Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches
by Helen C. Black · English · Gutenberg #38596 · 507,339 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches
Author: Helen C. Black
Release date: January 17, 2012 [eBook #38596]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38596
Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTABLE WOMEN AUTHORS OF THE DAY: BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES ***
Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Portraits have been moved from the middle of the
chapter to the beginning of the same. Footnotes have been renumbered
and moved to the closest paragraph break. Obvious errors have been
silently corrected.
NOTABLE WOMEN AUTHORS OF
THE DAY.
Printed at the University Press,
AND PUBLISHED BY
DAVID BRYCE AND SON, GLASGOW.
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO., LTD.
NOTABLE WOMEN AUTHORS.
Notable
Women Authors
of the Day
_Biographical Sketches_
By Helen C. Black
With Portraits
Glasgow
David Bryce and Son
1893
TO MY
BELOVED AND ONLY DAUGHTER.
These sketches originally appeared as a series in the
"Lady's Pictorial" and are republished with the Editor's
kind permission.
They are now revised, enlarged and brought up to date.
Helen C. Black
CONTENTS.
_From Photographs by_ PAGE
_MRS. LYNN LINTON_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 1
_MRS. RIDDELL_, C. VANDYK, S. Kensington, 11
_MRS. L. B. WALFORD_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 26
_RHODA BROUGHTON_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 37
_JOHN STRANGE WINTER_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 45
(_MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD._)
_MRS. ALEXANDER_, ELLIOTT & FRY, London, 58
_HELEN MATHERS_, WALERY, London, 68
_FLORENCE MARRYAT_, LONDON STEREOSCOPIC CO. Ltd., 81
_MRS. LOVETT CAMERON_, MAYALL & CO. Ltd., London, 96
_MRS. HUNGERFORD_, GUY & CO., Cork, 107
_MATILDA BETHAM EDWARDS_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 120
_EDNA LYALL_, G. CHURCHILL, Eastbourne, 133
_ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY_, S. J. POOLE & CO., Putney, 145
_ADELINE SERGEANT_, H. S. MENDELSSOHN, London, 157
_MRS. EDWARD KENNARD_, SPEIGHT, Market Harboro, 172
_JESSIE FOTHERGILL_, WARWICK BROOKES, M'chester, 184
_LADY DUFFUS HARDY_, J. RUSSELL & SONS, London, 198
_IZA DUFFUS HARDY_, J. RUSSELL & SONS, London, 204
_MAY CROMMELIN_, J. THOMSON, London, 210
_MRS. HOUSTOUN_, 223
_MRS. ALEX. FRASER_, W. & A. H. FRY, Brighton, 234
_HONOURABLE MRS. HENRY CHETWYND_, MAULL & FOX, London, 247
_JEAN MIDDLEMASS_, T. FALL, Baker St., London, W. 260
_AUGUSTA DE GRASSE STEVENS_, VERNON KAYE, London, 270
_MRS. LEITH ADAMS_, J. H. BLOMFIELD, Hastings, 286
_JEAN INGELOW_, BARRAUDS Ltd., London, 299
NOTABLE WOMEN AUTHORS.
[Illustration: E. Lynn Linton]
MRS. LYNN LINTON.
A blue sky and a bright sun belie the typical foggy month of November,
and while entering the elevator which glides rapidly and smoothly to the
eighth floor of the gigantic pile of buildings once cynically termed
"Hankey's Folly"--now Queen Anne's Mansions--you feel justified in
anticipating a glorious view over the great city. You step out into a
corridor where are arranged a stand of grenades with a couple of
hydrants, backed by printed directions for their use, and are shown into
the library of the distinguished author; but ere there is time to look
around, the door opens, and Mrs. Lynn Linton enters.
Her personality may be described thus: tall, upright, and stately in
appearance, the keen, but kindly bright blue eyes smiling through the
gold-rimmed glasses which she always wears. She is clad in a suitable
black dress, trimmed with jet, a white lace cap partially covers the
thick grey hair, which escapes in a tiny natural curl or two on each
side of the smooth, intellectual forehead. The eyebrows--far apart--are
straight and level, but shaded off so delicately that they impart a look
of benignity and softness to the aristocratic nose, while the curves of
the well-cut lips indicate straightforwardness, sincerity of
disposition, and power. Can it be possible that you had felt a momentary
trepidation before meeting the gifted woman for whose genius you have
ever entertained the greatest reverence? But Mrs. Lynn Linton will have
none of it! Her kind and friendly greeting puts you at once at ease. She
says that she has an hour or two to spare, that her work is well on, and
that there is no immediate fear of her being disturbed by an emissary
from the printers, so you settle down to have a good talk, and to learn
from your hostess some particulars of her early life, and her subsequent
eventful career.
Mrs. Lynn Linton was born at Keswick; her father being the vicar of
Crosthwaite, Cumberland. When only five months old, her mother (a
daughter of Dr. Goodenough, Bishop of Carlisle) died, leaving a family
of twelve children. She was brought up plainly and frugally, with no
particular advantages of education; nevertheless, at an early age she
developed a strong taste for reading and a thirst for knowledge. Casting
aside her childish story books, she dived into such ancient literature
and chronicles as she found on her father's book-shelves, and at the age
of eleven determined to train herself to be a writer. About this time
she became keenly interested in Polish affairs, in which her favourite
brother took an active part. In those days there were not the same
facilities for procuring books as in later years, but the young
child-student managed to overcome all obstacles, and educated herself,
mastering French, German, and Italian. The one aim and end to which her
ambition was directed buoyed her up through early years of what were
somewhat rough times to the shy, nervous, short-sighted girl, who always
seemed in everyone's way.
To this repression and self-training may be attributed the independence
of thought, the thoroughness, the originality of idea, as well as the
deep sympathy with young and struggling authors which are Mrs. Lynn
Linton's prevailing characteristics. One of her earliest recollections
is of the poet Southey, and that to this day she can recall to mind his
peculiar face, his dark eyes, full of fire, his eagle nose, and thin
figure. She wrote her first novel, "Azeth, the Egyptian," when she came
to London, at the age of twenty-three, and from that day to this has
supported herself entirely by her pen; but she says that this "first
book" gave her a whole year's hard work to write, and she thinks it is
now probably "unreadable." For her second, "Amymone," she will ever have
the tenderest memories, and the blue eyes kindle when she remarks that
it was the means of bringing her into contact with Walter Savage Landor,
and securing for her his lasting sympathy and friendship. She says he
was her literary father, her guide, philosopher, and friend, and that
one of her dearest treasures is a large packet of letters from the poet,
beginning "My dear daughter," and signed "Father" only, or "Your
affectionate father," as well as those verses which he addressed to
her, ending with the line, "Pure heart, and lofty soul, Eliza Lynn."
Between the production of "Realities: a Tale," in 1851, and "Witch
Stories," there was a gap of ten years, which the young writer devoted
principally to journalism. She was, indeed, the first of women
journalists. She contributed to several of the daily papers and
magazines. Presently a series of pungent and clever essays began in the
_Saturday Review_, which increased its fame, and took the world by
storm. "The Girl of the Period," "The Shrieking Sisterhood," "Paying
One's Shot," "Mature Sirens," have now passed into proverbs. They made a
famous topic of conversation at dinner-tables, and proved a decided hit.
For many years a certain lady of rank had the credit of the series,
until at last, after many futile efforts, Mrs. Lynn Linton was allowed
to collect her own papers and publish them under her own name.
"I never mind how much I slash," says Mrs. Lynn Linton, "because I
always feel I am not slashing at a personality, but at a type. Thackeray
never drew Becky Sharp from one individual; we all know a Becky Sharp."
In 1858 the young writer married Mr. Linton, the well-known wood
engraver, and in 1861 began again the interrupted series of fifteen
novels, amongst which were "Under which Lord?" "Patricia Kemball," "The
True Story of Joshua Davidson," "Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg," "Sowing the
Wind," "The Atonement of Leam Dundas," "The World Well Lost," "The Rebel
of the Family," "My Love," "Paston Carew, Miser and Millionaire," "Jane
Stewart," "Through the Long Night," and "Christopher Kirkland." This
last is deeply interesting, as a history of the author herself, her
theories, philosophy, and religious opinions.
The writing table in the cosy library--or as Mrs. Lynn Linton often
calls it, "the workroom"--is placed slantways to catch the best light,
and commands a beautiful view from the windows, full south over the
Surrey hills.
The cut-glass inkstand has been in constant use for over fifty years.
Papers, reviews, and books of reference are tidily heaped up; the table
is full, but in perfect order; commenting on this to your hostess, she
says it is "part of her nature, she could find anything in the dark."
She is altogether a believer in method, regularity, and punctuality,
which last quality gained for her from Charles Dickens the remark that
she was "good for anything, and thoroughly reliable."
Opening a well-worn "Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities" lying on
a side-table close at hand, Mrs. Lynn Linton remarks it was bought with
nearly her first earnings, and that she has by degrees purchased nearly
all the books, which seem to occupy every available recess. The two deep
cases opposite are filled with treasures of literature, and the tall
revolving bookstand contains chiefly her collection of favourite
poets--Landor, Arnold, Swinburne.
A Persian carpet of subdued tints covers the floor; on a large round
table, over which hangs a lamp of graceful design, is heaped, with
extreme precision, a mass of journals, magazines, and periodicals; not a
paper is awry. The great accumulation of literature has indeed
necessitated the fitting up of two tall, narrow recesses at the other
end of the room, each neatly hidden by a long tapestry curtain. A tender
light comes into Mrs. Lynn Linton's face as she points out three
photographs hanging on the wall. The first is of her beloved brother,
"without fear or favour," who died of a broken heart after the death of
an adored wife; the second is of her "father" Landor; and the third is
of Mr. Linton--"brother, father, husband," she says, with infinite
tenderness for the memory of all three.
Asking to be allowed to see the famous view from the drawing-room, which
it is said "looks over St. James's Park and Carlton Terrace, and
embraces the whole of the park from Buckingham Palace to the Horse
Guards," "_Did_ embrace it," amends Mrs. Linton, mournfully, "but come
and see." She leads the way to the opposite side of the flat, into a
rather long drawing-room, the windows of which look due south over the
uninterrupted view one might reasonably have expected to see. Alas! a
tall and ugly erection of bricks and mortar has sprang up to the left,
obscuring a portion of the prospect. "They have given me only a vista,"
says Mrs. Lynn Linton, "where I once had a view." What is left, however,
is very fine, and from the great height above ground the people look
like pigmies dotted about. Queen Caroline once talked of shutting up
this lovely park, and converting it into a noble garden for the palace.
She consulted Walpole as to the probable cost; the witty minister
replied, "Only three crowns, your Majesty," and the idea was abandoned.
There is a peculiarly long, narrow frame hanging on the opposite side of
the wall, and as Mrs. Lynn Linton permits an inspection of everything,
you examine it carefully, while she explains the subject. It is nearly
four yards long, and represents the Parthenon frieze--the Panathenaic
procession--and the fight of the Amazons and Athenians, reduced and
restored by John Herring. As the slate matrix was broken, it is now
extremely valuable. It is in plaster of Paris, mounted on red, and is
the property of Mr. Linton, who has bequeathed it to the National
Gallery in America. The small statuette of "Margaret," modelled by
Geefs, is another and very rare gem. Mrs. Lynn Linton is also the
possessor of a quaint grey vase, a relic of the Great Exhibition of
1851. On one little table, covered with an Oriental cloth, crowded with
favourite photographs, the portrait of a graceful, pretty girl occupies
a prominent place. "That is my Beatrice, my Bee, my dear adopted
daughter," she says, "dear as if she were my own; and these," pointing
to two large framed pictures, "are both likenesses of my friend Mr.
Fuller, a nephew of Sir Arthur Helps. We first became friends through
correspondence. He sent me his book, 'Culmshire Folk.' His wife invited
me to Ireland last year, and the result was my first and last political
work about that country."
You ask Mrs. Lynn Linton to tell you about some of the celebrated people
whom she has met. After musing awhile, she mentions Captain Maconochie
(the convicts' friend), Sir Charles Babbage, Kinglake, Miss Jane Porter,
Mrs. Milner Gibson--"she was my social godmother; but these all belonged
to a past generation. In later years I was more or less on intimate
terms with Harrison Ainsworth, George Eliot, Sir Henry Layard, Sir Henry
Rawlinson, Tom Taylor, Thackeray, Dickens, Yates, Wilkie Collins,
Swinburne, Sir Roderick Murchison, Rider Haggard, Dr. Elliotson, and
William Spottiswoode, late President of the Royal Society. _He_ was a
prince among men, and I loved and reverenced his noble character."
Unlike many literary women, Mrs. Lynn Linton is a great adept with her
needle. The beautiful silk embroideries--of which she is very
proud--cushions, chair seats, and the handsome fire-screen are all the
work of her skilful fingers, and made from her own designs. The big
green frog and the swallows hanging on the left are a present from Mr.
Oswald Crawfurd, the famous consul at Oporto. The Tunis plates and
various photographs indicate that your hostess has made sundry journeys
abroad, and travelled in many foreign lands where she has picked up a
few picturesque "bits" as mementos of the places which she visited; but
she says her most cherished possession is the gold cinquecento basket
standing yonder, the gift of Walter Savage Landor.
Yet more books! Each recess in the opposite wall is well filled, also
the low dwarf bookcase under the large mirror, and another under the
Herring "slate."
You are curious to know if Mrs. Lynn Linton reads and is influenced by
criticisms on her works? She says she has never striven for popularity,
and has boldly put forth her opinions, without caring for the
consequences. She was once called "selfish." _Selfish!_ Have you not
known, and been told by a score of young authors, that they owe their
success and a deep debt of gratitude to her! In despair, one after
another has taken to her an article, a story, a three-volume novel, a
play; what not? With patience she would pore over a crabbed manuscript,
word by word, suggesting, correcting, improving, advising. She has a
large number of young friends, who confide all their troubles, hopes,
and wishes to her, with the certainty of absolute sympathy and wise
counsel. Far from being stern or severe, as some of her books might lead
one to think, she is bubbling over with the milk of human kindness, and
her chief desire is to be of use or help to some one. The tender,
motherly manner casts its spell over you too, and you find yourself
presently pouring out confidences as if she were an old acquaintance.
Mrs. Lynn Linton generally enjoys the best of health. She keeps early
hours, works in the morning, takes plenty of exercise, and "plain
living" keeps the _mens sana in corpore sano_ for "high thinking."
