after a successful Continental career as a singer, came out in "Norma" at Covent Garden, and for a season redeemed the waning features of the theatre. She left it on her marriage, and on Sept. 30, 1842,* Mrs. Kemble writes to Lady Dacre:

I went in the evening to hear my sister sing "Norma" for the last time, and cried most bitterly, and, moreover, thought exceedingly often of your ladyship; and why? I'll tell you; it was the last time she was to do it, and when I saw that grace and beauty and rare union of gifts, which were adapted to no other purpose half so well as to this of dramatic

representation; when I heard the voice of popular applause, that utterance of human sympathy, break at once simultaneously from all those human beings whose emotions she was swaying at her absolute will, my heart sank to think that this beautiful piece of art (for such it now is, and very near perfection), would be seen no more; that this rare power (a talent, as it verily then seemed to me, in the solemn sense of the word, and a precious one of its own kind) was about to be folded in a napkin, to bear interest no more, of profit or pleasure, to herself or others.

It is a matter of notoriety that her married life was not a happy one, and was brought to an untimely close by a legal separation of her seeking. The title of her book describing her visit to Italy, 1845-1846, is sufficiently indicative of her domestic relations and her state of mind as affected by them.* Straitened circumstances were added to her other causes of distress, and compelled, as she plainly states, to work for her livelihood, she resumed the profession she disliked under every imaginable disadvantage.

My father was giving readings from Shakespeare, and it was impossible for me to thrust my sickle into a field he was reaping so successfully. I therefore returned to the stage: under what disadvantageously altered circumstances it is needless to say.

A stout, middle-aged, not particularly goodlooking woman, such as I then was, is not a very attractive representative of Juliet or Julia; nor had I, in the retirement of nine years of private life, improved by study or experience my talent for acting, such as it was. I had hardly entered a theatre during all those wom-years, and my thoughts had as seldom reverted to anything connected with my former occupation. While losing, therefore, the few personal qualifications (of which the principal one was youth) I ever possessed for the younger heroines of the drama, I had gained none but age as a representative of its weightier female personages-Lady Macbeth, Queen Kathe

Adelaide Kemble was a charming an, overflowing with mind and sensibility. Apart from her theatrical performances, she sang ballads and songs of feeling in which full expression was to be given to the words, with more effect than any one of her contemporaries, except her cousin Mrs. Arkwright. But it is for connois-rine, etc. seurs to say whether Mrs. Kemble is not It is indeed difficult to imagine a more carried away by sisterly affection in plac- melancholy contrast than is presented by ing her, except in brilliancy of execution, her hopes and prospects when she embefore Sontag, Malibran, or Grisi, as a barked upon her professional career, lyrical dramatic artist, and in pronounc-"Youth at the prow and pleasure at the ing that Pasta was the only great singer helm," with her position and chances on who could be compared with her "in the her return to it. She was unable to come quality of that noble and commanding to a satisfactory arrangement with any order which distinguished them both." Rossini certainly said of Adelaide Kem"To sing as she does three things are needed: this " touching his fore: head, "this"-touching his throat, "and this"-laying his hand upon his heart"she had them all."

ble:

Mrs. Kemble was passionately fond of riding, which it would appear was not deemed a ladylike occupation or accomplishment at Philadelphia. It was disapproved by her husband's family, and, much against her will, her favorite horse was sold to a livery-stable keeper. I repurchased him by the publication of a small volume of poems, which thus proved themselves to me excellent verses." †

66

There is some mistake about the dates; the first appearance being dated Nov. 2, 1842. It was in 1841, and the last in 1843.

† Poems, by Frances Anne Butler (late Fanny Kem

London manager, and it was at the Manchester Theatre, on the 16th of February, 1846, that she made her reappearance in her favorite part of Julia in the "Hunckback." On the 17th she writes to Lady

Dacre:

I am so far satisfied with my last night's experiment, that I think it has proved that my strength will serve to go through this sort of labor for a couple of years; and I hope during that time, by moving from one place to another, that my attraction may hold out sufficiently to enable me to secure the small capital upon which I can contrive to live independently.

