur- 
 ally enough applies its practice as aimed at her profession ! 
 
 She likes Philadelphia — its red bricks, its grave streets, its neat 
 theatre, — but halt ; we are going too far. We should indeed 
 prove ourselves unskilful dramatists, if we should anticipate, so 
 early in the play, our highly wrought denouement. Heigho for a 
 husband ! 
 
 Fanny sips the sweets of every flower, and stores her prodigious 
 mind with gleanings of every sort. She astonishes us with the 
 extent of her erudition. 
 
 On Chemistry, she is a Sir Humphrey Davy in petticoats. 
 
 In Philosophy, she could read a lecture that would astound a 
 Newton, a Bacon, or a Boyle. 
 
 In Belles Lettres, she would demonstrate the incapacity of 
 a Blair. 
 
 In Religion, she is prepared to affirm the truths of Pagan 
 theology, and to prove that Mahomet was no impostor. 
 
 In Morals, she refutes Gisborne, Paley, and Porteus ; and 
 estabhshes the creed of a Byron, a Farquhar, a Shelly, and a 
 Moore ; and proves to demonstration that all the rest is ' hum- 
 bug!' 
 
 In Optics, she would dazzle a Brewster; and satisfactorily 
 proves that it is only a visular defect, by which we fancy we see 
 the difference between a mountain and a mole-hill ; and by a pe- 
 culiarly felicitous figure of speech, she demonstrates it — by sinking 
 the mountain to the mole-hill, and elevating the mole-hill to the 
 mountain. 
 
28 
 
 In Geology, she establishes a new doctrine — one entirely her 
 own — by which she can discern the antiquity of America, from 
 the venerable wrinkles on its face. 
 
 In Navigation, she is nothing deficient. 
 
 On Attraction, she is profound ; and in her own surprising 
 success, she fully establishes the perfectability of her system. 
 She draws an essential distinction between attraction and gravita- 
 tion, and deduces the latter by numerous prostrations on the floor ! 
 
 In Poetry, she excells — herself ! 
 
 In Drama, she proves that Shakspeare is only secondary to the 
 author of Francis the First, and infinitely superior to all other 
 writers. 
 
 In Acting, she never mentions an O'Niel ; and admits that her 
 paternal aunt Siddons may have approached to her own excel- 
 lence. 
 
 The Mechanic, is a vulgar art, to which neither herself or her 
 family have any pretensions ; and altogether sinks her maternal 
 gi-andfather, who was so well known as a theatrical barber. 
 
 In Botany, she is learned as Linnaeus ; and, we are told, has 
 actually lectured on vegetable medicine to the profound founder of 
 the Thomsonian school of physic, and Drs. Morrison and IVIoat, 
 who have obtained their diplomas from the college of her founda- 
 tion ; and no other. 
 
 In Linguistry, she is a travelling lexicon ; and is about to 
 publish a commentary on Dr.. Johnson and Webster's dictionaries, 
 with numerous corrections and additions, and an essay on ' hum- 
 bugoino; ! ' 
 
 In Riding, Hunting, and in Farriery, Fanny is perfectly 
 unrivalled — either by Gambado on horsemanship, Beckford, in 
 his treatise on hunting, or Taplin, in his compendium of farriery. 
 
 To the Noble Art of Self Defence, no one will doubt her 
 pretensions ; but it is unknown, at present, whether she most 
 favors the art of fencing, as practised by Angelo, or Franca 
 Lanza ; and equally so, her preference to the old pugilistic school 
 of ' Jem Belcher,' or the more modern one of ' Tom Crib ' and 
 ' Tom Spring.' We know her father favors the latter. 
 
29 
 
 Fanny expatiates largely on the wonderful talents of her 
 father, and is somewhat indignant at the coldness, apathy, and 
 want of taste in an American audience, which cannot appreciate 
 his excellence ; and by that amazing faculty of memory, which 
 can expand or contract itself to suit the occasion, she forgets all of 
 o]3inion formed at home. Fanny's memory is bounded by the 
 wave that rolls between the old and the new world. But the 
 Americans, unhappily, with every effort made to the contrary, 
 were not to be humb have mercy on me — I had almost forgot- 
 ten myself. 
 
 Now, who, in the name of patience, ever heard of Charles 
 Kemble as a star 1 Who, among the warmest of his admirers, 
 ever attempted to lift him above the rank of a third rate per- 
 former ? When he became manager, indeed, by the death of his 
 brother, he did elevate himself to the first order. But what en- 
 sued ? Bankruptcy ! ruin ! The stage, which had sustained a 
 reputation, during the period of a Siddons, and a John Kemble, 
 fell with their retirement, and became degraded to the mummery 
 of bufibons, and in the unendurable draA\ lings of the pretender. 
 Charles Kemble played all the principal characters in the national 
 drama to a London audience — no, we are wrong — to empty 
 benches, and, what is worse, to an empty treasury. 
 
 Fanny would willingly trace the ruin brought on Covent Gar- 
 den theatre to other causes ; but she is obliged to draw forth a re- 
 luctant admission of the death of the drama in England, in her 
 note to page 144, vol. 1, where she says — 
 
 ' Indeed theatres have had an end ; for the refined, the highly educated, 
 the first classes of society — they have had an end.' 
 
 And we most heartily respond — among the same classes in 
 America — the refined, the highly cultivated, the moral and intel- 
 lectual — the theatres have had an end. 
 