Although in her sixth decade, she possesses a splendid physique, of
which she is pardonably proud. She says she finds residing in her
exalted flat far preferable to a house. There she is out of the reach of
burglars and beggars; she lives at less expense, combined with
incomparably more comfort; whilst the servants of the gigantic
establishment all respect her, and "Ellen," who has been there for
eleven years, she calls her "child," and looks upon her as a personal
friend.
But the clock strikes. You have been unconscionable. The time has sped
so rapidly that the promised hour has doubled itself. You say good-bye,
and as Mrs. Lynn Linton kindly asks you to come again on her "Saturdays,
to one, or to all," you look down on the small white hand which holds
yours, and notice the long slender fingers. The memory of its hearty
clasp remains on your mind as you are conveyed down the eight stories of
Queen Anne's Mansions, and so, into the street, where you become one of
the aforenamed "pigmies."
[Illustration: Charlotte Eliza Riddell]
MRS. RIDDELL.
The sleepy little village of Upper Halliford, Middlesex, has one
peculiar charm. Though within ten minutes' walk of Walton Bridge, it
lies quite off the main line of traffic, and is consequently free from
the visits of Cockney tourists, affording in this, as in many other
respects, a striking contrast to Lower Halliford, which, situated on a
lovely reach of the Thames, welcomes annually thousands of visitors.
There the inevitable steam-launch cuts its swift way through the water;
there boating-men, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, are to be met
with, on or after Good Friday, when the "season" begins; there
persistent fishermen, seated in punts warily moored, angle day after
day, and all day long, for the bream, roach, and gudgeon, to be found in
such abundance; there furnished houses let at high rents; willows dip
their branches in the river, and from thence the trees of Oatlands show
well on the upland on the opposite sides of the glistening Thames.
It was between Lower Halliford and Walton Bridge--half of which is in
Surrey and half in Middlesex--that, at a point called the Coway Stakes,
Julius Caesar is believed to have crossed the river. The name "Coway
Stakes" originated in the fact that there Cassivelaunus fortified the
banks, and filled the river with sharp-pointed stakes to prevent the
enemy from crossing the stream, but notwithstanding these precautions
the Roman leader and his legions accomplished their purpose, and, a
little way above where the Ship Hotel (so well known to boating-men),
now stands, a terrible battle was fought in the year 54 B.C. between the
Britons and Romans. Several relics have been dug up about this part of
the Thames, also a number of the stakes taken from the bed of the river,
black with age, but still sound.
Any one who cares to walk on to Walton should make a point of visiting
the old Church of St. Mary--an edifice of great antiquity--in order to
see a curious relic, dated 1632, a scold's bit, or bridle, bearing the
following inscription:--
"Chester to Walton sends a bridle
To curb women's tongues that talk too idle."
Upper Halliford, unlike Lower Halliford, or Walton, has nothing to show
in the way of beauty or relic. It boasts no history, it has no legend,
or old church, or historic mansion. It is only a quaint little hamlet,
which might be a hundred miles from the bustle and roar of London;
there, however, the famous author of "George Geith of Fen Court" has for
the last seven years made her home, where she lives in absolute
seclusion.
Her little cottage stands slightly back from the high road. It is built
flush with the ground, and covered with trellis-work, which in summer
time is concealed by clustering white roses and clematis. The porch is
in the centre, and the rooms on each side have broad bay windows. There
is a large field in front, and so many evergreens about the cottage,
that, when snow comes, the place looks like a winter "transformation
scene."
A great, old-fashioned garden stretches far out at the back, and it was
chiefly the tranquillity and privacy of this delightful garden, with its
grand old hedge of holly, now bright with red berries, which attracted
Mrs. Riddell, and decided her to settle down, away from the world, after
long and fierce buffeting with the stormy seas of sorrow,
disappointment, losses, and bereavement, of which she has had so large a
share.
The gentle, quiet face tells its tale of early struggles, heavy burdens,
severe trials; yet time has not laid its ruthless hand over-harshly on
the author. Not a silver hair is visible on the soft, brown hair, which
is simply rolled into a neat coil, high on the back of her head, and
fastened by a large tortoise-shell comb. The deep grey eyes are
undimmed, and wear a look of peace and resignation, nobly won; while
"ever and anon of griefs subdued, there comes a token" which recalls the
past. But Mrs. Riddell can smile sweetly, and when she smiles, two--yes
two--absolutely girlish dimples light up the expressive countenance. She
is tall, has a good carriage, and is dressed in black; she has worn no
colours for over ten years.
The little room is very simply but prettily furnished. It is lighted by
one bay window reaching to the ground in front, and a glass door at the
side. Soft, white rugs lie here and there on the dark red carpet, and an
old-fashioned bookcase contains the works of her favourite authors.
There are no particular curiosities or decorations to be seen, save one
valuable bit of old Dresden china, two or three plates of ancient Crown
Derby, together with a couple of quaint Delhi-work salvers, and a few
pictures hanging on the walls. Of these last, two are particularly
attractive. One is the Head of a Christ crowned with thorns, beautifully
painted on copper; the other, over the fire place, represents the Castle
of Carrigfergus, which, though built nearly a thousand years ago, is
still strong enough to hold a troop of soldiers.
Mrs. Riddell was born in Ireland, at The Barn, Carrigfergus. She was the
youngest daughter of Mr. James Cowan, who held the post of High Sheriff
for the county of that town.
"Yes, I am from the north--the black north," says your hostess in a low,
soft voice. "My grandfather was in the navy, and my great-grandfather
fought at Culloden, so I may fairly claim to be English, Scotch, and
Irish. My mother, Ellen Kilshaw, was a beautiful, graceful, and
accomplished English woman. On most subjects people have two opinions,
but I never heard a second opinion about my mother. Even amongst those
who only knew her in later life, when stricken with disease, and changed
by long years of sorrow, she stands out a distinct personality, as one
of those possessed of the manners, appearance, and ideas, that we
associate with the highest bred women of the past!"
"And she was good as she was beautiful. I wish you could hear how rich
and poor who knew her in the old time at The Barn still speak of her. As
for me, while I speak, the grief of her death seems sharp and present as
on that sixteenth of December when she left me."
Last autumn, after a lapse of twenty-five years, Mrs. Riddell revisited
her native place. "Such of our old friends as were left," she says, "I
found as kind as ever."
It must have been sad, yet sweet, for the author to recall the old
reminiscences of her girlish home as she saw once more the pretty
bungalow-like house, with its gardens, hot-houses, and vineries, and to
visit again the spot where, at the age of fifteen, she remembers writing
her first story.
"It was on a bright moonlight night," she says--"I can see it now
flooding the gardens--that I began it, and I wrote week after week,
never ceasing until it was finished. Need I add it was never published?"
She goes on eloquently to tell you of yet further recollections of the
old house, the memory of her father's lingering illness, and the low,
sweet tones of her mother's voice as she read aloud to him for hours
together. "From my father," says Mrs. Riddell, "I think I got the few
brains I possess. Undoubtedly he was a very clever man, but _I_ never
knew him at his best, for as far as my memory goes back he was always
more or less a sufferer, blessed with the most tender and devoted wife
man ever had."
On her father's death, the property passed into other hands, and with
but a small jointure the broken-hearted widow and her daughter left
their old home. They lived afterwards, for a while, in the charming
village of Dundonald in the County Down, where the young author
subsequently laid the scene of her novel, "Berna Boyle," and then, after
a good deal of meditation, they decided to come to London. In later
years she wrote three other Irish stories, "The Earl's Promise," "The
Nun's Curse," and "Maxwell Drewitt," which last contains an exciting
account of an election at Connemara.
"I have often wished," says Mrs. Riddell "we never had so decided, yet
in that case, I do not think I ever should have achieved the smallest
success, and even before we left, with bitter tears, a place where we
had the kindest friends, and knew much happiness, my mother's death
was--though neither of us then knew the fact--a certainty. The illness
of which she died had then taken hold of her. She had always a great
horror of pain mental and physical; she was keenly sensitive, and
mercifully before the agonising period of her complaint arrived, the
nerves of sensation were paralysed; first or last, she never lost a
night's sleep the whole of the ten weeks, during which I fought with
death for her, and--was beaten."
Mrs. Riddell's first impressions of London are well worth recording.
Coming as strangers to a strange land, throughout the length and breadth
of the great metropolis, she says, "We did not know a single creature!
During the first fortnight, indeed, I really thought I should break my
heart. I had never taken kindly to new places, and, remembering the
sweet hamlet and the loving friends left behind, London seemed to me
horrible! I could not eat; I could not sleep; I could only walk over the
'stony-hearted streets' and offer my manuscripts to publisher after
publisher, who unanimously declined them." The desolation of her spirit
can be more easily imagined than described. Conceive the situation of
the young girl, burning to earn a living by her pen, knowing that it was
within her to do so, yet unacquainted with a single literary or other
person; friendless, unknown, with an invalid mother, and terribly
insufficient means! And when, at last, she sold a story, called "Moors
and Fens," that beloved mother had passed away; and your eyes moisten as
the daughter mentions the touching and filial use to which her first
twenty pounds were applied.
But Mrs. Riddell has something pleasant to say for those who declined
her MSS., and it must be related in her own words: "Looking back I
_must_ say, as a rule, they were all very kind to me. I was too ignorant
and heartsore to understand how gracious they were to my simplicity,
even more than to my youth. Yet I shall never forget how charming Mr.
George Bentley's manner seemed the first day I saw him. His father--the
kindest, most impulsive, most sympathetic of men--was alive then, and
for many a year afterwards; but it so happened that Mr. George Bentley
was the partner whom I saw, and," she adds smiling, and naively, "though
he, like everyone else, refused my work, still I left his office not
unhappy, but thinking much more about how courteous and nice he was
than of how entirely the wrong person in the wrong place I seemed to be.
Ere long, with some publishers I became quite on friendly terms, and I
have now known three generations of the Bentleys."
After a short silence Mrs. Riddell resumes the subject, saying, "I must
name also Mr. Charles Skeet, of King William Street, who was good enough
to keep my mother supplied with books. Long as it is since he retired
from business, our friendship remained unbroken until his death. He was
most kind to me always. He published 'The Rich Husband,' 'Too Much
Alone,' 'The World and the Church,' and 'Alaric Spencer.'"
"I could always, when the day was frightfully cold--and _what_ a winter
that was when I first came to London--turn into Mr. Newby's snug and
warm office in Welbeck Street, and have a talk with him and his 'woman
of business.' I am glad to mention her name--Miss Springett. She was a
lady, always kind, nice, and capable; she remained with him till her
death, I believe. Everyone was good to me in those days; but, indeed, I
have received, all my life through, an enormous amount of kindness, and
have not a word to say against a world which has treated me far better
than I deserved."
A year after the death of her mother the young author married. Mr.
Riddell belonged to an old Staffordshire family, a branch of the Scotch
Riddells, of long descent and gentle blood. "Courageous and hopeful,
gifted with indomitable energy," says his widow, "endowed with
marvellous persistence and perseverance; modestly conscious of talents
which ought to have made their mark, he, when a mere lad, began his long
quest after fortune, one single favour from whom he was never destined
to receive."
Gifted with much inventive genius, Mr. Riddell was also possessed of
considerable general knowledge, and was deeply versed in literature,
medicine, science, and mathematics. To him his wife turned for all the
information she needed in her novels; the chemistry in "Too Much Alone,"
the engineering in "City and Suburb." He supplied all the business
details in "George Geith," and "The Race for Wealth"; while in
"Mortomley's Estate" Mrs. Riddell says she has "but told the simple
story of what, when in ill-health and broken in spirit, he had to
encounter before ruin, total and complete, overtook him." Too early in
youth overweighted with a heavy burden, under which a strong man might
have found it hard to stagger, she declares that, "in spite of harassing
trouble and continuous misfortune, their twenty-three years of married
life were happy as few lives are, simply by reason of his sweet, patient
temper, and his child-like faith." Suddenly and unexpectedly, the end
came, and the crowning sorrow of a much-tried life was laid upon the
devoted wife when death claimed her gifted husband. Over that grief a
veil must be drawn. Suffice it to say that it is a sorrow which will
ever be keen in her remembrance "Until the day break and the shadows
flee away."
"I never remember the time," Mrs. Riddell says, "when I did not compose.
Before I was old enough to hold a pen I used to get my mother to write
down my childish ideas, and a friend remarked to me quite lately that
she distinctly remembers my being discouraged in the habit, as it was
feared I might be led into telling untruths. In my very early days I
read everything I could lay hands on, the Koran included, when about
eight years old. I thought it most interesting."
Mrs. Riddell describes the way in which the situations and characters of
her books are often suggested. She observes everything almost
unconsciously; but if asked, directly after, her impressions, she could
scarcely describe them. Later on, perhaps, when between the border-land
of sleep and waking, scenes, words, people whom she has noticed seem to
be photographed on the brain; sentences form themselves, and in the
morning she is able to reproduce them at length.
The intimate knowledge of the city possessed by this novelist is the
result of personal experience. Whilst on her once fruitless expeditions
to publishers she learnt every short cut, every alley and lane by heart.
Little as she relished these excursions at the time, they laid the
foundation for many a scene afterwards so faithfully depicted in "George
Geith," "City and Suburb" (in which most of the poetry was quoted from
the works of her young sister-in-law, a genius who died at the age of
nineteen), "Daisies and Buttercups," "The Struggle for Fame," "Mitre
Court," "My First Love, and My Last Love," "The Earl's Promise," and
also that entrancing book, "The Senior Partner," in which the old Scotch
merchant, M'Cullagh, "plain auld Rab," worthy but saving old gentleman,
is a distinct creation. "In all the old city churches and graveyards,
such, indeed, as are left," Mrs. Riddell says, sorrowfully, "you could
take no better guide than myself; but, alas! many of the old landmarks
are now pulled down to make room for the ever increasing business of the
great metropolis."
"Austin Friars" described her first home after her marriage, when,
without much practical knowledge of business, she was greatly impressed
by the lives of business men. This old house is now a thing of the past,
and the Cannon Street railway runs over the place where it once stood.
The author's latest work--a story of seaside life, and her twenty-ninth
novel--is called "Grays Point," and will be brought out in three volumes
in the coming year. She lately was invited to write an article for _The
Lady of the House_, a new journal which appeared in Dublin last year,
and this is the first time that she has ever written a line for an Irish
paper. Of her own books, Mrs. Riddell says that she prefers "The Mystery
in Palace Gardens" and "Too Much Alone." The latter she considers made
her name, though the first edition was only a short one, and but four
copies were sent out for review. "A Mad Tour, or A Journey Undertaken in
an Insane Moment through Central Europe on Foot," in one volume, is a
recent work, and describes accurately her own experiences in company
with a young friend. It gives a bright and amusing account of their
misadventures.