She says that the inevitable rouge had ble). London. Reprinted from the American edition. 1844. The book with the same title on which her deservedly high poetical reputation mainly rests was not published till 1866.

A Year of Consolation, by Mrs. Butler (late Fanny Kemble). London, 1847. Two volumes.

In February, 1848, she entered into an engagement with the manager of the Princess's Theatre: the three first parts assigned to her being Lady Macbeth, Queen Katharine, and Desdemona, which she acted in black and gold (the costume of the noble ladies of Venice) instead of the traditional white satin.

always been one of the minor disagree- | chants could not afford to treat themables of the theatre to her; but she now selves to both." found to her dismay that her "fair theatrical contemporaries fair though they might be "literally whitewashed their necks, shoulders, arms, and hands; a practice which she found it impossible to adopt. Vain was Henry Greville's indignant and by no means flattering expostulation, that what so beautiful a woman as Grisi condescended to do might be done by one who had no pretensions to compare with her in natural charms. "Ithe world but the catastrophe of poor Madame steadily refused to make a whited sepulchre of that description of myself, and continued to confront the public with my own skin, looking, probably, like a gipsy, or, when in proximity with any feminine coadjutor, like a bronze figure arm-in-arm with a plaster-of-Paris cast."

On the 23d, in a letter to Lady Dacre, she reports that the theatre is quite full when she plays, and that her employer can afford to pay her nightly salary without grudging. She is next at Birmingham and Liverpool, where "the houses were crammed." Then at Dublin, from which her reports are less favorable. On the 8th of April she took part in an amateur performance of Lord Ellesmere's translation of "Hernani."

That smothering scene, my dear Harriet, is most extremely horrible, and like nothing in de Praslin. I think I shall make a desperate fight of it, for I feel horridly at the idea of being murdered in my bed. The Desdemonas that I have seen, on the English stage, have always appeared to me to acquiesce with wonderful equanimity in their assassination. On the Italian stage they run for their lives round vini in the tragedy, I believe), clutching them their bedroom, Pasta in the opera (and Salfinally by the hair of the head, and then murdering them. The bedgown in which I had arrayed Desdemona for the night would hardly have admitted of this flight round the stage; besides that Shakespeare's text gives no hint of any such attempted escape on poor Desdemona's part; but I did think I should like not to be murdered, and therefore, at the last, got up on my knees on my bed, and threw my arms tight round Othello's neck (having previously warned Mr. Macready, and begged his pardon for the liberty), that being my notion of the poor creature's last appeal for mercy.

Macready was not so pliant on other occasions, and she complains bitterly of his waywardness, want of temper, and total forgetfulness of others in his eager.

Mr. Craven was again the hero, as I the heroine, of the piece, but the part of Don Carlos was filled by Henry Greville, and that of the old Spanish noble by Mr. John Forster. It was upon this performance that Mr. Macready passed such annihilating condemnation, not even excepting from his damnatory sentence of total incapacity his friend and ad-ness for self-display. mirer, John Forster, whose mode of delivering the part of Don Ruez bore ludicrous witness to Macready's own influence and example, if not direct teaching.

I had a three hours' rehearsal this morning, and Macready was there. As far as I could judge, he was less unfair in his mode of acting Macready does not even mention poor Fors- than I had been led to expect. To be sure, at ter; the entry in his diary runs thus: "Went night, he may stand two yards behind me while to the amateur play at the St. James's The-I am speaking to him, as I am told he often atre; the play Hernani,' translated by Lord Ellesmere, was in truth an amateur performance. Greville and Craven were very good amateurs, but - tragedy by amateurs!"

She did little more than pay her expenses in the West-at Bath, Bristol, Plymouth, and Exeter; but the little reliance that can be placed on a provincial audience is shown by what befel Rachel at Manchester, who (Aug. 24) "has been acting to houses of sixty pounds (her nightly salary being one hundred and twenty), and this because Jenny Lind is going there!" Well might a sufferer from similar disappointments exclaim: "I must confess I have no patience with this as if the rich Manchester mer

does. He is not courteous or pleasant, or even well-bred; remains seated while one is standing talking to him; and a discussion having arisen as to the situation of a table, which he wished on the stage, and I wished removed, he exhibited considerable irritability and ill-humor.