 Fanny lifts herself, however, into raptures when speaking of her 
 father's acting, and reminds one of the saying — ' See how we 
 apples swim.' But really, my dear Fanny, your labor is all in 
 vain. I know you laugh in your sleeve at the thought of what 
 will be said of it in the old country, and in your extravagant love 
 *3 
 
30 
 
 of fun, enjoy the joke. But it will not do here, in America — even 
 among the play-goers at the Park. I like that passage, marvel- 
 lously well, wherein you say — page 148, vol. 1, 
 
 'There is one thing hi which I do not believe my father ever has been, 
 or ever will be excelled : his high and nol>le bearing, his gallant, graceful, 
 courteous dei)ortnient ; his perfect good breeding on the stage ; ' — (Why 
 confine yonrself in your remark, Fanny ? — why not say, on or off the stage ?) 
 — ' mimarked alilce by any peculiarity of time, place, or self — except pe- 
 culiar grace and beauty. He appears to me the beau ideal of the cotntly, 
 thorough bred, chivalrous gentleman, from the days of the admirable 
 Crighton, down to those of George the Fourth.' 
 
 Bah ! bah ! Fanny — bah ! You will be laughed at for this 
 specimen of extravagance ; and your readers, comparing the fol- 
 lowing extract with this passage, will supply the reason for you, 
 of limiting his high deportment and gentlemanly demeanor, to its 
 exercise on the stage. But they will have great difficulty in 
 reconciling themselves to the line of conduct he was at the time 
 proposing, and which you, in your great kindness, have so very 
 properly exposed. — Page 20, vol. 2 : 
 
 'As we walked doAvn Market street, through the long ranges of casks, 
 the only creatures stirring, except some melancholy, night-loving cat, my 
 father said, very calmly — "How I do wish I had a gimlet." — "What for?" 
 — " What fun it would be to jjierce every one of these barrels." For a 
 gentleman of his years, (somewhat aj)proaching sixty-five) this appeared 
 to me rather a juvenile prompting of Satan ; and as I laughingly expostu- 
 lated on the wickedness of such a proceedmg, he replied, with much in- 
 nocence — " I do n't tliink they 'd ever suspect me of having done it." And 
 truly I do n't think they would. Came home and to bed. That was a 
 curious fancy of. my father's.' 
 
 And would you believe it, Fanny — for I can hardly expect you 
 would believe anything so monstrous, even of the Americans — 
 would you believe it — these vulgar, ignorant people, wholly igno- 
 rant of iliose glorious days of Tom and Jerryism in London, when 
 to break watchmen's heads and lamps was delightful quixotism ; 
 would you believe it — these demented Americans, with their new- 
 fangled notions of honor, propriety, and all that — have, from the 
 first appearance of your admirable journal, up to the present day, 
 set down your noble father, in their own bewildered and unreason- 
 
31 
 
 ing minds, as — as — what, Fanny, what ? — as no better than he 
 ought to be. I feared to offend your dehcacy, by repeating to 
 you the expressions I have heard made use of But they talk 
 strangely ; and what is worse, some of our old country folks agree 
 with them. 
 
 What a pity we cannot follow our exquisite journalist through 
 all her musings ; and that n\ e cannot afford space sufficient to 
 chronicle all her muslin and gold — her silver tissue — or how she 
 looked, or how she spoke, or how she acted, or how she rode at 
 the riding school, on things called horses in America : 
 
 ' How they did Avallop and sliainl)le aliout ; poor, half broken, dumb 
 brutes! they knew no better;' — (says the pityhig journahst) — 'and as the 
 natives here are quite satisfied witli tlieir sliutflhisi", rollicking, mongrel 
 pace, half trot, half canter, why, it is not worth while to break horses in a 
 christian-like manner for them. I found something that I think my father 
 can ride with tolerable comfort, but I must go again to-morrow and see 
 after something for myself.' 
 
 I must interpose, and say, I am very anxious to see Fanny's 
 new dictionary. I am literally dying for her definition and deriva- 
 tion of the t\\ o mouthful words, ' walloping ' and ' rollicking,' &;c. 
 &1C. By their sounding qualities, I should fancy they import a 
 great deal. I should imagine, when her definition appears, they 
 will become of frequent use, and highly fashionable in our nurse- 
 ries. 
 
 In page 154, vol. 1, I find her getting into tolerable good 
 humor with the Philadelphian press. A gentleman connected 
 with one of the journals, calls, and she says, ' He pleased me.' 
 This mood leads her to the follow ing passage, in a note, penned 
 in compliment to the ' intelligent young man : ' 
 
 'Except where they have been made political tools, newspaper writers 
 and editors have never, I beheve, been admitted mto good society in Eng- 
 land. It is otherwise here ; newsi)apers are the main literature of Amer- 
 ica ; and I have frequently heard it quoted, as a proof of a man's abilities, 
 that he writes in such and such a newsjjaper.' 
 
 Fanny, I am ashamed of you ! I am ashamed of you, I say 
 again. What ! — could you not pay a compliment to this ' intelli- 
 gent young man,' without disparaging the rank and condition of 
 
32 
 
 his brethren in the old country ? ' By my troth,' Fanny — and I 
 feel my wrath rising again — I feel ashamed of you. 
 
 When I took up your journal, I was very angry. As I pro- 
 ceeded, I waxed a little cooler and better tempered; and so I pro- 
 gressed, until at length I sat myself down quite tranquil and easy, 
 and — but now I feel my choler rising at your ingratitude, which I 
 call base. 
 
 Let me ask you, Fanny, where would you have been now, if it 
 had not been for these ' penny a liners,' as they are facetiously 
 called at home ? What would have been the fate of your beau 
 ideal of chivalric grace and manly beauty — of polished manners, 
 and the quartan George deportment — your father, Fanny — your 
 father ? What would have been his doom, but for the chivalric 
 spirit of these ' penny a liners ? ' When the jaws of a prison 
 were open to receive him — vv hen your poor mother's elbows were 
 once more bared to return to the wash tub — and you, Fanny, you, 
 were revolving your employment — for you knew your future 
 bread was to depend on the labor of your own hands — these 
 men, whose intercourse with, and admission into society, was at all 
 times of a higher character than your own, or that of your family — • 
 these men, with a generous warmth, doing more honor to their 
 hearts than to their heads, rushed forward to your rescue. The 
 Siddons and the Kemble, whom they had all remembered in the 
 fulness of their fame, was the watchword of their enthusiasm. 
 
