Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble

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induced us to do the same. As evening came on, the whole of the passengers collected in the round-house. Mr. ——, Mr. D——, and I wrote a rhapsody; afterwards they fell to singing; while they did so, the sky darkened tremendously, the rain came pelting down, the black sea swelled, and rose, and broke upon the ship's sides into boiling furrows of foam, that fled like ghosts along the inky face of the ocean. The ship scudded before the blast, and we managed to keep ourselves warm by singing. After tea, for the first time since I have been on board, got hold of a pack of cards, (oh me, that it ever should come to this!) and initiated Miss—— in the mysteries of the intellectual game. Mercy! how my home rose before me as I did so. Played till I was tired; dozed, and finally came to bed. Bed! quotha! 'tis a frightful misapplication of terms. Oh for a bed! a real bed; any manner of bed but a bed on shipboard! And yet I have seen some fair things: I have seen a universe of air and water; I have seen the glorious sun come and look down upon this rolling sapphire; I have seen the moon throw her silver columns along the watery waste; I have seen one lonely ship in her silent walk across this wilderness, meet another, greet her, and pass her, like a dream, on the wide deep; I have seen the dark world of waters at midnight open its mysterious mantle beneath our ship's prow, and show below another dazzling world of light. I have seen, what I would not but have seen, though I have left my very soul behind me. England, dear, dear England! oh, for a handful of your earth!

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      Another day, another day! the old fellow posts as well over water as over land! Rose at about half-past eight, went up to the round-house; breakfasted, and worked at my Bible-cover. As soon as our tent was spread, went out on deck: took a longish walk with Mr. ——. I like him very much; his face would enchant Lavater, and his skull ecstacise the Combes. Lay down under our rough pavilion, and heard the gentlemen descant very learnedly upon freemasonry. A book called "Adventures of an Irish Gentleman," suggested the conversation; in which are detailed some of the initiatory ceremonies, which appear to me so incredibly foolish, that I can scarce believe them, even making mankind a handsome allowance for absurdity. I soon perceived that the discussion was likely to prove a serious one, for in America, it seems, 'tis made a political question; and our Boston friend, and the Jacksonite, fell to rather sharply about it. The temperance of the former, however, by retreating from the field, spared us further argumentation. One thing I marvel at:—are the institutions of men stronger to bind men, than those of God; and does masonry effect good, which Christianity does not?—a silly query, by the way; for doubtless men act the good, but forbear to act the evil, before each other's eyes; which they think nothing of doing, or leaving undone, under those of God.

      Gossiped till lunch-time; afterwards took up Childe Harold—commend me to that! I thought of dear H——. She admires Byron more than I do; and yet how wildly I did, how deeply I do still, worship his might, majesty, and loveliness. We dined up stairs, and after dinner, I and Mr. ——look a long walk on deck; talking flimsy morality, and philosophy, the text of which were generalities, but all the points individualities: I was amused in my heart at him and myself. He'd a good miss of me at——: Heaven knows, I was odious enough! and therein his informer was right. The day was bright, and bitter cold—the sea blue, and transparent as that loveliest line in Dante,

      "Dolce color di oriental zaffiro,"

      with a lining of pearly foam, and glittering spray, that enchanted me. Came and sat down again:—wrote doggerel for the captain's album, about the captain's ship, which, when once I am out of her, I'll swear I love infinitely. Read aloud to them some of Byron's short poems, and that glorious hymn to the sea, in Childe Harold:—mercy, how fine it is! Lay under our canvass shed till nine o'clock:—the stars were brilliant in the intense blue sky, the wind had dropped, the ship lay still—we sang a song or two, supped, and came in; where, after inditing two rhapsodies, we came to bed.

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      On my back all day: mercy, how it ached too! the ship reeled about like a drunken thing. I lay down, and began reading Byron's life. As far as I have gone (which is to his leaving England) there is nothing in it but what I expected to find—the fairly-sown seeds of the after-harvest he bore. Had he been less of an egotist, would he have been so great a poet?—I question it. His fury and wrath at the severe injustice of his critics reminds me, by the by, of those few lines in the Athenæum, which I read the other day, about poetical shoemakers, dairy-maids, ploughmen, and myself. After all, what matters it?—"If this thing be of God," the devil can't overthrow it; if it be not, why the printer's devil may. What can it signify what is said? If truth be truth to the end of reckoning, why, that share of her, if any, which I possess, must endure when recorded as long as truth endures. I almost wonder Byron was moved by criticism: I should have thought him at once too highly armed, and too self-wrapped, to care for it;—however, if a wasp's sting have such virtue in it, 'tis as well it should have been felt as keenly as it was.—Ate nothing but figs and raisins; in the evening some of our gentlemen came into our cabin, and sat with us; I, in very desperation and sea-sickness, began embroidering one of my old nightcaps, wherein I persevered till sleep overtook me.

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      Rose at about half-past eight, dawdled about as usual, breakfasted in the round-house—by the by, before I got out of bed, read a few more pages of Byron's life. I don't exactly understand the species of sentimental galimatias Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same penfull of ink, "Adieu, adieu, my native land!" and "Hurra! Hodgson, we are going." It proves nothing except what I firmly believe, that we must not look for the real feelings of writers in their works—or rather, that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head weaving—a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to reality that a picture does; that is—like feeling, but not feeling—like sadness, but not sadness—like what it appears, but not indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus producing sham realities, the greater his main qualification for being a poet. After breakfast, sat, like Lady Alice in the old song, embroidering my midnight coif. Got Colonel—— to read Quentin Durward to us as we sat working under our canvass pavilion.

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      Our company consists chiefly of traders in cloth and hardware, clerks, and counting-house men—a species with but few peculiarities of interest to me, who cannot talk pounds, shillings, and pence, as glibly as less substantial trash. Most of them have crossed this trifling ditch half a dozen times in their various avocations. But though they belong to the same sort generally, they differ enough individually for the amusement of observation. That poor widower, whose remarks on the starry inside of the sea attracted my attention the other evening, put into my hands to-day a couple of pretty little books enough; a sort of hotch-potch, or, to speak more sweetly, pot-pourri praise of women—passages selected from various authors who have done us the honour to remember us in their good commendations. There were one or two most eloquent and exquisite passages from Jeremy Taylor—one on love that enchanted me. I should like to copy it. What a contrast to that exquisite thing of Shelley's, "What is Love?" and yet they are both beautiful, powerful, and true. I could have helped them to sundry more passages on this subject, particularly from my oracle. Mr. —— read to us after lunch, and we sat very happily under our yawning till the rain drove us in. No wind, the sea one rippleless sheet of lead, and the sky just such another. Our main-top gallant-mast had been split in one of our late blows, and I went out in the rain to see them restore the spar. Towards evening the wind faired and freshened, in consequence of which our gentlemen's spirits rose; and presently, in spite of the rain, they were dancing, singing, and romping like mad things on the quarter-deck. It was Saturday—holiday on board ship—the men were all dismissed

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