He is unnecessarily violent in acting, which I had always heard, and congratulated myself that, in Lady Macbeth, I could not possibly suffer from this; but was much astonished and dismayed when at the exclamation, "Bring forth men-children only," he seized me ferociously by the wrist, and compelled me to make a demivolte, or pirouette, such as I think that influence of her husband's admiration. lady did surely never perform before under the

She was not alone in her complaints,

and whilst in one of their private inter- or even of Paris, but that the use of Dubviews he was assuring her, laughingly, lin was a mystery. "I suggested its bethat the devil was not so bad as he was ing the spring and source and fountainpainted, she was recalling the accounts head of Guinness's stout, but I don't think she had heard of actors whose eyes had he considered even that a sufficient raison been all but thrust out by his furious fight- d'être for your troublesome capital, or ing in Macbeth; of others nearly throt-porter an equivalent for the ten righteous tled in his paternal vengeance in Appius men who might save a city." Claudius; of actresses whose arms had been almost wrenched out of their sockets and who had been bruised black and blue, buffeted alike by his tenderness and his rage.

One special story I thought of, and was dying to tell him, of one pretty and spirited young woman, who had said, "I am told Mr. Macready, in such a part, gets hold of one's head, and holds it in chancery under his arm, while he speaks a long speech, at the end of which he releases one, more dead than alive, from his embrace; but I shall put so many pins in my hair, and stick them in in such a fashion, that if he takes me by the head, he will have to let me instantly go again."

At the same time she does full justice to his merits as an actor in such parts as Virginius, Werner, and Rob Roy, as well as to his fine taste in putting pieces upon the stage. She speaks of "Acis and Galatea," produced under his direction, as one of the most exquisite dramatic spectacles ever seen, "in spite of the despair to which he reduced the chorus and ballet nymphs, by rigorously forbidding all padding, bustle, crinoline, or other artificial adjunct to their natural graces, in the severely simple classical costume of the Greek mythological opera."

She made the first trial of her powers as a public reader on the 18th of March, 1848, and the experiment was in every way satisfactory. The "Records" terminate abruptly with these words:

In the summer of 1848, I returned to Amer

ica, where my great good fortune in the success of my public readings soon enabled me to realize my long cherished hope of purchasing a small cottage and a few acres of land in the beautiful and beloved neighborhood of Lenox.

A highly-refined and cultivated Frenchwoman, who has made the first of these "Records "the basis of a volume,* has endeavored to deduce from it a moral which we cannot allow to pass unquestioned: "In the first place, this book brought back to my mind's eye one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. Then, it is filled to profusion with literary beauties of all kinds. Thirdly, it must be owned, it has seemed to demonstrate clearly enough that the thought of elevating the theatrical profession to the ideal height of which I have been speaking must be ranged in the category of chimeras; since this profession, practised with the greatest success and in conditions the most favorable to the realization of this dream, has always inspired in the author of these memoirs an estrangement for It is deplorable to hear the despondency of which she can eloquently account. all public and political men that I see with re- shall be told perhaps that this, in Fanny gard to the condition of the country. With Kemble, arose from the elevation of her the Tories, one has long been familiar with soul and the rare distinction of her inteltheir cries that "the sky is falling" but now lect. It may be so." May it not have the Liberals, at least those who all their lives arisen from undue fastidiousness, or from have been professing Liberals, seem to think having been too much behind the scenes "the sky is falling" too; and their lamentable from childhood, from having had the misgivings are really sad to listen to. I dined on Saturday at Lady Grey's, with the whole Coarse, seamy side of the calling eternally Grey family. Lord Dacre, and all of them, before her eyes, from having been driven spoke of Cobden and Bright as of another Danton and Mirabeau, likened their corn-law league, and peace protests to the first measures of the first leaders of the French Revolution; and predicted with woful headshaking a similar end to their proceedings.