 In private circles they spoke of you as the child of promise, 
 while yet your mother's tuition was preparing you for the stage ; 
 and in public, they spoke of your youth, your virtues, and your 
 fihal affection. They told of your love of retirement, of your 
 modest and unassuming nature ; they proclaimed aloud your aver- 
 sion to the profession of an actor, a profession which you had not 
 sought, but which you had embraced as of necessity ; thus yield- 
 ing up all of yourself for the support of your family. 
 
 So they wrought, Fanny, until they had raised the strongest 
 excitement, the strongest interest in your fivor ; and if, on your 
 first appearance, sustained as you was by your father, and your 
 mother, who after an absence of years, returned to the stage for that 
 night only ; if you had but spoJce your part of Juliet, and walked 
 
33 
 
 through its scenes with ordinary grace ; no one, Fanny, could 
 have had the heart to withhold applause from one^ if not excel- 
 ling, at least apparently so deserving. 
 
 But you did better; under the excellent tuition of your mother, 
 who had moulded you to the part, — your mother, whose name 
 never crosses the pages of your journa], — you did better! 
 
 Your mother, Fanny, was incomparably the best melo-dramatic 
 actress of her day ; and in the opinion of many who remember 
 her, has never been equalled on the boards of the metropolitan 
 theatres. 
 
 Your father, Fanny, is entirely indebted to her, for the little of 
 celebrity which he has obtained in his profession. When he 
 married her, he was but a poor player ; and all the influence of 
 tlie Kemble name, could not procure for him any other than very 
 ordinary parts. 
 
 But you, Fanny, you owe everything, as an actor, to your 
 mother ; everything of fame, to the gentlemen of the diurnal 
 press. After your first appearance, these, your warm, zealous, 
 and disinterested friends, \\ ho had no other interest in you than 
 tliat of building up your house for you, which had fallen in — 
 they still continued to plead for your youth, for your inexperience, 
 and passionately pourtra}'ed the circumstances under \\ hich you 
 had stepped forth, a candidate for public fame. Their appeals 
 were so continuous, their praises so incessant, their admiration of 
 filial tenderness and duty was expressed with such a passionate 
 feehng, tliat ringing tlie changes with each day, in their devotion 
 to the cause, the public flocked to the hitherto deserted theatre, 
 to patronize the modest child, in the discharge of her duty to her 
 parents ; and the stage, in its decay, brightened up again. Criti- 
 cism was disarmed — and you were made. 
 
 But the time had arrived when these adventitious means could 
 no longer sustain you ; the blaze of your fame had faded ; criti- 
 cism awoke from its slumbers, and Fanny Kemble was reduced to 
 the chagrin of playing to empty benches. It is tlie fate, the fate 
 of all, who have not the substantial marks of genius about them. 
 
 Thus you soon discovered that novelty is but a short-lived 
 passport, after all. Genius, true genius, alone remains to occupy 
 
34 
 
 the niche of fame. Not even a new tragedy from your pen, 
 (which, by the by, Fanny, was but a poor performance,) could 
 sustain you before the pubhc. Well, let us pursue our veritable 
 history, and trace you to America ! where you have gleaned the 
 richest harvest, and in the shortest time. 
 
 You entered into an engagement with Mr. Stephen Price : 
 how that was managed between you, your father and him, it is 
 Dot necessary to detail. It is enough for the purpose, to state the 
 bare fact. My object is, to strip you of a little of your vanity, by 
 a few striking truths, and of a nature to imprint deep the blush of 
 shame, where shame ought to be felt. 
 
 The same diurnalists who had trumpeted forth your praises in 
 England, who had elevated you to a station to which you was not 
 only unequal, but of which, I greatly fear, you was wholly un- 
 deserving, served your cause also in America. Their elaborate 
 praise had passed the broad waters of the Atlantic, and you fol- 
 lowed, ere the sounds began to fade away. 
 
 You arrived. You was generously, warmly, enthusiastically re- 
 ceived ; not more for your histrionic art, than for the numerous 
 virtues you were said to possess. Play-goers were delighted in 
 tlie prospect of seeing what is termed, the legitimate drama per- 
 formed with legitimate effect ; while the great and good, in the 
 benevolence of their nature, were warmed to believe that even 
 the stage could show virtue, moral excellence, and the refinement 
 of intellect and delicacy, combined. 
 
 I know of many persons, tempted to the boxes of the theatre 
 to witness your performances, whom no other circumstances could 
 attract to its threshold. They united in their patronage of you ; 
 all, all united ; and I think you must admit, you made more 
 money among them, than you did at home. To be sure, you 
 will say, you earned it. Well, perhaps you did ; but for my part, 
 I must disagree with you. Upon my word, Fanny — and I say it 
 with the greatest respect for your feelings — I cannot believe that 
 a piece of base metal made to resemble a dollar, although it may 
 pass current for a dollar, is a dollar, after all ; and indeed, I am 
 so stupidly blind to conviction, that I shall continue to be of the 
 same opinion, in spite of all argument. 
 
35 
 
 Now you know, my dear Fanny, if your dollars were not of a 
 stealing quality, (you understand my meaning,) theirs were ; and it 
 seems to be straining the point rather severely, when you pocket 
 their money abundantly, in the first instance, and then cliarge them 
 two dollars extra, to laugh' at their credulity in your journal, in the 
 second. Some persons might be illiberal enough to think this not 
 exactly fair ; for myself, I abstain from offering my opinion. It is 
 but a question of dollars, after all ; and you, my dear Fanny, have 
 them fast enough in your good keeping, and I doubt not, know 
 well how to take care of them. 
 
 However, I really do think, Fanny, I should have impeached 
 my own common honesty, while my pride, of which you affect a 
 very large portion, would have been perfectly prostrated, by re- 
 maining among such an antediluvian set as you describe in page 
 161, vol. 1 ; and I declare I should feel so little salisfiction in 
 their money, that I should literally have accused myself of pick- 
 ing their pockets, when pocketing their dollars. 
 