Mrs. Riddell's latest published novel in three volumes, "The Head of the
Firm," fully bears out the high literary reputation of the author of
"George Geith." Carefully and conscientiously worked out, each
character is drawn with an unerring hand, and sustains its interest to
the final page, whilst here and there are not wanting those touches of
humour which have always distinguished her works.
After a snug luncheon in the comfortable dining-room, in which, by the
way, unexpected little steps and deep cupboards seem to be built
promiscuously--as, indeed, they are throughout the cottage--your hostess
takes you round the garden, which is well worth seeing, mid-winter
though it be. She points out the great height of the holly hedge, and
laments that she has been obliged to have twelve feet cut off the top.
Notwithstanding, it is still twenty feet high. The japonica is the
admiration of passers-by in the early spring, being then covered with a
mass of scarlet flowers. The apricot tree is sadly in want of root
pruning, but, as she says, "I cannot persuade the old gardener to do it,
and as I am never equal to arguing, I let him take his own way." There
is an extraordinary plant which you have never seen before; its flowers
are green, and Mrs. Riddell says that she never saw one like it except
in her old home. The huge weeping ash, although now bereft of leaves, is
a great feature, and the high box borders divide large squares of
ground, wherein good old bushes of lavender, rue and lad's love grow
profusely.
Your hostess points out the adjoining cottage, the home of her old
gardener, aged eighty, and remarks that another old man who preceded him
begged from a neighbour enough elm to make him a coffin. It was given to
him, and the hitherto unnecessary article made. He kept the gruesome
object for some time, but finding it took up too much room in his small
abode, he altered it into a cupboard.
A turn round the last walk leads to the poultry-yard, which is a great
delight to Mrs. Riddell. She has several fine breeds of fowls and geese,
amongst which last are two handsome but noisy specimens from Japan. One
little peculiarity of interest must be noticed. The wall which supports
the granary steps is pierced by two holes for dog kennels, an
arrangement of great antiquity.
Mrs. Riddell loves walking. The church she attends lies rather more than
two miles away towards Laleham, which place Arnold left with so much
regret, and where Matthew Arnold is buried. She speaks of Littleton in
the neighbourhood as being the village she described in "For Dick's
Sake," and says, laughing, "It has stood still for over two hundred
years. There is no resident rector or squire, or doctor, or lawyer, or
publican, or farrier, but it is a sweetly peaceful spot, and the woods
in primrose time are a sight to behold, whilst at Sunbury," she adds,
"to show you how little change may take place, in one hundred years
there have been only two vicars, and one of them is alive now!"
But it is getting dark, and tea is ordered as a preparation for your
cold journey; whilst sipping it, she says that as you are so much
interested in her own early "struggle for fame," she will mention one
more anecdote _a propos_ of Mr. Newby, as it is amusing, and she relates
it thus: "In those early days he--Mr. Newby--was good enough to take a
book of mine. Of course he only knew me by my maiden name, because
after my mother's death Welbeck Street lay quite out of my way, and I
fear I ungratefully forgot the cheerful fire, and the talks about
authors, which were once so pleasant.
"For this reason he knew nothing of my doings. The years came and the
years went, till after the crash came in our affairs; when I was looking
about me for every five-pound note I could get, I bethought me of this
and another old book, which I can never sufficiently regret
republishing. Well, I found I could sell both of them, and forthwith
repaired, after all that time, to Mr. Newby's, where nothing looked much
changed, and no one seemed much older, except myself, who had lived many
lives in the interval.
"Of course both Mr. Newby and Miss Springett had a vague memory of me,
when I reminded the former that he had published 'Zuriel's Grandchild.'
What I wanted was a copy of the book. He feared he had not one, but
promised to ascertain. I can see them both now in that warm, comfortable
back room, into which, as a girl, I had often gone shivering.
"He took a seat on one side of a large table, she on the other. I sat
facing Mr. Newby--a most anxious woman, yet amused.
"'Have you,' he said delicately, 'gone on at all with literature?'
"'Oh, yes,' I answered.
"'Have you--published anything?' with great caution, so as not to hurt
my feelings.
"'Several books,' I replied.
"'Indeed!!!' _amazed_. 'Might I ask the names?'--tentatively.
"'Well, amongst others, "George Geith."'
"A dead silence ensued, during which I had the comfort of feeling that
they both felt sure I was saying what was not true. I sat quite quiet,
and so did they. If I had not been so burdened with care I must have
laughed out loud. As it happened, I comported myself, as I have often
done since, in many difficult and humorous positions, with decent
gravity, and then this came from Mr. Newby, the while the ribbons on
Miss Springett's cap were tremulous:
"'_If_--you _really_ wrote "George Geith," _then_ indeed you have
achieved a success!'"
And so you part; with loving tender sympathy. Though the morn of this
distinguished woman's life has been so clouded, the noon so stormy, the
noble, self-reliant spirit has battled through it bravely and patiently,
and you leave her with the inwardly-breathed prayer that "at evening
time there shall come light!"
[Illustration: L. B. Walford]
MRS. L. B. WALFORD.
A thick fog obscures the whole of London. You grope your way through
Liverpool Street station with considerable risk, now colliding with a
truck full of luggage, anon canoning against an angry passenger. Not a
yard can be seen in advance, more by good luck than good guiding the
right train is somehow found, and, half an hour later, it is delightful
to find the enemy is left behind, and that there is once more cheerful
daylight. The sun at first looks like a sullen ball of fire, but
presently, shaking off, as it were, the heavy clouds, he begins to shine
out brightly, as, after a drive of something under a mile from the
station, the carriage turns into the old-fashioned lodge gates of
wrought iron on the left. A long road between two low wire fencings,
running nearly straight through the park, which is dotted about with
clumps of trees and spinneys, suddenly rounds into a wide space in front
of the house, and breaks off into one of those quaint old rights-of-way
which are so common in this part of Essex.
Cranbrooke Hall is a substantial red-brick, many-windowed building,
dating nearly two centuries back, but it has been greatly added to
and improved during recent years. The lofty, spacious entrance-hall,
laid down with parquet, branches out into five reception rooms, opening
one into another, all facing south, and overlooking some
seven-hundred-and-fifty feet of lawn, bordered by a lake formed of
clear, running water, the overflow of a spring which is a
hundred-and-fifty feet deep, and has never yet been known to run dry.
This is, in its turn, bounded by a shrubbery, which leads round to one
of the principal features of the Cranbrooke Gardens, the "Lovers' Walk,"
an ivy colonnade, carpeted with thick, soft moss.
Passing through the ante-room, a door opens on the left, and the picture
which presents itself to the eye is a thoroughly domestic one. A huge
fire, heaped with acacia logs, blazes brightly in the low deep grate,
flanked with brass dogs; tall standard lamps shed a soft light over a
merry family group; a silver urn stands on the cosy five o'clock tea
table, where a young, fair girl presides. A few guests are present, and
two younger daughters of the house are flitting in and out with plates
of Scotch scones, cakes, and muffins. The three nursery little ones have
come down to say good-night; the youngest, a fair-haired, blue-eyed
little maiden of four years, is nestling on her mother's lap. Rising
from amidst them, Mrs. Walford comes forward to welcome you. She wears a
pretty steel-blue tea-gown, richly embroidered in silks by her own hand;
for your hostess loves needlework, and looks on it as a great resource
for a weary brain. She has a clear, fair complexion, dark brown hair,
and laughing grey-blue eyes; and the bright, sunny smile, which in
childhood gained for her the pet name of "the laughing girl," lights up
her expressive countenance, and just reveals two rows of white, even
teeth. She gives you the impression of being a thoroughly happy,
contented, and sweet-tempered woman, and her subsequent conversation
assures you that your judgment has been correct.
Mrs. Walford is of Scottish birth. Her father was the second son of Sir
James Colquhoun, the tenth Baronet of Luss, to whom Burke wrote on one
occasion that he was "_the_ Baronet of Scotland, just as Sir William
Watkin Wynn was _the_ Baronet of Wales." For seven hundred years the
Colquhouns of Luss have held the same lands, and, unlike those of many
other ancient families, they are still in as flourishing, or, rather,
more flourishing condition, than they have ever been. The Sir James
Colquhoun who--with four of his keepers and a ghillie boy--was drowned
in Loch Lomond, nearly seventeen years ago, was a widower with an only
son, the present baronet. Mrs. Walford's mother was the daughter of Mr.
Fuller-Maitland of Stanstead, Essex.
Whilst the other visitors are leaving, the opportunity arises of
examining the room more minutely. The polished oak floor is covered here
and there with Persian carpets; near the door is a lovely Dutch
marqueterie bureau, a husband's gift to a busy wife, and at which most
of her well-known novels were written. Mrs. Walford says they
"furnished their home as a jackdaw does his nest, stick by stick. From
many an old farm-house and wayside inn they collected piece after piece,
handsome old oak cabinets, chests and chairs, scarcely a single article
having passed through the dealers' hands," indeed, you shrewdly suspect
that the large carved settle whereon you are seated has been part of
some despoiled church or sacred edifice.
On a table yonder stands a miniature set of china under glass, "Jane
Eyre's own doll's tea service," by which Mrs. Walford sets great store,
as she became possessed of it when visiting the house of Charlotte
Bronte. The dainty, antique spinning-wheel known as "Lady Helen's wheel"
(it belonged to an ancient dame of the Colquhoun family) is so old that
the woodwork has begun to crumble away; but a more modern specimen
opposite, covered with a cloud of flax, is often used by your hostess's
own nimble fingers. The relic she treasures above all, however, is a
gold "mazer," inherited by Mr. Walford through a long line of ancestors.
This is a real curiosity, there being but few of these "mazers" now left
in England. The little "silver table" holds many a prized bit of old
Highland silver, including one which was picked up on the field of
Bannockburn. Big bowls of Oriental china are filled with _pot-pourri_,
which gives out a delicious fragrance. This, Mrs. Walford adds to afresh
every year from an old recipe. Her children laughingly declare that
"whenever they go out to gather flowers for the tables, mother, with a
pair of scissors in hand, has snipped off all the finest roses and
quietly slipped them into her pocket."
Mrs. Walford has inherited her literary tastes. Her father's well-known
book, "The Moor and the Loch," now in its eighth edition, and full of
spirited engravings, is considered as a classic amongst sportsmen; and
who has not read and laughed over, in by-gone days, "Holiday House," and
other delightful stories, by her grand-aunt, Catherine Sinclair,
daughter of Sir John Sinclair of Ulbster, himself one of the most
distinguished men of his day? In spite of Catherine Sinclair and her
sister being authors (the latter was known as the "good" Lady Colquhoun,
and the writer of many religious books for the Scottish poor), so little
was literary reputation then thought of by some members of the family
that, when Sir Walter Scott appeared at Rossdhu to take notes for "Rob
Roy," he was shown round _by the butler_, and never forgave the affront.
In consequence he never mentioned the Colquhouns in that great romance
or in the "Lady of the Lake."
Speaking of Rossdhu, you tell your hostess that you have been taken over
those ancestral halls and round the great picture galleries, and had
noticed with much surprise that there was no portrait of her to be seen.
This omission may however some day be repaired.
Mrs. Walford remarks that it was not until after her marriage that she
took seriously to novel writing. Whilst yet in her teens she was wont to
steal out into the shrubbery with paper and pencil and write short
stories, one of which was called "Macgregor, our Chieftain," but as she
burnt these early effusions as fast as they were written, nothing
remains of Macgregor's adventures. In 1872 delicacy of health prevented
her pursuing the active out-of-door life which she had always enjoyed;
so, as the necessity arose for finding vent for her energy, the young
author spent a long period of bodily rest in mental activity, its first
fruits being "Mr. Smith: A part of his Life." This character was drawn
from life; even the name was the same, and he was found dead as
described in the book. She sent the MS. anonymously to Mr. John
Blackwood, the late distinguished editor of _Blackwood_, who--much
struck with its promise--at once accepted and published it.
Brought up from her childhood in the stately homes of her own people,
now in Scotland, now in England, and reared in the atmosphere of healthy
country life, Mrs. Walford has been enabled to write with the frankness
and accuracy which make her books so thoroughly characteristic and
enjoyable.
_A propos_ of "Mr. Smith," an amusing anecdote is told. The Queen had
had the story read to her twice, and, being much interested in it,
expressed a wish to see the author. She was presented on her marriage by
the Duchess of Roxburghe, who on the occasion happened to take the place
of the Mistress of the Robes, absent from indisposition. It is said that
as the young novelist made her curtsey before the Royal presence, the
Duchess softly breathed into Her Majesty's ear the words, "Mr. Smith."
A series of short stories soon followed this first success and appeared
in _Blackwood_, beginning with "Nan, a Summer Scene," and under this
name they have since been collected and published in one volume.
"Pauline" next ran through the same magazine as a serial; "Cousins" was
written in 1879; "Troublesome Daughters" followed in the ensuing year.
"The Baby's Grandmother," which is perhaps the most popular of all, was
written in 1885. Then came "A Stiff-necked Generation," "A Mere Child,"
"A Sage of Sixteen," "The Havoc of a Smile" "The Mischief of Monies."
The latter book is more on the lines of "Mr. Smith" than any of Mrs.
Walford's recent works of fiction, and proved a great success in
_Longman's Magazine_. Then came "A Pinch of Experience," and later on,
she wrote a series of Biographical studies on "Famous Authoresses of
Bygone Days," for _Far and Near_, an American Magazine. This is coming
out as a Christmas gift or prize book. A little volume of Christmas
Tales illustrated by T. Pym (Mrs. Levett) is shortly to appear, and will
be called "For Grown-up Children," being stories _about_ children _for_
grown-up people. Besides this, she is a constant contributor to the _St.
James's Gazette_. She also writes a weekly letter for the American
_Critic_ on literary subjects; one called an "Epidemic of Smartness"
made a special sensation; and she has, in addition, stories in two
Christmas numbers, _The Queen_ and _Atalanta_.
One great aim of this author has ever been to make herself thoroughly
acquainted with all the details of her subject. So particular is she to
ensure absolute accuracy, that every item of military life is submitted
to one or other of her soldier brothers (two of these were respectively
in the 4th Dragoon Guards and the 42nd Black Watch), and every detail of
sport to her father; indeed, so well up was she in the latter, that a
reviewer of "Mr. Smith"--when the sex of the author was yet
unknown--caustically observed, that the writer was "more up in woodcock
shooting than in religion!" the young author not having yet learnt to
verify a quotation, even from Holy Writ.