Towards the end of February, 1848, she writes:

About the same time she reports to her Irish friend the heads of a conversation with Mr. Disraeli (Lord Beaconsfield), who said that he couldn't see why Dublin should not be burned to the ground: that he could understand the use of London,

I

to associate it with the humiliating embarrassments of the most distinguished members of her family? Mrs. Siddons, the impersonation of female dignity, who might have looked down upon it from the

*Madame Augustus Craven. La Jeunesse de de la Ferronays) is the author of the well-known "ReFanny Kemble. Paris, 1880. Madame Craven (née cits d'une Sœur," a charming book, and of " Eliane," a recent French novel which in tone and spirit, and as a genuine picture of French life and manners, presents a striking contrast to its popular contemporaries in the same class of literature.

same moral elevation, took pride in it, left | old lover: if she had but wings like a
it with regret, and declared to her dying dove! - but oh, whither to go to be at
day that there was nothing worth living rest! One must be alone, and free of all
for like the sea of upturned faces in the
pit. The argument drawn from Mrs.
Kemble's dislike of the stage, is neutral-
ized by the fact that neither she nor her
illustrious aunt was sullied by it.

But whilst differing with Madame
Craven as to the moral, we fully agree
with her as to the distinctive merits of
the book, and what she says of the "Rec-
ord of a Girlhood" is true of the "Rec-
ords of Later Life," which equally abound
in literary beauty and in thoughtful, emi-
nently suggestive passages, although
these may not be uniformly of a kind to
be discerned at a glance or grasped with- |
out an intellectual effort. "Intelligibilia,
non intellectum, fero." The reader must
be endowed with knowledge and sensibil
ity. He should be something of a critic,
something of an amateur, something of
a moralist, something of a thinker, to ap-
preciate them. Let him only come duly
qualified to the perusal, and he can hardly
fail to rise from it amused, interested, in-
structed, and improved.

From Blackwood's Magazine.
THE LADIES LINDORES.

CHAPTER XIV.

(continued.)

THESE several encounters, and the heavy thought of what might be to come soon, took away all the gloss of pleasure that had been upon Lady Lindores's first entrance into society. She thought, indeed, there had never been any pleasure at all in it; but this was an unintentional self-deception. She thought that Carry's pale image had come between her and every lighter emotion. She did not herself know how natural she was her mood changing, her heart rising in spite of her self, a bright day, a pleasant company, the consciousness of being approved and even admired, giving her some moments of gratification in spite of all; but after these discussions, she was so twisted and turned the wrong way, so irritated and disenchanted by her husband and son, that she felt herself sick and disgusted with London and all the world. If she could but get home! but yet at home there was poor Carry, who would ask after everything, and from whom it would be so difficult to conceal the reappearance of her

loves and relationships, to hope for that
anywhere by flight. And what was before
her was appalling to her: to meet the
man whom she had thought of as her son,
to keep a calm countenance, and talk to
him as if no different kind of intercourse
had ever been between them to avoid
all confidence, all épanchements, and to
keep him at the safe distance of acquaint-
anceship: how was she to do it? She
said to herself that she did not know how
to look him in the face, he who had been
so deeply wronged. And then she began
to hope that he, full of delicacy and fine
feeling as he used to be, would see how
impossible it was that they should meet,
and would refuse to come.
This hope
kept her up till the last moment. When
the evening came, it was with a quivering
emotion which she could hardly restrain,
that she waited to receive her guests, hop-
ing more strenuously every moment, and
trying to persuade herself, that Beaufort
would not come. He had accepted the
invitation; but what was that? He would
accept, no doubt, in order to show them
that he had got over it — that he bore no
malice and then he would send his ex-
cuses. Her eyes were feverish with
eagerness and suspense when the door
opened. She could not hear the names
announced for the beating of her heart in
her ears; but it was only when she saw
against the light the shadow of a figure
not to be forgotten, and heard the doors
open and shut, that she realized the fact
that he had really presented himself.
Then it seemed to Lady Lindores that all
her pulses stood still, and that an appall
ing stillness instead of their loud flutter
of beating was in her ears and in the
world. He had really come! She be-
came conscious of her husband's voice
speaking to her, and the sound of his
name, and the touch of his hand, and then
she regained her composure desperately,
by such an effort as it seemed to her she
had never made before. For to faint, or
to call attention to herself in any way, was
what must not be done. And by-and-by
the moment was over, and the party were
all seated at table, eating and drinking,
and talking commonplaces. When Lady
Lindores looked round the table and saw
Beaufort's face among the other faces,
she seemed to herself to be in a dream.
The only other face of which she was
conscious was that of Edith, perfectly
colorless, and full of inquiry and emotion;

and at the other end of the table her husband, throwing a threatening, terrified look across the flowers and the lights, and all the prettinesses of the table. These three she seemed to see, and no

more.