 ' Tlie dignified and gracefid interest which married women, among us, 
 exercise over the tone of manners, uniting the duties of liome to the 
 charms of social life, and bearing at once, lilve the orange tree^beautiful 
 simile!) — the fair fruits of maturity with the blossoms of their spring, is 
 utterly imknown here.' 
 
 I dare say this is a very beautiful, and only a just compliment 
 to English wives ; but what does it mean? let us inquire a little 
 further. She continues — ■ 
 
 'Married women are either house drudges and nurseiy maids, or, if 
 they appear m society, comparative cyphers ; and the retiring, modest, 
 youthful bearing, which, among us, distinguishes girls of fil^een or six- 
 teen, is equally unknown. ■ Society is entirely led by chits, who, in Eng- 
 land, would be sitting behind a pinafore ; the consequence is, it has 
 neither the elegance, refinement nor the propriety which belongs to ours ; 
 but is a noisy, racketty, vulgar congregation of flirtuig bojs and girls, 
 without style or decorum.' , 
 
 Hav^ pity on me, what a miserable state of society is this ! 
 And is it possible, that I can have been actually Uiixing for 
 so long a period of time with American females, and with so 
 little of penetration, as not to have discovered this before? 
 
36 
 
 ■* Mention it not in Gath,' that I could have been so blind, 
 or so obtuse ; and yet, methinks I have been more happy in my 
 blindness than I probably may feel in my sudden restoration to 
 sight, by the inspirations of the luminous journal. 
 
 ' Oh, who that sees all this, can say that this life is other than 
 «ad — most sad ' — says Fanny ; and I declare I was so affected 
 while writing the passage, that I was obliged to dismiss my 
 pocket handkerchief, moistened by my sadness, and send it to 
 the wash, after only a week's wear. I find grief expen- 
 sive. 
 
 But who can look upon this passage, and not feel for the 
 moral and mental degradation of the ladies in America. By the 
 "by, Fanny, make a memorandum of the hint I give you ; I am 
 quite sure if you would employ your chaste and sublime pen in 
 the production of a new tragedy, for the Covent Garden boards, 
 tinder the title of ' Woman's Woe, or the Blue Beards in 
 America,' it would be a great hit. It would run the whole sea- 
 son ; and you would actually make more money than by your in- 
 comparable journal. 
 
 I would run a crusade against these men fellows, these Chris- 
 tian Turks, for the fault must lay with them. I would enlist the 
 ladies of Europe in this so moral cause ; I would marshal my 
 forces, and give commands to ladies of approved character and 
 publicity I reserving to yourself the rank of Commander in Chief. 
 I think Mrs. Trollope might be entrusted with the rank of Briga- 
 dier General : — but I am quite sure Madame Vestris ; Miss Love, 
 late Mrs. Granby Calcraft, now Mrs. — ; Miss Foote, late — , 
 and — , and — , and now the Countess of Harrington ; Mrs. 
 Waylett ; Mrs. Orger — and a whole corps dramatique, whom you 
 and I could name, Fanny, if we pleased — I am quite sure they 
 would behave themselves well as generals ; and if, by their efforts, 
 they did not jicrfectly revolutionize manners in America, it would 
 not be their fault. 
 
 They would assert the cause of freedom — that freedom they 
 }iave so long enjoyed ! The ridiculous bashfulness, the insipid 
 modesty, the freezing coldness of the young ladies, chilling the 
 very life blood of mind and enterprize, would fly before their 
 
S7 
 
 banners ; and like the unwholesome exhalations of the swamps 
 and marshes, which some of them breathe upon the Schuylkill, 
 they would evaporate in the warm glow of their united and be- 
 nevolent intellectuality. There, Fanny ! what do you think of 
 that ? there 's a simile for you ! 
 
 Now really, I find myself burning with ardor in the cause of fe- 
 male reform. But who, Fanny, who will you appoint as your 
 Secretary at War ? I have been revolving this question seriously 
 in myself, and am as much puzzled as a Peele in the appoint- 
 ment of his cabinet, or a Melbourne in selecting from the 
 numerous greedy applicants for office. But your acquaint- 
 ance with the many will enable you to get over a difficulty which 
 merely to myself alone, would prove a great one. 
 
 I am delighted with the idea of one of your despatches ; and 
 can imasiine it almost in the followintr words: 
 
 'On the fourth day of July, being the anniversary of American 
 Independence, having previously established our head quarters at 
 Bunker Hill, and perfected our first line of circumvallation round 
 the city of Boston, we opened our fire at daybreak, playing 
 ' Blue Bonnets over the Border.' General Vestris commanded 
 the advance. General Waylett the right wing, and General Har- 
 rington, late Foote, the left. General Granby Calcraft I posted 
 in the rear. Our fire was returned rather briskly by the enemy ; 
 but General Vestris, with great coolness, preserved her ground, 
 although held in check, by a brisk cannonading from the enemy's 
 forts on Fort Hill : whereupon I ordered General Orger to ad- 
 vance, with the park of artillery under her command, and the 
 forts were soon silenced. The troops performed prodigies of 
 valor ! General Waylett had some severe fighting, and sustained 
 some loss; but nothing could exceed the ardor of her detachment. 
 They made capture of several field pieces, took several standards, 
 and forced a passage to the Tremont Theatre, routing the enemy 
 in every direction. Our standard now waves upon the stage, and 
 several ladies have thrown themselves upon our protection ; all 
 from the neighborhood of Ann and Broad streets. The city, it is 
 expected, will capitulate before night. 
 4 
 
38 
 
 By advices just received by an over-land despatch, it appears 
 the city of New York has surrendered at discretion to the arms 
 of Brigadier General Trollope, It appears the city of Philadel- 
 phia still holds out. 
 