An ardent lover of the old Scottish kirk, Mrs. Walford says that she
"would go any distance to hear a good, long sermon from some of its
divines." She is an indefatigable walker, and has traversed on foot
twenty-three miles, from Arrochar to Inveraray--"from milestone to
milestone" she is careful to add, knowing what Scotch and Welsh miles
are supposed to be. She is extremely fond of poetry, and has a good
collection of her chief favourites, whilst she keeps habitually on her
own table copies of Tennyson, Jean Ingelow, and Coventry Patmore's work.
In earlier days your hostess gave much of her time to water-colour
drawing, but her children have claimed for the decoration of their
schoolroom all her pictures, the majority of which, they proudly remark,
were "exhibited and hung on the line in the R.A. of Edinburgh." Mrs.
Walford is just saying that she was married at St. John's, Edinburgh,
when the door opens and in comes the bridegroom on that occasion. He is
a native of another part of Essex, in which county his forefathers have
held lands for several centuries, his grandfather having been High
Sheriff in the famous "Waterloo year." He is a magistrate for the part
in which he now lives, and, amidst the claims of a busy life, he finds
time to sit on the bench perhaps oftener than do many of his less
occupied colleagues. Looking at the noble, genial face, you secretly
wonder if he can ever find it in his heart to pass severe sentences on
offenders. He is extremely popular, has made a distinct mark for himself
in his own circle, and it is his wife's pride to recognise that he will
never be known as "Mrs. Walford's husband."
An hour later you are taken into the dining-room, through the ante-room,
in the latter, a table near the great bay windows is filled with all the
newest books and magazines; these are regularly changed and brought up
to date by Mrs. Walford, and are a constant source of attraction to
visitors. On your left at dinner sits your host's elder son,
"Desborough," a fine manly young fellow, just of age; he is full of
intelligence, and possesses great powers of observation. He is
delightfully entertaining throughout the meal, and asking him about the
pictures, which literally cover the walls, he explains that they are a
complete collection of Boydell's fine old Shakespearian engravings, and,
he adds modestly, these, and all the many etchings and pictures in the
house, were framed by his father.
It is quite apparent in this happy home that there is perfect love and
sympathy between the parents and the children. The children are as proud
of their good, distinguished-looking father as they are of their pretty,
gifted mother; the elder ones are keenly interested in her books, and
look out eagerly for the new copies, each confiscating one for his or
her own room. Mr. and Mrs. Walford have ever been in touch with each
individual member of their family. The children have never been put
aside for her work, and they are constantly with their mother. They have
all inherited her talent for drawing, and many of them bid fair to be no
mean proficients in the art.
On the following morning your hostess announces that she has "given
herself a holiday," and she proposes to take you out for a turn. The
season is late and, though within but a very few weeks of Christmas, the
sun is shining brightly over the grounds and the air is pleasantly warm.
What was once said of a famous lawn at Oxford may well be applied to
Cranbrooke Hall. A stranger inquired of a solemn old gardener what was
done to keep it so fine and smooth? "Well, sir," was the reply, with the
utmost gravity and good faith, "first we sows the seed, and then we
rolls it and we mows it for three hundred years." Skating will soon be
largely indulged in on the glittering lake, and many merry moonlight
parties are looked forward to during the coming severe weather, which is
predicted by the great holly trees covered with red berries. After a
stroll round the pleasant demesne, and a peep into the vineries, in
which is the old black Hamburg vine, sister of the famous one at Hampton
Court, you return through the billiard-room into the Camellia house,
which, a little later on will be a mass of bloom, sometimes as many as
two thousand being in flower at a time, in every variety of colour.
The billiard table is decorated at the sides with groops of
hand-painted flowers, exquisitely designed, and the cues are arranged in
a round oak niche, which you feel sure once contained the image of a
saint in some old cathedral. Just above the seat backs, and extending
all round the room, is a perfect picture gallery of friends'
photographs, placed closely side by side, and above these there is a
wealth of engravings and etchings which would take days to examine.
Mrs. Walford has had three old-fashioned predecessors in the paths of
literature in her own neighbourhood, namely, Thomas Day, who, exactly a
hundred years ago, wrote "Sandford and Merton," at the little village of
Aybridge, within half a dozen miles of Cranbrooke; Anne and Jane Taylor,
whose "Original Poems" were, according to Sir Walter Scott, "known to
four continents."
Before leaving, you ask to see your hostess's own special portrait
gallery of her seven children. First comes "Desborough," then the eldest
daughter, in her _debutante's_ drawing-room dress of last season; next,
two young girls yet in the schoolroom,
Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
and then the three "nursery" children, one of whom is taken in her
mother's arms. Lastly, you are shown a faded portrait of the famous
author herself, taken at the age of fourteen, and called "A
Yellow-haired Lassie," and, in the bright, radiant smile, you recognise
the appropriateness of her childish cognomen of "The Laughing Girl."
[Illustration: Rhoda Broughton]
RHODA BROUGHTON.
The ancient and historic village of Richmond is too well known to need
much description. It is thronged with kingly memories. Entering the old
park by Kew Bridge, you drive past the large and beautiful Royal
Gardens, extending along the banks of the Thames to Richmond, which were
cultivated under the immediate superintendence of King George III. The
old manor garden became Crown property in the reign of Edward I., when
it was known as Shene, and was converted into a palace by Edward III.;
but, being destroyed by fire in 1498, it was rebuilt with great
splendour by Henry VII., who changed the name to Richmond, after his
title of Earl of Richmond, ere he ascended the throne. Here was Philip
I. of Spain right regally entertained. Here was the Princess Elizabeth
shut up by her sister Mary, and here occasionally resided Charles I. On
the right stands the Observatory, built by Sir William Chambers two
centuries ago. When the road turns into the New Park south of Richmond,
the coachman points out the massive brick wall encompassing the eight
miles of its circumference, and remarks that in the reign of George II.
an attempt was made to exclude the public, which was frustrated however
by an enterprising inhabitant, who, pluckily going to law, recovered
the right of way, and thus secured the everlasting gratitude of later
generations.
It is for this picturesque and attractive place Miss Rhoda Broughton has
deserted her quiet little home at Oxford, where she had lived for twelve
years. On the high ground overlooking the Terrace Gardens, she and her
sister, Mrs. Newcome, have established themselves in the quiet and peace
they both love, in a comfortable house, standing back from the road,
which commands an extensive view of the river, winding serpent-like
through a forest of trees. Ushered upstairs into the drawing-room, where
the author receives you with much cordiality, the first thing which
strikes you is the sweet rich voice in which her welcome is uttered.
Standing facing the setting sun, with its golden light reflected on her,
you observe that she is above the middle height, and graceful in figure;
the hair, rolled back from the low broad strong-looking forehead, is
becomingly tinged with grey over the right temple, harmonizing well with
the darker shades on the neat, well-shaped head. The mouth and chin
indicate firmness and resolution. In repose, the expression might almost
be called sad, but as she speaks, the frankness in the grey eyes, set
well apart, at once dispels the idea, and the pleasant musical laugh
betrays the vein of fun and wit--entirely of an original kind--which
runs through her books. She is dressed in some fabric of dark green,
with velvet sleeves and bodice; the latter relieved at the upper part
with a paler shade of embroidered vest. The windows open on to a broad
trellised verandah, which runs the whole length of the house; and,
stepping out to it, Miss Broughton bids you look at the exquisite view.
It is a lovely day in latest autumn, the trees, turned to every shade of
gold, copper, and brown, are shedding their leaves profusely. The
sinking sun is leaving the sky deeply tinged with waves of pink and
purple, and the river looks like a silver stream, with here and there a
tinge of reflected colour, unbroken by a single boat. The air is pure
and still, with a faint suspicion of a coming frost. For a few moments
you both stand in rapt silence admiring the beautiful prospect, yet
sighing to think that the winter is so near at hand; then your hostess
leads the way back into the drawing-room, where tea is served, and as
you settle comfortably in a luxurious couch covered with tapestry of the
first Empire, and sip the fragrant beverage out of a cup of old Spode,
the eye travels round the quiet restful room, and notices the many
little knick-knacks that fill it.
On the right stands an antique writing table, with pigeon-hole drawers,
and old blue china grouped over the top. The two ancient oak cabinets
are covered with pretty "bits"; growing in a cunningly-concealed basket
is an immense pyramid of ferns and palms, which are Miss Broughton's
particular delight. On the little plush-covered table by the side of a
delicately wrought iron Italian stand--whereof the copper bowl is filled
with autumnal flowers--lies a business-like work-bag, filled to
overflowing, which gives a home-like look to the room and indicates that
it is useful as well as ornamental. On asking Miss Broughton for a peep
into her sanctuary, she smiles indulgently, and begs you to descend. The
white-painted fresh-looking staircase is partially covered with Persian
carpet of warm colour, and, throughout, the dado is composed of Indian
matting, above which hang many engravings and photographs. The large
black-and-white lozenge-shape tiles give the hall an indescribably
bright appearance, which here and there the long Indian rugs subdue, yet
throw up into relief. You enter the room sacred to the gifted authoress,
and look round. Where are the manuscripts, the "copy," the "proofs,"
which might reasonably have been expected? There is no indication of her
work on the old oak knee-hole writing-table beyond a single blank sheet
of paper reposing on a large wooden portfolio, exquisitely painted on
both sides by her friend Mrs. Andrew Spottiswoode at Dresden. A solitary
penholder lies on a china inkstand, flanked by a pair of large green
jars from Hyeres. She half guesses your look of interrogation, and
remarks that she is "resting" awhile, now that her latest book "Alas!"
is published, before launching another, entitled "Mrs. Bligh." _Elle
recule pour mieux sauter_, but at the present moment, as she kindly
causes it to be understood that no encroachment is being made on her
valuable time, you do not hesitate to ask for some details of her
literary life.
Rhoda Broughton was born at Segrwyd Hall, Denbighshire. Her father was a
clergyman, and held the family living in Cheshire, where her childish
days were passed, varied by visits to her grandfather, Sir Henry
Broughton, at Broughton Hall, Staffordshire. Her father was a student,
and himself grounded her in Shakespeare and the English classics, and
imparted also the rudiments of Latin and Greek. She was brought up
strictly, and the hours of study were long, but made interesting by her
scholarly instructor. Asking Miss Broughton if her father had been an
author, she replies, "only of his sermons, and I do not believe any of
my relations wrote a line in their lives." It is a surprise to hear that
her great gifts, her originality of style, her wonderful descriptions of
scenery, her subtle humour, are not hereditary. Keenly interested, you
ask her how then the idea of writing occurred to her.
She says she remembers a certain wet Sunday afternoon when she was about
twenty-two; she was distinctly bored by a stupid book which she was
trying to read, when "the spirit moved her to write." It was on the
leaves of an old copy-book lying at hand that she delivered her soul of
the ideas which poured in on her brain. Day after day, night after
night, she wrote swiftly and in secret, until at the end of six weeks
she found a vast heap of manuscript accumulated, to which she gave the
title of "Not Wisely, but Too Well." Miss Broughton kept it by her until
January, 1865, when she crossed over to Ireland on a visit to her
uncle-in-law, Mr. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, then editor of the _Dublin
University Magazine_; she selected two chapters at random and read them
aloud to him. He at once prognosticated the success of the book;
accepted it as a serial, and later on, suggested to Mr. Bentley that he
should bring it out in three volume form. Here, however, a check
occurred. The reader pronounced so unfavourably of its merits, that Mr.
Bentley held off. But the inspiration, once set in motion, could not be
stopped, and soon found vent in a new work, "Cometh up as a Flower."
This was well received. A couple of columns of favourable criticism in
the _Times_, and various eulogistic notices in other papers, soon caused
it to become such a marked success that Mr. Bentley reconsidered the
matter. His deliberation happily ended in the purchase of "Not Wisely,
but Too Well" from Tinsley, so that the two books were actually brought
out in the same year. The home of Miss Broughton's ancestors, Broughton
Hall, built in the reign of one of the old Tudors, is so well depicted
in "Cometh up as a Flower," that none who have read the book and seen
the place can fail to observe the absolute truthfulness of the
description.
_A propos_ of this novel, Miss Broughton tells an amusing anecdote:--"It
was claimed by other people," she says; "a lady told an acquaintance of
mine that her son had written it, which diverted me much."
The fame of these books went far afield. Some years ago a graceful
tribute was paid to the author. Captain Markham, of H.M. ship _Alert_,
begged to be introduced, and told her that in a remote Arctic region
they had by common consent christened an icebound mountain, "Mount
Rhoda," in grateful acknowledgment of the pleasure which her books had
given the officers of the ship on their perilous voyage.
"Temple Bar" secured her next two novels, "Red as a Rose is she" and
"Goodbye, Sweetheart." About once in two years Miss Broughton delights
the world with a new book. "Nancy," "Twilight Stories," "Joan," "Second
Thoughts," "Dr. Cupid," "Belinda," followed at about these intervals,
but her latest work, "Alas!" must take a high stand, if only for her
faithful delineation of life in Florence, her intimate knowledge of all
things artistic, her scenes laid in Algeria, which place she visited
last year, and her vivid and graphic descriptions of those lovely
countries, which are an education in themselves. And the humorous
touches! How much everyone sympathises with the meek, but excellent
"Amelia," whom no one thoroughly appreciates until after her death.
Uneducated in art, she appeals pitifully in the following words to her
lover, who finds out her worth too late.
"And now, where shall we go? that is the next thing--not to any gallery
or church, I think, if you don't mind. I say such stupid things about
art, and the more I try the stupider they are; let us go somewhere into
the country. I can understand the country, I am not afraid of saying
stupid things about it."
You tell her later of an observation made to you quite lately by her
sister author, Miss Braddon, ever keenly appreciative of the gifts of
another, on reading a striking description in "Alas" of the sea after a
storm, which runs thus:--"A sea even more wonderful than radiant; no
servile copy of the sky and clouds to-day, but with astonishing colours
of its own; a faint yet glorious green for a part of its watery
breadth; then what our poverty compels us to call blue; and then a great
tablecloth of inky purple, which looks so solid, that the tiny white
boats which are crossing it seem to be sailing on dry land." Miss
Braddon remarked, "Rhoda Broughton is a genius and a prose poet." Your
hostess is charmed with the kindly speech.