stray," said Millefleurs; "you cannot think what an abandoned little person I was, till Beaufort took me in hand. You knew Beaufort, abroad somewhere? So he tells me. How lucky for him to be able to renew such an acquaintance! I need not tell you what a fine fellow he is he has made me quite a reformed char

Do not laugh, Lady Edith; you hurt my feelings. You would not laugh if I were a coal heaver addressing a meeting and telling how wicked I had been."

But Lord Millefleurs by her side was full of pleasant chatter and cheerful, boyish confidence, and demanded her atten-acter. tion. He was aware how important he was; and it never occurred to him that Beaufort, who was an excellent fellow, but nobody in particular, could distract the attention of those who surrounded him from himself. Millefleurs sat between Lady Lindores and Edith. It was a position that was his due.

"And have you really been so wicked? You do not look so," said Edith, who, amused in spite of herself, began to get used to the grave countenance of Beaufort, seated on the other side of the table. Both the ladies were grateful to Millefleurs, who chattered on, and gave them time to recover themselves.

"I am so sorry you are not well," he said. "The fact is, it is London, Lady Lindores. I know your complaint, for it is mine too. Was there ever anything so irrational as to carry on this treadmill as we all do- you out of a wholesome country life no doubt, and I out of a wandering existence, always in the open air, always in motion? What do we do it for? Lady Edith, tell me, what do we do it for? I am asking everybody. Half of it would be very well, you know, but the whole of it is purgatory. I am sure that is your opinion. Is it merely fashion, or is it something in our nature which requires extravagance in all we do ——————" that?" "There is not much extravagance in what we do habitually," said Lady Lin-sisted in, Lord Millefleurs? dores, "which perhaps makes this outbreak of activity less alarming to us. It is a change; and as for Edith, this is virher first season

"No," he said, "that is what makes it so funny, they all tell me. I am a wolf in sheep's clothing; at least I was-'I was, until Beaufort took me in hand. At present I am good, as good as gold. I get up early, and go to bed — when I can. I go out to three parties every night, and stand about at everybody's receptions. I even pay calls in the morning. I shall go to a levee soon -I know I shall," he said, in an accent of deep conviction. "Can you think of anything more virtuous than

·

"And what has your Bohemianism con

"Good heavens!" said the self-accused, "do you venture to ask me, Lady Edith ? - everything that is dreadful. For months I never wrote a letter, for months I never

tually thought it was your first season," had a penote a lt was the best fun in the cried the little marquis. "I knew it must world. The sting of being poor is when be so." This he said with decision, as if you can't help it. I believe, for my part, in triumph over some adversary. "There that the most luxurious condition in this is a look which one is never deceived in. world is when you know you can be well I have seen all my sisters come out, so I off at any moment, and yet are half starvam quite an authority. They get to look ing. No, I never was half starving. I at things quite in another way; they get worked with these hands;" and he held so knowing, as bad as I am myself," out a pair of plump, delicate, pink-tinged the youth added in perfect good faith, hands, not without a little vanity. "To with a serious look upon his infantile feel that it's quite a chance whether you countenance, and a lisping utterance which have ever any dinner again, to be altogave point to the speech. Lord Mille-gether uncertain how you're to get shelter fleurs, though he did not need to study appearances, was yet aware of the piquancy of the contrast been his round childlike countenance and the experience of his talk.

"I should not have thought you were so bad," said Edith, beguiled into smil ing. "I think you look as if you were in your first season too

"Oh, bad-Bohemian, a waif and a

for the night—and yet to be quite sure that nothing dreadful can happen to you, that at the worst you can always draw a bugle from your side,' and be surrounded by five-and-thirty belted knights,' assure you it is the most delightful excitement in the world."

I

It was impossible to resist this baby. faced and lisping adventurer. The mother and daughter both yielded to his fascina