 At our Head Quarters, Bunker Hill. 
 
 FRANCES ANNE, Commander-in-chieC 
 
 P. S. We are now making up our lists of killed, wounded and 
 missing, which I shall forward, with a correct detail of our move- 
 ments. The loss of the enemy is very considerable ! ' 
 
 Charming, charming, Fanny ; would not that be charming ! 
 
 But mercy on me — what is this I see ? On turning to page 
 183, vol. 1, I find the following passage, which casts a mel- 
 ancholy doubt upon your sincerity and truth — or exhibits you 
 the victim of ungovernable passions, or spirited in the shallow 
 meanness of disappointed vanity. 
 
 ' At six went to the theatre. The house was very good ; play, " Much 
 ado about Nothhig." I played well ; — but what an audience it is ! I liave 
 been often recommended, in case of nervousness on the stage, to consider 
 the audience as just so many cabbages ; — and mdeed a small stretch of 
 fancy would enable me to do so here.' 
 
 What ! — marshal out battalions, under illustrious leaders, to res- 
 cue cabbages? My very soul smote me with indignation. Can 
 anything be more preposterous than the idea of crusading, not for 
 the purpose of recovering a lost land, but of restoring to liberty, 
 a mere cabbage race of creatures, not more sensible of their own 
 degradation, than of good acting? The idea is preposterous. 
 Oh Fanny ! — you have brushed away a good deal of tlie silver 
 dew which hung about their vegetating trunks, and wcU lined 
 your own ! There leave them — there leave them — for what on 
 earth else can they be fit for ? 
 
 But the passage continues ; and breaking into another strain, 
 concludes thus : 
 
 ' Colonel supjied with us. Found an invitation to dinner from 
 
 the . One exception makes a rule, says the scliolar; by that 
 
 same token, therefore, the Philadelphians are about the most inhospitable 
 set of people it ever was my good fortune to fall in with.' 
 
39 
 
 These few words, Fanny, these few words, and the conviction 
 they carry with them to the mind of your reader, have expunged 
 from my heart all of that enthusiasm with which you had inspired 
 me, — all of that zeal for female liberty which you had created in 
 my bosom. I had said to myself, the high-minded, the illustrious 
 Fanny, she who is creating a name imperishable in the shock of 
 ages ! a fame which time itself cannot destroy ! — she spurns the 
 cabbage-headed society of the United States, and soars above the 
 dull communion with a mere vegetative nature ! — Fanny ! the 
 sparkling and etherial essence of champaigne ! floating in the re- 
 gions of romance, breathing the inspired airs playing about the 
 cap of Parnassus, and sipping the mountain dews distilled, that 
 fall into the heliconian springs ! — (by the by, I do not mean the 
 mountain dew, so called by the Scotch and Irish, anglice, whis- 
 key ; 1 mean, if not a stronger, at least a purer hquor) — the il- 
 lustrious and etherialized Fanny disdains an intercourse with mere 
 earthiness ! — in the mild and unbounded benevolence of that na- 
 ture, which soars above all of human meanness, she pities ; she 
 does not condemn, but deplores ! — These were my feelings, these 
 were the sublimated thoughts of my bosom ; — but ah ! vanity of 
 vanities, how have they been chilled-^how frozen ! — ' saddest of 
 sadness, ah, how sad ! ' They have vanished, they have conge- 
 lated, in the nipping frost of that terrible passage I have just 
 quoted, and which tells me, in language too intelligible to be mis- 
 taken, that Fanny panted after the mere earthiness of society in 
 Philadelphia — and panted, alas, in vain ! — that all her blandish- 
 ments, all her charms, her poetry upon the Schuylkill, her un- 
 equalled horsemanship, her jockey cap, her silver tissue and her 
 Bible cover, her white muslin dresses and her flowers, her dear 
 flowers ! her wheedling tongue of sweetest flattery, and her wit — 
 were all in vain — in vain ! 
 
 The cold and freezing nature of the nurse mothers, and the 
 forward chits, of Philadelphia, could not be moved ! and, O 
 Shame, where is thy blush ! Fanny, Fanny, the poet philosopher, 
 is indignant on being repelled, and shows more of that earthiness 
 of our nature than is the fair proportion of the many. She shows 
 an angry spirit, the fretfulness of mortified vanity ; she exhibits a 
 
40 
 
 keen appetite for the table of ' married house dradges,' and ' flht- 
 ing chits;' and the 'married nursery maids' close the doors 
 against her, and the ' tlirting chits ' will not accept her as of their 
 party. The gall rises — the sj)leen circulates — the pulse is high — 
 the brain is heated — her ' intellectuality ' is overthrown — and all of 
 her etherialized nature flies, like the effervescence of her favorite 
 champaigne, on the drawing of the cork. The monomania rages. 
 She flies to her pen, which she would fain render keen as her 
 own poignant feelings ; but blunts it in her over-heat. She dips 
 it in ink, not half so galled or dark as her own blood in its fever- 
 ishness. 
 
 I cannot omit the note to page 184, vol. 1. It flows in a 
 smooth, melancholy strain of heart-breaking pathos, and subdued • 
 feeling, and is speaking of the finest gentleman of the age I 
 
 'I am sure there is no toAvii in Eiu'ope, where my father could fix his 
 residence for a Aveek, witliout being inniiediately found out by most of the 
 residents of any hterary acquirements, or knowleflge of matters relating 
 to art. I am sure that neither in France, Italy, or Germany, could he take 
 up his abode in any city, without immediately being sought by those best 
 woi'th knowing in it. I confess it surprised me, therefore, when I found 
 that, during a month's residence in Philadelphia, scarcely a creature came 
 near us, and but one house was hospitably opened to us. As re- 
 gards myself, I have no inclination Avhatever to sjieak upon the subject ; 
 but it gave me something lilce a feeling of contempt, not only for the char- 
 ities, but for the good taste of the Philadelphians, when I fomid them 
 careless and indifferent towards one. tvhose name alone is a passport into 
 every refined and cultivated society in Europe.^ 
 
 The deep feeling conveyed, and the exquisite modesty which 
 pervades the whole of this passage from the journal, is so mani- 
 fest, that I may spare myself the pains of enlarging upon its pun- 
 gency or its force. Some persons might be disposed to say, that 
 Fanny was wrong in her position — that the Philadelphians were 
 not altogether deficient in their perception. They might say, that 
 they — the Philadelphians — had found him out ; and it might 
 have furnished the cause of their apathy. These poor people 
 read, too — and are most mortifyingly familiar with almost all the 
 literary and scientific institutions in Europe ; but they could not 
 find enrolled, among either the one or the other of them, th^ 
 name of the finest gentleman of the age. 
 