No solitary copy can be seen, in the well-filled book-cases, of the
author's works. She says that she sells them out and out at once, and
then has "done with them"; but, "Come," she adds, "we have talked long
enough about my books; let me show you a few of my treasures," and she
points out a small sketch by Hamilton Aide, two busts of Lord Wolseley
and Mr. Carlyle, presented to her by Sir Edgar Boehm; presentation
copies from Matthew Arnold, Lord Lytton, Henry James, Andrew Lang, etc.,
etc., and an ornamental plate rack, by which she sets great store, from
Adelaide Kemble (Mrs. Sartoris); a very ancient engraving of Titian's
"Danae" hangs over the mantelpiece opposite three lovely photographs of
"Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy." The floor of this delightful room
is covered with peacock-blue felt and a few rugs of Eastern manufacture;
a small aviary of birds stands by the window, which is open, for your
hostess is a "great believer in plenty of fresh air and a good fire."
Ere taking leave, you ask if the two fine pugs basking on the rugs are
especial pets. "Yes," says Miss Broughton, "but," mournfully, "they are
a degenerate race; and not the dear dog heroes of my books. _They_ are
all dead and gone!"
[Illustration: H. E. V. Stannard]
MRS. ARTHUR STANNARD
("JOHN STRANGE WINTER").
Emerging from the Earl's Court Station, where once stood the old manor
house of the De Veres, and glancing at the noble row of buildings across
the road, which until quite lately was the site of a _maison de sante_,
it seems impossible to realise that it was at the end of the last
century a miniature private zoological garden. Yet here the great
anatomist and surgeon, John Hunter, kept a collection of rare and
foreign animals; here, too, was the kitchen and the great cauldron in
which he performed the gruesome operation of boiling down the giant
O'Brien, whose skeleton can be seen in the museum of the College of
Surgeons. It is to be hoped that the ghost of the big Irishman was
safely laid when the work of destruction was carried on! Turning to the
left, you go down Trebovir road, past the great red-stepped house of the
well-known and successful "crammer" and army coach, Captain Pinhey,
which leads out into Nevern square. Perhaps in nothing more than in the
present style of building does the growing artistic spirit of the day
assert itself. Although the houses are not erected with the solid
masonry of other days, which seemed to defy the hand of time, they
rejoice in more picturesque effects, and certainly the handsome,
spacious Nevern-square, with its large gardens, its three well-kept
tennis courts, and its fine red-brick dwellings, is a striking instance
of the fact. It is barely a decade and a half of years since this site
was occupied by large nursery gardens, through which a winding country
lane lead to St. Mathias' Church yonder; now it is surrounded by stately
mansions, broad roads, and pleasant gardens. On the south-side a ruddy
gleam of fire-light through the red window-blinds marks the residence of
the popular author, John Strange Winter. Passing through the outer and
inner entrance doors, with mounted antlers, and Swiss carvings hung
between them, you reach the long, narrow hall, where the tesselated
black-and-white paving is covered for the most part with heavy Wilton
carpets; the rich, deep-red walls are profusely decorated with quaint
old prints, whose sombreness is relieved by Nankin and Spode china. A
later inspection shows these to include some choice engravings by
Morland, a few miniatures, and a group of family silhouettes. ("Had we
any more black relations?" Mrs. Stannard, when a child, once asked her
mother on being told which members of her family they portrayed.)
Entering the dining-room on the right, your hostess is discovered,
deeply engaged in dressing dolls for an approaching juvenile festivity,
when each little guest is to receive some gift. Clouds of filmy muslin,
embroidery, lace, and silk lie before her, and several of those already
attired repose in a row on the sofa. She extends a firm, white hand in
cordial greeting, and as there is only one more doll to complete the
set, you settle down beside her to watch the process, and notice the
deft and nimble fingers, as they swiftly run up a flounce or adjust a
tiny trimming. She is dressed in a black and grey tea-gown, which looks
like fine tapestry, with grey satin sleeves, panels, and front.
Mrs. Arthur Stannard is a tall, handsome young woman. She has fine, dark
brown eyes, which sparkle with intellect and humour, level eyebrows, and
dark hair curling over her low forehead, and well-shaped head; she has a
pretty but firm little mouth, and clear-cut chin, indicative of strength
of will. Her face has settled somewhat into gravity as she pursues her
occupation, for she has put into this apparently trivial matter, just as
she does in greater things, her very best efforts with that thoroughness
which characterises her; but as she suddenly looks up, and catches you
intently watching her, she smiles a sweet, bright smile, and laughs a
low, rippling laugh, as she seems to guess exactly what are your
thoughts. "It is for the children," she says softly, and in those few
words she betrays at once the sympathy of her nature, that sympathy with
these little ones which has caused the children of her pen to live so
vividly in the hearts of her readers.
It is a large, lofty room, pale green in colour, with carved oak dado. A
bright, clear fire blazing in the wide, tiled hearth makes the heavy,
polished brass fender and "dogs" glisten like gold. On the high, black,
carved "chimney shelf," as Mrs. Stannard calls it, stand three valuable
old blue jars, and the low, broad overmantel is composed of genuine
Dutch tiles, three hundred years in age, framed in wood. Over this is
grouped a collection of ancient blue Delft; the walls are hung with a
few good proof engravings; at night the room is amply lighted by the
huge hanging, crimson-shaded lamp, which casts a soft, becoming glow
over every corner; the floor is covered with a thick Axminster carpet of
subdued colouring, and with the exception of a handsome old carved oak
dower-chest and grandfather clock, with loud and sonorous strike, which
both date back into the last century, the rest of the furniture is
mahogany; pieces picked up here and there, restored, modernised, and
chosen with an eye to effect as well as to comfort.
Mrs. Stannard is the only daughter of the late Rev. Henry Vaughan
Palmer, rector of St. Margaret's, York. For some time Mr. Palmer had
been an officer in the Royal Artillery before his convictions led him to
lay down his sword and enter the church militant; he had come of several
generations of soldiers, and to the last day of his life found his
greatest pleasure in the society of military men; this perhaps accounts
for Mrs. Stannard's almost instinctive knowledge of army men and army
ways. Asking her if, when a child, she loved books, and gave promise of
her brilliant gift, she says, smiling, "Well, as regards my lessons,
most emphatically no! I was a restless, impatient sort of child, who
tired of everything before it was half done. I think, like all very
enthusiastic people, that I was never as happy as with books, that is to
say, novels. I was just eleven when I went to my first school, but I had
read Thackeray, Dickens, Charles Reade, and Whyte Melville up to date,
besides many others, and I was never restricted in my reading; I never
remember in my life my father or mother telling me not to read any
particular book, and," speaking very impressively, "I am all the better
for it. Years afterwards, when my father died--I was twenty-one then--I
felt that the few stories I had written and sold up to that time, were
but child's play. Then I began to work in real earnest, studying certain
authors that I might clearly realise the difference of their method and
style." But the thought at once arises, that the touching and simple
pathos of her style is entirely original, and born of no earthly model.
And then, as ofttime happens when two women are sitting together in
friendly converse, a word is dropped about her married life. Ah! here,
though much could be said, in deference to your hostess's wishes the pen
must be stayed. All who know Mr. and Mrs. Stannard know how complete and
perfect is their union. Mr. Stannard is a civil engineer, and at one
time served under the late General Gordon. He is very pardonably proud
of his clever wife, and efficiently transacts all her business
arrangements, the two--so perfect an one--working, as it were, hand in
hand.
Her _nom de guerre_, "John Strange Winter," was adopted by the advice of
the publishers of her first books, because they thought it wiser that
works so military as "Cavalry Life" and "Regimental Legends" should be
assumed by the world to be written by a man, and that they would stand a
better chance of mercy at the hands of the critics than if they went
forth as the acknowledged writing of a woman, and for a time it was so
assumed; but when "Booties' Baby" made such a success, and people wanted
to know who the author was, and where he lived, it soon became known
that "he" was a woman, although, as she did not add her name to the
title-page, it was a good while before it was generally believed. It may
here be remarked that Mrs. Stannard holds very strongly the opinion that
there should be "no sex in art," and whilst never desiring to conceal
her identity, deprecates the idea of receiving indulgence or blame on
the ground of her work being that of a woman, as both unjust and absurd.
In private life she carries out her ideas on this point so effectually
that few acquaintances would gather from her conversation (unless it
were necessary to "talk shop") that she was a literary woman at all, as,
except to a fellow worker, she would rather talk on any subject under
the sun than literature.
"The author to whom," according to Ruskin, "we owe the most finished and
faithful rendering ever yet given of the character of the British
soldier" can portray, too, in a wonderful degree the beauty of
child-life. Of modern creations there can be none better known to the
public, or which have excited more sympathy, than "Mignon" and
"Houp-la."
Correct in detail, as those can prove who were in India at the time of
the terrible mutiny of 1857, she might have written "A Siege Baby" on
the spot had it not been that she was only born on the thirteenth of
January in the previous year, and at that time was an infant in arms.
Fertile in imagination, acute in observation, sprightly and wholesome in
style, there is a freshness and life in her books which charm alike old
and young, rich and poor, at home and abroad; and that her popularity is
fully maintained is testified by the gratifying fact that a late story,
"He went for a Soldier," one of the slightest of her efforts, had a
larger sale during the first month after publication than any previous
work from her pen in the same period. One practical result of this book
must be mentioned. The scene is laid at Doverscourt, a few miles from
Mr. and Mrs. Stannard's pretty summer home at Wix. She had been greatly
distressed, when visiting that seaside place, by the sight of the
overloaded hackney-carriages, with their poor, broken-down horses.
Immediately after her indignant comments on this fact in her story,
bye-laws were passed bringing these vehicles under effective police
supervision.
Besides those already named, amongst some two or three and twenty
novels, which are all so well known as not to need description--for are
they not to be found in every library and on every railway bookstall in
the United Kingdom?--"Beautiful Jim," "Harvest," "Dinna Forget," and a
most pathetic story called "My Poor Dick," remain fixed on the memory.
This last is perhaps the author's own favourite. "Booties' Baby," as all
the play-going world knows, was dramatised and brought out four years
ago at the Globe Theatre in London. It has been on tour ever since, and
there seems no intention of terminating its long run, dates having been
booked far into the year. A late story, entitled "The Other Man's Wife,"
has been running in a serial in various newspapers, and is now issued
in two-volume form. One great element in the author's success and
world-wide literary reputation is undoubtedly to be found in her
creations of the children of her military heroes, alike among the
officers' quarters and those "on the strength." She has the happy knack
of depicting them at once simple, natural, and lovable.
"I never begin a novel," says Mrs. Stannard, "until I have got a certain
scene in my mind. I cannot write any kind of story without having one
dramatic scene clearly before me; when I have got it, I work up to that;
then the story arranges itself. But this is only the germ, the first
conception of the tale. As I write one thread after another spins itself
out, to be taken up afterwards to form a consecutive, concise whole.
Sometimes I lose my original story altogether, but never any dramatic
situation towards which I am working, and the end is often quite
different to what I had intended. When this happens I very seldom try to
fight against fate. I think all stories ought more or less to write
themselves, and it seems to me that this must make a tale more like real
life than if it were all carefully mapped out beforehand, and then
simply padded up to some requisite length."
By this time the last doll is finished and added to the row on the sofa.
They all look as if they had been turned out of a first-class milliners'
establishment. Mrs. Stannard suggests a move to her study, and leads the
way up the wide staircase, the handrail of which is protected by a broad
and heavy brass guard, put there for the sake of the little children of
the house. A broad settee on the wide conservatory landing invites you
to rest awhile and look at all the odds and ends which your hostess says
are so precious to her. Here are two handsome Chippendale chairs picked
up in Essex, many photographs of the house at Wix, a dozen pieces of
Lancashire Delph porcelain, made specially as a wedding present for Mrs.
Stannard's grandmother in 1810, some Staffordshire hunting jugs, and
some quaint little figures, "all rubbish," she says, smiling, "but
precious to me." There is, however, a Spode dinner service in blue which
is emphatically not rubbish, and a set of Oriental dishes, blue and red,
which are very effective. The landing is richly carpeted; the windows
and the doors of the conservatory are all of stained glass, while above
hangs an old Empire lamp of beautiful design filled in with small
cathedral glass. The first door on the left leads into the author's
study. It is a charming room, small but lofty, with pale blue walls hung
with many little pictures, plates, old looking-glasses, and chenille
curtains of terra-cotta and pale blue softly blended. A pretty inlaid
bookcase stands opposite the window, filled with a few well-selected
books. The horseshoe hanging yonder was cast in the Balaclava charge.
She has indeed a goodly collection of these, and owns to a weakness to
them, declaring that her first great success was achieved on the day
that she picked one up at Harrogate. There must be many hundreds of
photographs scattered about in this room, and it would be a day's
occupation to look through them all; but each has its own interest for
her, and most of them are of people well known in the literary,
scientific, artistic, and fashionable world. "I never sit here," she
says. "It is my work-room, pure and simple. Sometimes my husband comes
up, and then I read to him all my newly-written stuff, but this I do
every day."
The next door opens into the drawing-room, where there is a rich harmony
in the details of the decoration and furniture, which suggests the
presence of good and cultivated taste, combined with a general sense of
luxury and comfort. The entire colouring is blended, from old gold to
terra-cotta, from Indian red to golden brown. On the left stands a
cabinet crowded with choicest bits of china, in the middle of which is
placed the bouquet, carefully preserved, presented to the author by Mr.
Ruskin on her birthday. A lovely Dutch marqueterie table contains a
goodly collection of antique silver, and among the pictures on the walls
are a painting by Lawrence Phillips, Batley's etching of Irving and
Ellen Terry, also one of Mrs. Stannard, and a series of all the original
and clever pen-and-ink sketches in "Bootles' Children," by Bernard
Partridge, drawn as illustrations to the story in the _Lady's
Pictorial_.
After lingering long over afternoon tea, you express a wish to see the
children before they sleep. Mrs. Stannard leads the way first to a room
next her own, which is occupied by a fair little maiden, seven years of
age, with grey-blue eyes, sunny hair, and a wild-rose complexion, who
asks you to "go and see the twins." Accordingly their mother takes you
on to a large night-nursery, where the two little ones, boy and girl,
are being prepared for bed. They are just turned four, and are called
Eliot and Violet Mignon, after two of the characters in Mrs. Stannard's
books. They are perfectly friendly, and as you bend to kiss the baby
girl last, she looks reproachfully out of her great dark eyes, and
sternly commands you to "kiss Gertie, too." (Gertie is the under nurse.)
