mple. I was told
you had once some thoughts of bringing out Fanny as a professional
singer, and it was added Fanny did not like the project. I thought
to myself, if she does not like it, it can never be successfully
executed. It seems to me that to achieve triumph in a career so
arduous, the artist's own bent to the course must be inborn, decided,
resistless. There should be no urging, no goading; native genius and
vigorous will should lend their wings to the aspirant--nothing less
can lift her to real fame, and who would rise feebly only to fall
ignobly? An inferior artist, I am sure, you would not wish your
daughter to be, and if she is to stand in the foremost rank, only her
own courage and resolve can place her there; so, at least, the case
appears to me. Fanny probably looks on publicity as degrading, and I
believe that for a woman it is degrading if it is not glorious. If I
could not be a Lind, I would not be a singer.

'Brief as my visit to London was, it must for me be memorable. I
sometimes fancied myself in a dream--I could scarcely credit the
reality of what passed. For instance, when I walked into the room
and put my hand into Miss Martineau's, the action of saluting her and
the fact of her presence seemed visionary. Again, when Mr. Thackeray
was announced, and I saw him enter, looked up at his tall figure,
heard his voice, the whole incident was truly dream-like, I was only
certain it was true because I became miserably destitute of
self-possession. Amour propre suffers terribly under such
circumstances: woe to him that thinks of himself in the presence of
intellectual greatness! Had I not been obliged to speak, I could
have managed well, but it behoved me to answer when addressed, and
the effort was torture--I spoke stupidly.

'As to the band of critics, I cannot say they overawed me much; I
enjoyed the spectacle of them greatly. The two contrasts, Forster
and Chorley, have each a certain edifying carriage and conversation
good to contemplate. I by no means dislike Mr. Forster--quite the
contrary, but the distance from his loud swagger to Thackeray's
simple port is as the distance from Shakespeare's writing to
Macready's acting.

'Mr. Chorley tantalised me. He is a peculiar specimen--one whom you
could set yourself to examine, uncertain whether, wh