41 
 
 They have declared that they cannot find the name of Charles 
 Kemble enrolled among the members of any one of the numerous 
 literary and scientific institutions of his country — that they have 
 never seen it exhibited, but in play bills and theatrical critiques ; 
 and hence have inferred, in the absence of such testimony of 
 claim, that he was not entitled to those distinctions, which they 
 could not withhold under other circumstances. 
 
 They have claimed also for themselves the equal privilege of 
 inviting whom they please to their table ; and the right of select- 
 ing their companions and associates, without incurring displeasure : 
 and indeed it would be hard, if, in a free country, they could not 
 exercise the rights of their own fireside — those rights w Inch are 
 the pride of John Bull himself. 
 
 I must confess it amuses me — the pretensions of the actor to 
 be the leader of the ton, or the object of the veneration of 
 science, the arts, and of literature. And the world will think 
 they have found the spirit of the journal in the disappointment 
 engendered by such oversights as these. 
 
 Fanny wanders by moonlight on the banks of the Schuylkill, 
 alone, or only accompanied by her father. Slie becomes enthusi- 
 astic in solitude, and pours forth her night strains in melancholy 
 sweetness. But her pensiveness is like the song of the caged 
 bird, longing to be free. Fanny was not formed for solitariness. 
 She visits Baltimore professionally — she goes to Washington, and, 
 admiring Jackson, almost dejjlores that her unfortunate petticoats 
 preclude her from a seat in Congress. 
 
 She visits two or three parties, apparently not to her taste. 
 But, why does she visit them ? — will be the natural enquiry. At 
 one of these she says, page 40, vol. 2 — 
 
 'The men take brandy in a way that would astound people of any 
 respectability in England ; and ui this, as well as many other ways, con- 
 tribute to assist the enervating effect of their climate.' 
 
 Here follows an elaborate note upon the vice of drinking, which 
 we shall take extracts from, inasmuch as it will afford us an oppor- 
 tunity of introducing a very beautiful ballad, which we have na 
 doubt will be greatly admired, and become a general favorite — « 
 *4 
 
42 
 
 Note, page 40, vol. 2. — ' Tlie time of locking doors at gentlemen's din- ' 
 ner parties, and drinking till the company dropped one by one under the 
 table, has, with the equally disgusting habit of spitting about the floors, 
 long vanished in England before a more rational hospitality, and a better 
 understandrng of the very first rule of good breeding — not to do that 
 which is to offend others.' 
 
 I must pause in my transcript, to answer Fanny a question, by 
 asking one ; and that is — Have you ever dined at what is well un- 
 derstood to be a gentleman's dinner party ? If you have, what in 
 the name of decency brought you there ? For myself, I declare 
 my utter inability in answering the supposed fact. I have always 
 understood this to be the substantial charge of the American 
 against English manners ; and, in very seriousness, 1 have found 
 this to be the truth. I have never, I can positively assert, I have 
 never found American gentlemen even disposed to sit a moderate 
 time after dinner ; and in my own country, I have never, even in 
 the most elegant and abstemious of society over the bottle, found 
 so much of decorum as I have met with even in ordinary society 
 in the States. She continues with her note — 
 
 ' Our gentlemen have leamt to consider hard drinking, gross drinking, 
 ungentlemanly. I wish I could say the same of American gentlemen. 
 The quantity and quality of their potations are as destructive of every- 
 thing like refinement of palate, as detrimental to their health. Americans 
 are, generally speaking, the very worst judges of wine m the world, 
 always excepting Madeh-a, which they have in very great perfection, and 
 is the only wine of which they are tolerable judges. One reason of their 
 ignorance ujjon this subject, is the extremely indifferent quality of the for- 
 eign wines imported liere ; and a still more powerful reason is the total 
 loss of all niceness of taste, consequent upon their continued swallowing 
 of mint juleps, gin slings, brandy cocktails, and a thousand strong messes, 
 which they take even before breakfast, and inditTerently at all hours of tlie 
 day — a practice as gross in taste as injurious in health.' 
 
 While copying the above extract, I was called down to see a 
 gentleman, on business ; and I found my help had ushered into 
 the parlor an Irish gentleman, who had done me the honor of 
 waiting on me, understanding I stood in need of a smart, active 
 gentleman, to clean knives and turn up my sods in the garden. 
 His breath was hot and foetid as a rum cask, and I was actually 
 
43 
 
 obliged to throw open my window for a purer atmosphere than 
 that to be found in the confines of my room. I soon dismissed 
 my gentleman! — and, I 'd lay my life, the innocent Fanny has 
 gained all her knowledge of American manners from these free 
 and easy gentlemen of Erin, who feel themselves peculiarly at 
 home in the genial land of liberty. 
 
 From 'grave to gay, from lively to severe,' is the happy talent 
 of the journalist ; and I avail myself of one of her pleasantries, 
 that liveliness and wit with which she intersperses her volumes, 
 to relieve my readers from the dull slanders which are delivered 
 in a graver tone. 
 