This raises a hearty laugh, under cover of which you hastily retreat.
Above all things, Mrs. Stannard is a thoroughly domestic woman. Popular
in society, constantly entertaining with great hospitality, she yet
contrives to attend to every detail of her large household, which
consequently goes like clockwork. She writes for about two hours every
morning, and keeps a neat record book, in which she duly enters the
number of pages written each day.
Presently Mr. Stannard comes in, and soon suggests an adjournment to his
study downstairs, a snug, business-like room, half filled with
despatch-boxes, books, and MSS. On a table stands a large folio-like
volume, which is Mrs. Stannard's visiting book, containing many hundreds
of names. She looks ruefully at a clip containing some sixty unanswered
letters, and candidly confesses that she finds considerable difficulty
with her private correspondence and her calls, both of which accumulate
faster than she can respond to; though, as she says, her many friends
are very indulgent to her on those scores, and are "quite willing to
make allowance for a poor woman who has the bulk of her literary work
cut out for a year or two in advance, three little children, and a
houseful of servants to manage; but, happily," she adds, "good servants.
I have been so lucky in that way."
Just now, indeed, she claims especial indulgence in respect to social
observances, for, as though so busy a life were not enough to exhaust
her energies, early in 1891 she added a new burden to her indefatigable
pen, by starting a penny weekly magazine under the title of _Golden
Gates_, subsequently altered to _Winter's Weekly_ in deference to the
opinion of those who objected to the somewhat religious sound of the
former name. The little paper was the first weekly periodical that was
ever exclusively owned, edited, and published by a popular novelist, and
its fortunes have been watched with vivid interest by all who know how
treacherous and adventuresome are such enterprises. The fresh, frank
individuality of _Winter's Weekly_ has, however, made friends for the
journal wherever it has gone, and if John Strange Winter can keep it at
its present point of unconventional interest, it may consolidate into a
valuable property. Already it seems to have suggested the publication of
new journals on similar lines, though no other woman novelist has yet
had the courage to follow suit.
Later works of this favourite writer are "Mere Luck," "My Geoff,"
"Lumley, the Painter," also a powerful and pathetic novel, in two
volumes, entitled "Only Human." Her last is a story called "A Soldier's
Children," which she has given for the benefit of the Victoria Hospital
for Children, Chelsea.
But with all this accumulation of business, these domestic cares, and
social claims, somehow Mrs. Stannard never seems in a hurry. The kind
and hospitable young couple are always ready to do an act of kindness,
and to welcome with help and counsel a new aspirant to fame in the
thorny paths of literature. Small wonder that they are so much sought
after in society, and so heartily welcomed wherever they go--and one is
seldom seen without the other. You go on your way with every hearty good
wish that each year may bring them ever-increasing prosperity and
success, for in such union there is strength.
[Illustration: Annie Hector]
MRS. ALEXANDER.
About three miles north-west of St. Paul's lies a comparatively new
suburb of the great metropolis, which but forty years ago was described
as "a hamlet in the parish of Marylebone," and through which passes the
Grand Junction Canal, almost reaching to Kilburn. London, with her
ever-grasping clutch, has seized on the vast tract of ground, which
erstwhile grew potatoes and cabbages for the multitude, and, abolishing
the nursery and market-gardens, has transformed them into broad streets,
of which one of the longest is Portsdown-road.
Not altogether inartistic is the row of substantially built houses where
Mrs. Alexander Hector has been for some years located. It is far enough
away to enable the popular authoress to pursue her literary vocation in
peace and quiet, yet sufficiently near to keep her in touch with the
busy world of literature and art, wherein she is deservedly so great a
favourite. The blue fan, serving as a screen for the window, is a sort
of land-mark distinguishing the house from its fellows. You are shown
into the library, where Mrs. Alexander is seated at a handsome oak
writing-table, busily engaged in finishing the last words of a chapter
in her new story. She looks up with a smile of welcome, and is about
to discontinue her occupation; but you hastily beg her to go on with her
work, which will give you time to look around; and as she complies with
the request, she says pleasantly, "Well, then, just for three minutes
only."
Your glance lights again on the gentle author herself, and you watch the
pen gliding easily over the page, which rests on a diminutive shred of
well-worn blotting-paper. The face is fair and smooth, the hair,
slightly grey, is simply parted back from the forehead, and the
three-quarter profile, which presents itself to your gaze, is straight
and well-cut. She wears a little white cap, and a long black gown,
trimmed with jet, and close by her side lies an enormous Persian tabby
cat of great age.
The study is divided from the adjoining room by heavy curtains drawn
aside and a Japanese screen. It is all perfectly simple and
unpretending, but the rooms are thoroughly comfortable and home-like.
The chapter being finished, your hostess rises, declares herself
entirely at your service, and mentions that she is now engaged on a new
three volume novel, which is to come out early next year in America, and
is as yet unnamed.
Mrs. Alexander was born in Ireland, though no touch of accent can be
detected. She never left that country until after her nineteenth
birthday. Her father belonged to an old squirearchal family, the
Frenches of Roscommon. He was a keen sportsman, and a member of the
famous Kildare Hunt. The few old pictures which hang on the wall are all
family portraits. One represents a paternal ancestor, Lord Annaly,
painted in his peer's robes. He was one of the Gore family, of whom no
less than nine members sat at the same time in parliament shortly before
the Union. Another picture of a comfortable-looking old gentleman in a
powdered wig is the portrait of a high legal dignitary, well known in
his day as Theobald Wolfe, a great-uncle of Mrs. Alexander. A third is a
seventeenth-century portrait of Colonel Dominic French, who looks manly
and resolute, in spite of his yellow satin coat, flowing wig, and lace
cravat, drawn through his buttonhole. This gentleman was the first
Protestant of the family, and is credited with having given up his faith
for love of his wife, who simpers beside him in an alarmingly
_decolletee_ blue dress, suggestive of the courtly style in the time of
the Merry Monarch. Her husband, with the ardour of a convert--or a
pervert--raised a regiment of dragoons among his tenantry, and fought on
the winning side at the Battle of the Boyne.
Mrs. Alexander remarks that her "kinsfolk and acquaintance in early
life, were, if not illiterate, certainly unliterary." "I always loved
books," she adds, "and was fortunate, when a very young girl, barely out
of the schoolroom, in winning the favour of a dear old blind Scotchman,
whose wife was a family friend. He was a profound thinker, and an
earnest student before he lost his sight. My happiest and most
profitable hours were spent in reading aloud to him books, no doubt a
good deal beyond my grasp, but which, thanks to his kind and patient
explanations, proved the most valuable part of my very irregular
education. In reading the newspapers to him, I also gathered some idea
of politics, probably very vague ideas, but so liberal in their tendency
that my relatives, who were 'bitter Protestants' and the highest of high
Tories, looked on me, if not as a 'black sheep,' certainly as a 'lost
mutton.' The tendency has remained with me, though my consciousness of
the many-sided immensity of the subject, has kept me from forming any
decided opinions."
The only bits of ancestry she values, Mrs. Alexander says, are her
descent from Jeremy Taylor, the celebrated Bishop of Down and Connor,
and the near cousinship of her grandmother to Lord Kilwarden, who was
the first victim in Emmet's rising; that high-minded judge, whose last
words, as he yielded up his life to the cruel pikes of his assailants,
were, "Let them have a fair trial."
The above-mentioned Jeremy Taylor, and the Rev. Charles Wolfe--whose
well-known poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," was so greatly
appreciated by Lord Byron--were the only literary members of the family
on her father's side; on her mother's, she can claim kindred with Edmund
Malone, the well-known annotator of Shakespeare.
On leaving Ireland, Mrs. Alexander, with her parents, travelled a good
deal, both at home and abroad, occasionally sojourning in London, where,
while still young, she began to write. Her first attempts were made in
the _Family Herald_ and _Household Words_, beginning with a sketch
called "Billeted in Boulogne." This is an account of their own personal
experience, when they endured the inconvenience of having French
soldiers quartered on them.
It was about this time that she was introduced to Mrs. Lynn Linton, by
the late Adelaide Proctor, with whose family she was on terms of some
intimacy, and with whose charming grandmother, the once well-known and
admired Mrs. Basil Montague, she was a prime favourite. From this
introduction arose the long, close friendship with the brilliant author
of "Joshua Davidson," which Mrs. Alexander values so highly, and of
which she is so justly proud.
In 1858 she married Mr. Hector, and wrote no more until she became a
widow.
Mr. Hector was a great explorer and traveller. He had been a member of
Landor's expedition to seek the sources of the Niger, and immediately
after his return to England he joined General Chesney in his attempt to
steam down the Euphrates to the Persian Gulf. He was also with Layard
during his discoveries in Nineveh, and spent many years in Turkish
Arabia. A man of great enterprise and ability, he was the pioneer of
commerce, and was the first who sent from London a ship and cargo direct
to the Persian Gulf, thereby opening up the trade between the two
countries.
It was after her husband's long illness, which terminated fatally, that
Mrs. Alexander again turned her thoughts to literature, to seek
distraction from her bereavement. It was then she wrote "The Wooing
o't." The book was a great success; it ran first through the pages of
_Temple Bar_; it was then published in three volumes, passed through
many editions, and has a world-wide reputation.
"I always write leisurely," says Mrs. Alexander; "I never will hurry, or
write against time. No, I have not much method," she answers, in reply
to your question, "nor am I quite without it. My stories are generally
suggested to me by some trait of character or disposition, which I have
adapted rather than produced. My people are rarely portraits, they are
rather mosaics; and, I _must_ say, I am exceedingly shy of dealing with
my men. Women I _do_ understand. Character to me is all-important. If I
can but place the workings of heart and mind before my readers, the
incidents which put them in motion are of small importance
comparatively. Of course, a strong, clear, logical plot is a treasure
not to be found every day! I am not a rapid writer; I like to live with
my characters, to get thoroughly acquainted with them; and I am always
sorry to part with the companions who have brought me many a pleasant
hour of oblivion--oblivion from the carking cares that crowd outside my
study door."
There is one point on which you would fain differ from the author. An
intimate knowledge of her books convinces you that her power of dealing
with her "men" is very great, and that her habits of observation have
stood her in good stead, whilst depicting with ready wit and
considerable skill the characters of her heroes. As you follow step by
step the career of the fascinating Trafford, in "The Wooing o't," and
watch the workings of his mind, the struggles between his natural
cynicism and pride, and his love for the humbly-born but high-souled
little heroine Maggie; his graceful rejection of the hand and fortune of
the proud heiress, and the final triumph of love over pedigree, you can
with truth echo the author's words, and feel that you too are "sorry to
part" with him and his wife, and would gladly welcome a sequel to their
histories.
Mrs. Alexander observes that there _is_ one character in that book drawn
from life, but adds, with a laugh, she "will not tell you which it is."
You have, however, a suspicion of your own.
"Her Dearest Foe" was the author's next work. It is constructed on
entirely different lines, but it is equally absorbing. The varied
fortunes of the brave heroine of the "Berlin Bazaar," of the masterful
Sir Hugh Galbraith, and the faithful cousin Tom, keep up an engrossing
interest from the first line to the last.
Her husband's Christian name being Alexander, she elected to write under
that appellation, fearing that her first book might be a failure. Having
begun with it, she has ever since kept the same _nom de plume_, and she
remarks, "It does just as well as any other."
The great success which attended these two books justified Mrs.
Alexander's further efforts. "Maid, Wife, or Widow," a clever little
story, is an "Episode of the '66 War in Germany"; "Which Shall it Be?"
"Look Before You Leap," and "Ralph Wilton's Weird" were brought out
during the next few years. They were all favourably reviewed, and many
of them passed into several editions. These were followed at intervals
by "Second Life," "At Bay," "A Life Interest," "The Admiral's Ward," "By
Woman's Wit." Mrs. Alexander wrote "The Freres" during a long residence
in Germany, whither she went for the education of her children. The
fact that she was on intimate terms with many of the good old German
families enabled her to write graphically from her personal knowledge of
the country.
In "The Executors" Mrs. Alexander broke new ground. The life-like
delineation of Karapet is drawn from her own observation and experience
of Syrian Christians, but the incidents are, of course, imaginary.
"Blind Fate," "A Woman's Heart," "Mammon," "The Snare of the Fowler,"
followed in due course, also some clever little shilling stories. The
author's latest published work in three volumes is called "For His
Sake," a pleasant and interesting novel, well worthy of the writer of
"The Wooing o't."
Mrs. Alexander's great ambition originally was to write a play; indeed,
her first few stories were planned with that object in view, but she
soon abandoned the idea, and says she "turned them into novels instead."
That there was some dramatic power in a few of her earlier efforts is
evident, as she was applied to for permission to dramatise "Her Dearest
Foe" and "By Woman's Wit." "Though," she adds, "it seems to me that the
latter is not suited to the stage."
Mrs. Alexander writes best in England. She says that London "inspires
her." She holds strong views upon education, and maintains that girls,
as well as boys, should be trained to follow some definite line in life.
She would have any special talent, whereby its possessor could, if
necessary, earn her own living cultivated to the utmost; and,
consistently following out her principles, she has sent her youngest
daughter, who has a decided genius for painting, to work in one of the
best-known studios in Paris, where she takes a fairly good place, and by
her diligence and ardour for her art at least deserves success. Another
daughter fulfils the onerous task of being "mother's right hand." But
she has yet a third, who has found a happy career in the bonds of
wedlock, and has made her home at Versailles. She is now on a visit to
her mother, and whilst you are conversing, the door opens, the young
wife comes in with a lovely infant in her arms, and the "first
grandchild" is introduced with pride. He is a perfect cherub, and makes
friends instantly.
Asking Mrs. Alexander about her early friends in literature, she
mentions with grateful warmth the name of Mrs. S. C. Hall, "whose ready
kindness never failed." "To her," she says, "I owe the most valuable
introduction I ever had. It was to the late Mr. W. H. Wills, editor of
_Household Words_. To his advice and encouragement I am deeply indebted.
His skill and discrimination as an editor were most remarkable, whilst
his knowledge and wide experience were always placed generously at the
service of the young and earnest wanderer in the paths of literature,
numbers of whom have had reason to bless the day when they first knew
Harry Wills."
Mrs. Alexander is pre-eminently a lovable woman. In the large society
where she is so well known, and so much respected, to mention her name
is to draw forth affectionate encomiums on all sides. You venture to
make some allusion to this fact; a faint smile comes over the placid
countenance, as she says inquiringly, "Yes? I believe I have made many
friends. You see, I never rub people the wrong way if I can help it, and
I think I have some correct ideas respecting the true value of trifles.
