Читать книгу Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble - Страница 15

Table of Contents

On soundings, and nearly off them again—a fine day;—worked at my nightcap—another, by the by, having finished one—exemplary!—Walked about, ate, drank, wrote journal—read some of it to the——, who seemed much gratified by my doing so. I go on with Byron's life. He is loo much of an egotist. I do not like him a bit the better for knowing his prose mind;—far from thinking it redeems any of the errors of his poetical man, I think I never read any thing professing to be a person's undisguised feelings and opinions, with so much heartlessness—so little goodness in it. His views of society are like his views of human nature; or rather, by the by, reverse the sentence, to prove the fallacy in judgment; and though his satire is keen and true, yet he is nothing but satirical—never, never serious and earnest, even with himself. Oh! I have a horror of that sneering devil of Goethe's; and he seems to me to have possessed Byron utterly. A curious thought, or rather a fantastical shadow of a thought, occurred to me to-day in reading a chapter in the Corinthians about the resurrection. I mean to be buried with H——'s ring on my finger; will it be there when I rise again?—What a question for the discussers of the needle's point controversy! My father read to us, this afternoon, part of one of Webster's speeches. It was very eloquent, but yet it did not fulfil my idea of perfect oratory—inasmuch as I thought it too pictorial:—there was too much scenery and decoration about it, to use the cant of my own trade;—there was too much effect, theatrical effect in it, from which Heaven defend me, for I do loathe it in its place, and fifty times worse out of it. Perhaps Webster's speaking is a good sample, in its own line, of the leaven wherewith these times are leavened. I mean only in its defects—for its merits are sterling, and therefore of all time.

But this oil and canvass style of thinking, writing, and speaking, is bad. I wish our age were more sculptural in its genius—though I have not the power in any thing to conform thereto, I have the grace to perceive its higher excellence: yet Milton was a sculptor, Shakspeare a painter. How do we get through that?—My reason for objecting to Webster's style—though the tears were in my eyes several times while my father read—is precisely the same as my reason for not altogether liking my father's reading—'tis slightly theatrical—something too much of passion, something too much of effect—but perhaps I am mistaken; for I do so abhor the slightest approach to the lamps and orange peel, that I had almost rather hear a "brazen candlestick turned on a wheel," than all the music of due emphasis and inflection, if allied to a theatrical manner.—Dined at table again. They abound in toasts, and, among others, gave "The friends we have left, and those we are going to!" My heart sank. I am going to no friend; and the "stranger," with which the Americans salute wayfarers through their land, is the only title I can claim amongst them. After dinner, walked about—danced—saw the sun sink in a bed of gorgeous stormy clouds;—worked and walked till bed-time.—I was considerably amused, and my English blood a little roused at a very good-natured and well-meant caution of Mr. ——, to avoid making an enemy of Colonel——. He is, they say, a party man, having influence which he may exert to our detriment.