 The ballad which I here introduce, is full of that pure and 
 jovial liveliness which I discover in her Saturday Night at Sea 
 song. I fear my readers will search for it in vain, entire, as I 
 give it, in the volumes of her journal. I imagine it has been can- 
 celled, as the printers would say, to give place to alterations, 
 which, in my mind, are no improvement on the original. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 [See page 119, vol. 2.*] 
 
 The maiden, she stood at the clear spring head. 
 
 Her beau on the other side ; 
 Now stretch me your otvn f,doved hand, she said, 
 
 For I must mount and ride, 
 
 This wahoping, roUicking, staggering prad, f 
 
 Tliis l)roken down unbroken grey ; 
 For the sun hatli sunk, and my heart is glad — 
 
 So mount and away, away. 
 
 But give me that kiss you foolishly took, 
 As you played with my nut-brown hair ; 
 
 * This ballad in the shape in which it is here presented to the reader, is not contained in the 
 journal ; but it is evidently a plagiary on the one published. 1 am not at liberty to account for 
 the manner in which it came to my hands ; and 1 am equally at a loss to discover which of the 
 two is the original. But the lines which bear the immediate impress of the writer, I have 
 marked in italics. — Ed. 
 
 t The author means ahorse peculiar to America. The description of his qualities is perhaps 
 ambiguously detailed to those who are ignorant of tnrms of art j but to the erudite stable boy 
 and jockey, it is peculiarly felicitous in its dignity and force. 
 
44 
 
 'T is Keppel's to-night, and if stolen at the brook, 
 He will act in a vein of despair.* 
 
 To-morrow 't is yours as a matter of right, 
 
 When we' ve stood at the altar stone ; 
 But give it I pray — I shall want it to-night — 
 
 To-morrow 't is all your own. f 
 
 And the kiss was returned, and away they sped, 
 
 A rollicking on the road ; 
 A walloping, galloping, on they fled. 
 
 Through the beech and biixhen wood. 
 
 And the butler stood with the glass in his hand. 
 
 And she said, ' What is that, I pray ? ' 
 — ' 'T is a glass of champaigne, with the anchor brand, | 
 
 And bottled tliis many a day.' 
 
 * O butler, I pr' thee now give to me, 
 A glass, to drown my sorrow ; || 
 Come, here 's " Sweethearts and JFives," and merry we '11 be, 
 For I must be wedded to-morrow.' 
 
 And the butler he rose, and the butler he spoke, 
 
 With juice of the ripe grape glowing ; 
 He thought they believed him — they thought he but joked. 
 
 With heart like his cup overflowing. § 
 
 But he vowed and he swore that the maiden fair. 
 
 Should soon be his own lady bride — 
 Come Aveal, come wo — with her bonny brown hair ; 
 
 And the maiden consentingly sighed. 
 
 * There is something peculiarly chaste, manifest in claiming the return of a propertj', whicli 
 she felt at the time was not hers to give, and which it appears liad been illicitly obtained. 
 
 f How beautifully the author illustrates her correct knowledge of the ' meum et tuum ' — and 
 how tenderly and pathetically she concludes her stanza, will he felt and admitted by every reader 
 of taste and judgement. 
 
 J The 'anchor brand,' it is presumed, is meant to convey an idea of the quality of the wine — 
 the anchor brand being presumed the best. Who the butler is, we know not — but we suppose 
 him to be a superior order of the ' helps ' in a genteel family. 
 
 II This sorrow must have reference to the kiss, so pathetically alluded to in a former stanza. It 
 could have reference to nothing else, as must appear by the lines following. 
 
 §The connection of tliis butler with the author or heroine of the ballad, would indeed puzzle 
 the most learned of commentators. We can hardly imagine the author dining wrih servants in 
 the kitchen. The following stanza, however, developes him more fully, and his claimi to a 
 higher consideration than that which could with propriety be extended to amere butler. 
 
45 
 
 ' Now butler, dear butler, pray potter no more, 
 You 've pottei'ed enough for to-night ; 
 So fill up your glass — for that i)Otteruig 's a bore, 
 And the wine is invitingly bright.' 
 
 They sat at the feast, and the young elect bride , 
 
 Red wine in the goblet poured — 
 *l!iow pledge me a health, kind sir, she cried, 
 My husband and my lord.'' 
 
 The cup to his lips he had scarcely prest, 
 
 When he, gasping, the wine overthrew; 
 He hiccoughed, ' Enough' — sunk his head on his breast. 
 
 And hiccoughed — ' To Fanny the true.' * 
 
 The lamps they burnt dim, the lamps they burnt out. 
 
 But the fair one still stuck to the table ; 
 While he rollicked and turned him about and about, 
 
 Crymg — 'bear me away to the stable.' f 
 
 It most provokingly occurs, that the amiable actress, in her 
 penchant for small talk, let slip, upon one occasion, a little of that 
 twaddle, or pottering, or by whatever name it be called, which so 
 distinguishes her journal. She had declared viva voce, to an in- 
 telligent young American, her dislike, both of the country and 
 the people. This ^^ as not enough. Indeed, if she had confined 
 herself merely to expressions of dislike, it would have been of 
 small importance. But it was surcharged with an angry bitter- 
 ness, and a repudiation of character, such as that we find in her 
 journal, and which, naturally enough, fired the indignation of her 
 auditor, and in his opinion, demanded an apology. The young 
 enthusiast, alive to all of his country, warm, impetuous and over- 
 sensitive, in what reflected on the character of his countrywomen, 
 with more of spirit than judgement, retailed the conversation, and 
 
 ♦These stanzas are t}ie very model of perfection, in their symmetry and delicate feeling. The 
 tender influence she has over him, is beautifully expressed in the line—' Pledge me a health,' &c. 
 and his hiccoughing ' To Fanny the true,' shows clearly that, ' even to the death,' his love is up- 
 permost, although he might be under the table. 
 
 t Now whether the author meant to convey to the reader her own predilection for the stable, or 
 whether she thought, under the circumstances, it was the fittest place for her hero, is uncertain. 
 But, in either sense, ' it is good, very good,' as the journalist would say. The denouement ia 
 brought about most fitly, most happily — and the moral conclusion is one, which could not fail to 
 ho drawn by every reader. 
 