Yet I believe I have a backbone; at least I hope so, for mere softness
and compliance will not bear the friction of life."
[Illustration: Helen Reeves]
HELEN MATHERS.
(MRS. REEVES.)
Although it is but two o'clock in the afternoon, the streets are black
as night. With the delightful variety of an English climate, the
temperature has suddenly fallen, and a rapid thaw has set in, converting
the heavy fall of snow, which but two days before threatened to cover
the whole of London, into a slough of mud. It is a pleasant change to
turn from these outer discomforts into the warm and well-lighted house
which Mrs. Reeves has made so bright and comfortable.
You have judiciously managed to arrive five minutes earlier than the
hour appointed, in the hope of being able to make a few mental notes
before Helen Mathers comes in, and your perspicacity is rewarded, for a
bird's-eye glance around assures you that she possesses a refined and
artistic taste, which is displayed in the general arrangement of the
room. Lighted from above by a glass dome, another room is visible and
again a glimpse of a third beyond. The quaint originality of their shape
and build suggests the idea, of what indeed is the fact, that the house
was built more than a century and a half ago.
The first room is very long, and its soft Axminster carpet of amber
colour shaded up to brown gives the key-note to the decorations, which
from the heavily embossed gold leather paper on the walls to the
orange-coloured Indian scarves that drape the exquisite white
overmantels (now wreathed with long sprays of ivy, grasses, and red
leaves), would delight the heart of a sun-worshipper as Helen Mathers
declares herself to be.
As she now comes in, she seems to bring an additional sense of the
fitness of things. She carries a big basket of China tea-roses, which
she has just received from a friend in the country, and the long white
cachemire and silk tea-gown which she wears looks thoroughly
appropriate, despite the inclement season. It is her favourite colour
for house wear in summer or winter, and certainly nothing could be more
becoming to her soft, creamy complexion, and the natural tints of the
thick, bright copper-coloured hair, which, curling over her brow, is
twisted loosely into a great knot, lying low on the back of her head.
The conversation turning upon the peculiar structure of the rooms, Mrs.
Reeves proposes to take you into the one innermost which is truly a
curiosity. A very old cathedral glass partition opens on to a square and
lofty room, used as an inner hall, with great velvet shields of china
and brasses on its gold leather walls, and quaint old oak chairs,
cabinets, and high old-fashioned clock. A portrait in sepia of Mrs.
Reeves, done by Alfred Ward, hangs over a paneled door on the left. It
was to this picture that Mr. Frederick Locker wrote the following
lines:--
"Not mine to praise your eyes and wit,
Although your portrait here I view,
So what I may not say to you
I've said to it."
Opposite is a very wide, high door that opens into the oak-panelled
room, which may well have been a banqueting hall of the last century. It
is lighted from above, and each pane of glass has in its centre, in
vivid colours, the initials of the royal personage who, if the coats of
arms abounding everywhere are to be trusted, may have occupied this room
over a hundred years ago. By the way, the harp is absent from these
armorial bearings.
One entire side of the room is filled by a vast mirror, set in a
magnificently carved oak frame, and supported on either side by colossal
winged female figures, that are matched (and in the glass reflected) by
the caryatides who appear to hold up the massive carvings above the
door, which is itself covered entirely by superb carvings of beast and
bird, and laughing boys playing at Bacchus with great clusters of
grapes. Round this unique room runs an oak paneling of about five feet
in height, surmounted by a ledge, now decorated with trails of ivy, and
above the oak cupboards are panels representing a boar hunt, and worth,
it is said, a fabulous sum. But the glory of the room is the
mantelpiece, reaching to the roof. It was probably once an altar piece,
as the centre panel represents the Crucifixion. Two busts--one of Queen
Elizabeth, the other of the Earl of Leicester--frown down on you from a
great height, and do not please you half as well as a bronze Venus of
Milo below. The hearth itself (of an incredibly old pattern, with heavy
iron fender, which suggests a prison) has on either side two odd-looking
figures, that are supposed to represent Joan of Arc and her keeper. He
carries a knotted whip in one hand, and seems to look ferociously on
poor Joan in her half-manly, half-feminine garb.
"I am very fond of these two," says Mrs. Reeves, looking affectionately
at them, "and often dust their faces, but I am not at all fond of
sitting in this room. I much prefer my sunny quarters upstairs, and
these high carved oak chairs are uncomfortable to sit in, especially at
dinner!"
But pleasant as it is, there is other business on hand, and you cannot
linger over these beautiful antiquities; the afternoon is wearing on,
and Mrs. Reeves leads the way to the drawing-rooms, which are also oddly
shaped, and open one out of the other, like those downstairs; but those
rooms are very different to look upon, and are, in your hostess's
opinion, "much more cheery." You can step from the long windows on to a
flower-filled balcony that looks up and down Grosvenor Street. The
hangings of the first room are of yellow satin, of the second room pink;
the furniture is merely of basket work, but made beautiful and
comfortable by many soft cushions; and a long glass set in a frame of
white woodwork, its low shelf covered with rare old yellow china and
flowers, reflects the gold and cream leather walls, and the overmantel
crammed with a lovely litter of china, pictures, and odds and ends, in
the centre of which is a horseshoe. "Picked up by my boy, Phil," says
Mrs. Reeves, as you examine it, "and we always say it has brought us
luck."
But when you ask to see her writing-room--for there is not a sign of
pen, ink, and paper to be seen on a modest white escritoire behind the
door--she shakes her head and laughs.
"I have no writing-room and no particular table," she says, "indeed I
can't say in the least how my books get written. I jot down anything
that I especially observe, or think of, on a bit of paper, and when I
have a great many pieces I sort them out, and usually pin them together
in some sort of a sequence. At home, where I had an immense room to
write in over the library, the boys used to say no one must speak to me
if my 'authoress lock' were standing up over my forehead, but if I ever
display it nowadays, nobody," she adds, ruefully, "is deterred by it!
Often, just as I have settled down to do a good morning's work, and have
perhaps finished a page, someone comes in and puts letters or account
books on it, or my boy Phil rushes up and lays his air gun or his banjo
on the table, or my husband brings in some little commission or a heap
of notes to be answered for him. I always tell them," laughing, "that
everyone combines to put out of sight the story which is being written,
and often it is not touched again for a week; but my composition, when
really begun, is very rapid, and my ideas seem to run out of my pen. At
my old home they used to say I wrote the things that they thought, which
was a good, lazy way of getting out of it."
This leads to the subject of her "old home," and Mrs. Reeves imparts
some interesting details of her youthful days. She was born at
Misterton, Somersetshire, in the house described in "Comin' thro' the
Rye," and she has always most passionately loved it. Mrs. Reeves was one
of twelve children, who spent the greater part of their time in outdoor
sports and amusements, in which the girls were almost as proficient as
the boys. Their father was a great martinet, and never permitted any
encroachment on the regular lesson hours with their governess. "When I
was only eight years old," says your hostess, "our grandmamma Buckingham
(after whom I take my second Christian name) sent us a biography of
famous persons, arranged alphabetically. I looked down the list to see
if a Mathers were amongst them. It was not, and I took a pencil, and
made a bracket, writing in my name, Helen Mathers, novelist; so the
ruling idea must have been in me early."
The colour of her hair was Helen Mathers's greatest trouble in her
childhood. It was a rich red, and in the familiar home circle she was
called "Carrots," to her great annoyance, until she was sixteen. She
says:--"It gave me such genuine distress that before I was nine years
old, I had written a story depicting the sufferings of a red-haired girl
who wanted to marry a man who was in love with her golden-haired sister.
I inscribed this in an old pocket-book, looking out the names and places
in the _Times_ each day, and afterwards, in agonies of shyness, I read
it aloud to the assembled family, who received it with shouts of
mirth!"
At the age of thirteen, she was sent to Chantry School, and,
unfortunately for her, she was placed at once in the first class,
consisting of girls many years older than herself. Always ardent and
ambitious, she worked so hard that quite suddenly her health broke down,
and she became deaf--an affliction which has partially remained to this
day. No doubt this trouble drove her more into herself, and helped her
to concentrate her thoughts on literature. She wrote and wrote
incessantly for pure love of it, and before she was sixteen had
completed, her poem, "The Token of the Silver Lily." This she gave to a
friend of her family who was acquainted with Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The
great man read it, and sent her a message to the effect that, if she
persevered, she bid fair at some future day to succeed. This highly
delighted the girl, who was always working while the others played in
the beautiful place to which her parents had removed when they left
Misterton. This later home is described as "Penroses" in her late novel,
"Adieu!" which previously ran as a serial in a monthly magazine.
Her first appearance in print is thus described:--"It was hay-making
time, and everybody, boys and girls, children, servants, and all, were
down in the hayfield, when someone brought me a shabby little halfpenny
wrapper with the magic word 'Jersey' at the top. I gave a sort of whoop,
and fled down the lawn and across the orchards, and into the bosom of my
family like one possessed. 'Boys, girls!' I cried; 'it's
_accepted_--it's here in _print_! Look at it!' And never did a prouder
heart beat than the heart under my white frock that day for my
first-born bantling of the pen. I had been yachting with my
brother-in-law, Mr. Hamborough, a short time previously, with this
result, that I wrote a sketch of him and his wife and the place, and,
signing it 'N.'--short for 'Nell'--I took counsel with Mr. George
Augustus Sala, whom I did not know in those days, but who was very kind
in replying to me, and he despatched it to _Belgravia_. When it _did_
appear Jersey was very angry, and declared it was libelled, and I should
not have ventured to go over there again for a long while!"
About three years later she produced her first novel, "Comin' thro' the
Rye." It proved a great success, and was rapidly translated into many
languages; indeed, a copy in Sanscrit was sent to her. This work was
written unknown to her family. "My poor father," says Mrs. Reeves,
sadly, "I got him into the story, and though I did not mean to be unkind
or disrespectful, I could not get him out again. I hardly drew a free
breath for months afterwards, fearing someone would tell him I had
written it, and that he would be grievously offended; but I was young
and foolish, too young a great deal I often think to succeed, but it
makes me feel a sort of Methuselah now."
A story is told that many years ago a very youthful writer supplemented
a story of her own with several pages of this book, and wrote to Messrs.
Tillotson, saying she had written the twin novel to "Comin' thro' the
Rye," and would they buy it? The publishers told Mrs. Reeves of this
application. She was much amused, and in high good humour wrote back to
say that she had always understood twins appeared about the same time,
and that she had never heard before of one arriving seven years after
the other.
In 1876 Helen Mathers married Mr. Henry Reeves, the well-known surgeon
and specialist on Orthopaedics. He has been on the staff of the London
Hospital for nearly twenty years, and he, too, is an author, but his
works bear more stupendous and alarming names than those of his wife,
such as "Human Morphology," "Bodily Deformities"--sad, significant
title! But not only as the skilful surgeon, the renowned specialist, the
student, and author, is Henry Reeves known. There is another section of
the world--amongst the poor and suffering, the over-worked clerk, the
underpaid governess, the struggling artist, where his name like many
another in his noble profession, is loved and revered, and where the
word "fee" is never heard of, and the "left hand knoweth not what the
right hand doeth." Did you not know all this from personal experience,
it is almost to be read in the kind, benevolent face. His wife says,
laughing, that "he is so unselfish, he never thinks of himself, and I
have always to be looking after him to see that he gets even a meal in
peace"; and she adds, in a low and tender tone, "but he is the kindest
and best of husbands." They have but one child--"Phil"--a bright,
handsome boy of fourteen. He is the idol of their hearts, and like
quicksilver in his brightness. His mother says when he was only three,
he was found sitting at her desk, wielding a pen with great vigour, and
throwing much ink about, as he dipped his golden curls in the blots he
was making. "What are you doing?" his mother asked. "Writing ''Tory of a
Sin,'" he said, with great dignity; and now that he is older he composes
with great rapidity.
"He is at school now," says Mrs. Reeves, "and the house is like a tomb
without him. If it were not for my needlework (my especial vanity) I
could not get through the long weeks between his holidays. Children,
flowers, needlework--these are my chief delights; and as I often have to
do without the first two, my needle is often a great comfort to me."
Shortly after her marriage, Mrs. Reeves again took up her pen, and
during the next few years she wrote several novels and novelettes,
selecting peculiarly attractive titles. Amongst these books are "Cherry
Ripe," "As He Comes up the Stair," "The Story of a Sin," "The Land of
the Leal," "My Lady Greensleeves," "Eyre's Acquittal," etc., etc.
Referring to a character in the last of these, you ask to see the book;
but there is not a single volume visible; they are all conspicuous by
their absence.
Mrs. Reeves remarks that she "has done nothing to speak of lately,
feeling she has had nothing to say." Some months ago the inclination to
begin a new story came back to her, and she set diligently to work while
it lasted. A great catastrophe occurred. The first volume was finished
when, having occasion to go on other business to her publisher, she had
the manuscript put into the hansom which was to convey her to his
office. After a long conversation, she suddenly remembered that the
parcel had been left in the cab, and from that day to this she has never
recovered it. At the time she did not take the matter seriously, feeling
sure the precious packet would be found at Scotland Yard; but, though
rewards were offered and handbills circulated by the thousand, all was
of no avail. Mrs. Reeves adds, "the Press most kindly assisted me in
every possible way. Either the cabman threw it away, in total ignorance
of its value, and then was afraid to come forward and confess it, or
some dishonest person who next got into the cab may have sold, or used
the story, in America probably, or elsewhere. _Nous verrons!_ I have
written it over again. It took me a few weeks only, without notes,
without a scrap of anything to help me, save my memory, and never in my
life did I sit down to a harder task."
The author is very modest in her own opinion of this last book, and adds
ruefully, "I feel miserable over it, but I never _am_ at all satisfied
with my work, and when I sent it to my publishers, I told them that they
had much better put it into the fire--it fell so entirely short of what
I had intended." They however, happily took quite a different view of
its merits, and the novel will shortly be brought out in three volumes.
Helen Mathers is a great needlewoman. Not only are the long satin
curtains, the pillows, cushions, and dainty lamp shades all made by her
own hands; but she can cut out and sew any article of feminine apparel.