46 
 
 demanded explanation — not of Fanny, but of her father, who was 
 equally implicated. 
 
 An elderly gentleman calls upon her father for this purpose, 
 with a note threatening, in the event of a refusal, that she should 
 be hissed off the stage. Fanny, upon being called upon to 
 recollect what had passed between herself and the young gen- 
 tleman in question, at first recollects nothing of the matter : at 
 length recovers herself, and adds in her journal, page 102, vol. 2 — 
 
 ' I longed to add, that any conversation between me and any other per- 
 son, was nobody's business but mine, or his, or hers ; and that the whole 
 tiling, on tlie part of the young gentleman concerned, was the greatest 
 piece of blackguardism, and that of the old gentleman concerned, the 
 gi-eatest piece of twaddle, that it Jiad ever been my good fortune to hear 
 of.' 
 
 On the stage, Kemble — who felt himself rather severely hand- 
 led by the galleries, while the box audience were passive, as view- 
 ing the ingratitude and meanness of the two actors, father and 
 daughter, too contemptible to he deserving of their interference — 
 declared the whole a base fabrication, got up for the purpose of 
 injuring his daughter and himself, in public estimation, and suc- 
 ceeded in fixing the slander upon the young gentleman himself. 
 
 This was not the first time Kemble had been called upon to de- 
 fend his amiable Fanny from the effects of her own love of slan- 
 derous conversation ; and being somewhat experienced in the 
 practice, his success was certain with those not at all intimate with 
 the character of the parties concerned. 
 
 On one occasion, in London, Kemble had to figure at the Bow 
 street police office, for one of the most brutal assaults, probably, 
 ever committed, on the person of Mr. Westmacott, the editor of 
 the Age newspaper, for his critical remarks on the inimitable 
 Fanny. 
 
 But the journal — the journal. Fanny has, most unintentionally 
 I admit, done justice to this young gentleman, in her journal 1 
 
 After the preceding pages were written, and while I was yet 
 pursuing the thread of my inquiry, a report reached my ears — of 
 the authority of which I could entertain no doubt, from the very 
 
47 
 
 respectable quarter whence it was derived, and as it has since been 
 fully confirmed, I shall give it to the reader substantially as I 
 received it. I need not add, it immediately put an end to my 
 labors. 
 
 On Saturday, the 2d day of May, in the 24th year of her 
 age, at the printing office of Gary, Lea and Blanchard, Booksel- 
 lers, Chesnut Street, Philadelphia, died the incomparable Fanny, 
 surviving the death of her favorite child, her journal, only a few 
 days. 
 
 This highly gifted lady, no less distinguished as a poet, a painter, 
 a musician, a philosopher, a phrenologist, — no less in metaphysics, 
 theology, and in practical and experimental chemistry, than in the 
 useful arts, — in farriery, pharmacy and gymnastics ; will be la- 
 mented so long as the record of her extraordinary powers shall 
 remain, and gratitude for the tender interest she took in reforming 
 the manners of society in America shall be felt. Liberal in her 
 opinions, sound and unbiassed in her judgment, she viewed the 
 world as formed for herself alone, and would have moulded it to 
 her o\\n likeness ; knowing in the purity of her own heart, and in 
 that inherent modesty which characterized her own public and 
 private deportment, that it was good ; that it was the point to 
 which excellence may attain, and no higher. 
 
 She had been for some time drooping, and it was feared while 
 correcting the proof sheets of her journal she would produce an 
 abortion, and that her own most valuable life would prove the 
 sacrifice. The event has justified the apprehension. 
 
 The following Elegy, said to be from the pen of an ardent 
 admirer, has not yet we believe appeared in print : we give it as 
 an elegant compliment to the memory of the deceased. 
 
 ELEGY ON FANNY. 
 
 Closed is the scene — the eventful Drama o'er, — 
 The curtain falls, and she is heard no more ; 
 The bowl is drained, the dagger flown, 
 The zest of all the Ton in town, 
 And that sweet form by Keppcl rumpled, 
 ; , In Death's stern grasp is rudely crumpled. 
 
48 
 
 Ah me ! the tearful muse in vain 
 Woos back her tragic child again ; 
 The Drama on her crutch appears, 
 Nor hopes to lengthen out her years : 
 And Trollope weeps, and Basil Hall, 
 The journalists — dechne and fall. 
 Sad — oh most sad ! the monster 's got 
 The child of art — and she ' is not.' 
 Sad, that the tyrant could not spare 
 A wit so shrewd, a lass so fair, 
 Pattern of modest worth and grace, 
 Last of the regal Kemble race ! 
 
 Who now th' unbroken grey shall ride, 
 Or musuig, on the Schuylkill glide ? 
 Or who shall ever taste agaui 
 The sparklmg, creaming, bright champaigne — 
 Nor fail to shed one sorrowing tear 
 For one who loved it ? — ah ! how dear I 
 Fanny, farewell ; your race is run — 
 Your journal's finished with your own : 
 But, ruthless monster, was it kind. 
 To leave no trace of her behuid ? 
 Armed by the cynic critic's wi-oth, 
 At one fell blo^v to level both ? 
 Famiy, ' tis pity, pity 't is, 't is true ; 
 Death has dealt harshly with your book and you. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 BY AN UNKNOWN HAND. 
 
 Here lies one who — never lied! 
 
 Save ^prostrate on the Jloor ; ' 
 So lying lived — she lying died ; 
 
 And lies — to rise no more. 
 
' DON JOHN.' 
 
 SnonDi ISHitim* 
 
 Two Shillings, 
 
 #-'• 
 
J. D. Dewick, Printer, 
 40, Barbican. 
 
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