She has, indeed, a very pretty taste in dress, and many of her friends
are in the habit of consulting her in that line--from the designing of
their smartest gowns to the little economies of "doing up the old ones
to look like new." "And yet," says Mrs. Reeves plaintively, "people call
me extravagant. Why! I have not even got a fashionable dressmaker. All
my makings and mendings and turnings are done at home by a clever little
workwoman, under my own superintendance, and I am most careful and
economical. When a child, I was never taught the value of money, but I
learnt it later by experience, and experience, after all, is the best
teacher. I look upon myself as a sort of 'Aunt Sally,' at whom Fate is
always having a 'shy,' chipping off a bit here, and a bit there, but
never really knocking me off my perch."
A great solid silver donkey with panniers which must hold a pint of ink,
stands on a table close to an oval Venetian glass framed in gold and
silver. Mrs. Reeves observes that though she has no writing-table, that
is her especial ink-stand, which is carried about from room to room. It
was given to her when very young, and, she laughingly adds, "You can
imagine all the complimentary remarks the boys at home made to me about
it." She goes on to say, "I always loved a good laugh, even though it
were against myself. We were such a happy united family in the big old
house. We are all scattered now," she remarks sadly; "some are dead,
some are abroad, and one sister, who married a son of Dr. Russell, of
_Times_ renown, is in China with her husband."
Mrs. Reeves is essentially a domestic woman. She cares comparatively but
little for society, and is never as happy as when at home, with her
husband sitting on the other side of the fire-place, like "Darby and
Joan." She is excellent company, and a brilliant conversationalist. She
possesses that good gift, a low, sweet voice, which glides on from topic
to topic--now gay, with flashes of wit and mirth, now subdued to gravity
or pathos. Albeit, she is a good listener, and has the happy knack of
drawing out talk. Yet, though constantly conversing on people and social
matters, not one unkindly word or suspicion of scandal escapes her lips.
She has a good word to say for all, and speaks with affectionate
gratitude of many. She prefers the company of woman, and says that her
best friends have been those of her own sex. But the charm of her
society has beguiled you into a long visit, and whilst bidding her
good-bye the feeling arises that if a friend in need were wanted, a
friend indeed would be found in "Helen Mathers."
[Illustration: Florence Marryat]
FLORENCE MARRYAT.
Battling with a fierce snowstorm, and a keen east wind, which drives the
flakes straight into your face like repeated stings of a small sharp
whip, a welcome shelter is presently found in Florence Marryat's pretty,
picturesque little house in St. Andrew's Road, West Kensington. Two
bright red pots filled with evergreens mark the house, which is built in
the Elizabethan style of architecture, with a covered verandah running
along the upper part. By a strange coincidence, the famous author has
settled down within a stone's throw of the place where her distinguished
father--the late Captain Marryat, R.N.--once lived. Until three months
ago, there stood in the Fulham Palace Road, a large, handsome building
enclosed in ten acres of ground, which was first called "Brandenburg
Villa," and was inhabited by the celebrated singer Madame Sontag. It
next fell into the hands of the Duke of Sussex, who changed its name to
Sussex House, and finally sold it to his equerry Captain Marryat, who
exchanged it with Mrs. Alexander Copeland for the Manor of Langham, in
Norfolk, where he died. For some years past Sussex House has been in
Chancery, but now it is pulled down; the land is sold out in building
plots, and the pleasure grounds will be turned into the usual streets
and rows of houses for the needs of the ever-increasing population. The
study--or as Florence Marryat calls it, her "literary workshop"--is
very small, but so well arranged that it seems a sort of _multum in
parvo_, everything a writer can want being at hand. It has a look of
thorough snugness and comfort. The large and well-worn writing table is
loaded with books of reference and a vast heap of tidily-arranged
manuscript, betokening the fact that yet another new novel is under
weigh. A massive brass inkstand, bright as gold, is flanked on each side
by a fierce-looking dragon. Two of the walls are lined with bookshelves
from floor to ceiling, filled with books which must number many hundreds
of volumes. Over the fireplace hangs an old-fashioned round mirror set
in a dull yellow frame, mounted on plush, around whose broad margin is
displayed a variety of china plates, picked up in the many foreign
countries which Miss Marryat has visited, and the effect is particularly
good. The room is lighted at the further corner by glass doors opening
into an aviary and conservatory, which is bright with many red-berried
winter plants; this little glass-house opens on to the big kennels where
Miss Marryat's canine pets are made so comfortable.
But the door opens. Enters your hostess with two ringdoves perched
familiarly on her shoulder. She is tall in stature, erect in carriage,
fair in complexion: she has large blue eyes--set well apart--straight,
well-formed eyebrows, and an abundance of soft, fair fluffy hair. She
is dressed very simply in a long black tea-gown with Watteau pleat, very
plainly made, but perfect in cut and fit, and looking quite unstudied in
its becoming graceful simplicity.
Florence Marryat is the youngest of the eleven children of the late
well-known author, Captain Marryat, R.N., C.B., F.R.S. Her mother, who
died at the good old age of ninety--in full possession of all her
faculties--was a daughter of Sir Stephen Shairp, of Houston, Linlithgow,
who was for many years H.B.M. Consul-General and _Charge d'Affaires_ at
the Court of Russia. One side of the little study is dedicated to the
relics of her father, and in the centre hangs his portrait, surrounded
by trophies and memories. The picture is painted by the sculptor Behnes,
in water-colours, and represents a tall, fair, slight, though
muscular-looking man leaning against the mast of his ship, _Ariadne_,
dressed in the full uniform of those days, a long-tailed coat, white
duck trousers, and cocked hat held under his arm. Two smaller pictures
of him are pen-and-ink drawings by Count D'Orsay and Sir Edward Belcher
respectively.
Entering the service at a very early age, and in troublous times,
Captain Marryat gained rapid promotion, and had been in no less than
fifty-nine naval engagements before he was twenty-one, and with the
single exception of Lord Nelson he was the youngest Post Captain ever
known, having indeed attained that rank at the age of twenty-four. After
the first Burmese war, in which he took so distinguished a part, he was
offered a baronetcy as a reward for his services, but refused it,
choosing instead a crest and arms to commemorate the circumstance, with
the stipulation that the arms should be such as his daughters might
carry. This was accordingly done, and at the present moment there are
only eleven women in England who possess the same right, of which number
Miss Marryat and her sisters make five. The crest, with arms (a
fleur-de-lis and a Burmese boat with sixteen rowers on an azure ground,
with three bars argent and three bars sable) is framed, and hangs close
to what she calls her "Marryat Museum." Just below the portrait is an
oval ebony frame containing an etching of a beaver done on a piece of
ship's copper by her father, a morocco case close by holds all his
medals, which were bequeathed to her, including the Legion of Honour
bestowed on him by the Emperor Napoleon, and the picture of the dead
Emperor, sketched by the gallant sailor, and published by Colnaghi,
which is considered the best portrait of him ever taken. His daughter
remarks:--"It was always said of my father that he ever displayed to
perfection that courage, energy, and presence of mind which were natural
to his lion-hearted character. Unlike the veteran who 'shouldered his
crutch to show how fields were won,' he never voluntarily referred to
exploits of which any man might have been proud. He was content to _do_,
and know that he had _done_, and left to others the pride which he might
justly have felt for himself."
Independent of his nautical career, Captain Marryat had other great
talents. His writings will never be forgotten, from "Peter Simple" and
"Midshipman Easy" down to "Masterman Ready," the much-beloved books of
children. His "Code of Signals" is so celebrated that reference must
just be made to it. Shortly before he was elected a Fellow of the Royal
Society, he invented and brought to perfection the code which was at
once adopted in the Merchant Service, and is now generally used by the
British and French navies, in India, at the Cape of Good Hope, and other
English settlements, and by the Mercantile Marine of North America. It
is also published in the Dutch and Italian languages, and, by an order
of the French Government, no merchant vessel can be insured without
these signals being on board. Rising, Miss Marryat puts the original
work into your hands, and you observe, with something like awe, that it
is all written in the deceased sailor's own hand; the penmanship is like
copper-plate, the flags and signals are painted, and each page is neatly
indexed. Needless to say, it is regarded as a priceless treasure by his
daughter.
Born of such a gifted father, it is small wonder that the child should
have inherited brilliant talents. She was never sent to school, but was
taught under a succession of governesses. "On looking back," she says
with compunction, "I regret to remember that I treated them all very
badly, for I was a downright troublesome child. I was an omnivorous
reader, and as no restriction was placed on my choice of books, I read
everything I could find, lying for hours full length on the rug, face
downwards, arms propping up my head, with fingers in ears to shut out
every disturbing sound, the while perpetually summoned to come to my
lessons. I may be said to have educated myself, and probably I got more
real learning out of this mode of procedure than if I had gone through
the regular routine of the schoolroom, with the cut-and-dried
conventional system of the education of that day."
Florence Marryat has been twice married: first at the age of sixteen to
Captain Ross Church, of the Madras Staff Corps, and secondly to Colonel
Francis Lean of the Royal Marines. By the first marriage she had eight
children, of whom six survive.
The first three-volume novel she published was called "Love's Conflict."
It was written under sad circumstances. Her children were ill of scarlet
fever; most of the servants, terror-stricken, had deserted her, and it
was in the intervals of nursing these little ones that, to divert her
sad thoughts, she took to her pen. From that time she wrote steadily and
rapidly, and up to the present date she has actually turned out
fifty-seven novels besides an enormous quantity of journalistic work,
about one hundred short stories, and numerous essays, poems, and
recitations. She says of herself, that from earliest youth she had
always determined on being a novelist, and at the age of ten she wrote a
story for the amusement of her playfellows, and illustrated it with her
own pen-and-ink sketches (for be it known, the accomplished author has
likewise inherited this talent from her father, and to this day she will
decorate many a letter to her favourite friends with funny and clever
little illustrations and caricatures). But she wisely formed the
determination that she would never publish anything until her judgment
was more matured, so as to ensure success, that she "would study people,
nature, nature's ways, and character, and then she would let the world
know what she thought"; and in this piece of self-denial she has shown
extreme wisdom, and reaped her reward in the long record of successes
that she has scored and the large fortune she has made, but which, alas!
she no longer possesses. "Others have spent it for me," she says
plaintively; but she adds generously, "and I do not grudge it to them."
Part of it enabled her, at any rate, to give each and all of her
children a thoroughly good education, and she is proud to think that
they owe it all to her own hard work. Miss Marryat is always especially
flattered to hear that her novels are favourites with women, and she had
a gratifying proof of this when visiting Canada in 1885. She was waited
on by a deputation of ladies, armed with bouquets and presents, to thank
her for having written that charming story called "My Own Child."
"Gup," which had an extensive sale, is entirely an Anglo-Indian book,
not so much of a novel as a collection of character sketches and tales,
which her powers of observation enabled her to form out of the life in
Indian stations. For the benefit of the uninitiated, the word "Gup"
shall be translated from Hindustanee into English: "Gossip." "Woman
Against Woman," "Veronique," "Petronel," "Nelly Brooke," "Fighting the
Air," were amongst the earliest of the eighteen novels that she brought
out in the first eleven years of her literary career. These, together
with her "Girls of Feversham," have been republished in Germany and
America, and translated into Russian, German, Swedish, and French. Miss
Marryat says: "I never sit down deliberately to compose or think out a
plot. The most ordinary remark or anecdote may supply the motive, and
the rest comes by itself. Sometimes I have as many as a dozen plots, in
different stages of completion, floating in my brain. They appear to me
like a set of houses, the first of which is fully furnished; the second
finished, but empty; the third in course of building; till the furthest
in the distance is nothing but an outline. As soon as one is complete, I
feel I _must_ write it down; but I never think of the one I am writing,
always of the next one that is to be, and sometimes of three or four at
a time, till I drive them forcibly away. I never feel at home with a
plot till I have settled the names of the characters to my satisfaction.
As soon as I have done that they become sentient beings in my eyes, and
seem to dictate what I shall write. I lose myself so completely whilst
writing, that I have no idea, till I take it up to correct, what I have
written." Judging by the great heap of MSS. alluded to on her
writing-table, there seems but little for the writer to correct. At your
request, she hands you half a dozen pages, and you notice but three
alterations amongst them; the facile pen, the medium of her thoughts,
seems to have known exactly what it had to write. The novel is called
"How like a Woman," and will shortly make its appearance.
Her latest published works are "On Circumstantial Evidence," "A Scarlet
Sin," "Mount Eden," "Blindfold," "Brave Heart and True," "The Risen
Dead," "There is no Death," and "The Nobler Sex." With respect to Miss
Marryat's book, "There is no Death," many people have pronounced it to
be, not only the most remarkable book that she has ever written, but the
most remarkable publication of the time. To the public it is so full of
marvels as to appear almost incredible, but to her friends, who know
that everything related there happened, under the author's eyes, it is
more wonderful still. The amount of correspondence that she has received
on the subject ever since the book appeared in June, 1891, is
incalculable. Even to this date she has seven or eight letters daily,
all containing the same demand, "Tell us how we can see our Dead." This
book has done more to convince many people of the truth of Spiritualism
than any yet written. Florence Marryat numbers her converts by the
hundred and they are all gathered from educated people; men of letters
and of science have written to her from every part of the world, and
many clergymen have succumbed to her courageous assertions. It is
curious and interesting to know that Miss Marryat's experiences are not
only those of the past, but that she passes through just as wonderful
things every day of her life, and the spirit world is quite as familiar
to her as the natural one, and far more interesting. Whether her readers
sympathise with her or not, or whether they believe that she really saw
and heard all the marvels related in "There is no Death," the book must
remain as a remarkable record of the experiences of a woman whose
friends know her to be incapable of telling a lie and especially on a
subject which she holds to be sacred. "I really do not care much," says
Miss Marryat with a smile, "if my readers believe me or not. If they do
not it is their loss, not mine. I have done what I considered to be my
duty in trying to convince the world of what _I_ know to be true, and to
which I shall continue to testify as long as I have breath."
"Tom Tiddler's Ground" is the history of her own adventures while in
America. Many of her books have been dramatised, and at one time nine of
these plays were running simultaneously in the provinces. She says, "The
most successful of my works are transcripts of my own experience. I have
been accused of caricaturing my acquaintances, but it is untrue. The
majority of them are not worth the trouble, and it is far easier for me
to draw a picture from my own imagination, than to endure the society of
a disagreeable person for the sake of copying him or her."
But Miss Marryat's talents are versatile. After a long illness when her
physicians recommended rest from literature, believing an entire change
of occupation would be the best tonic for her, she went upon the
stage--a pursuit which she had always dearly loved--and possessing a
fine voice, and great musical gifts, with considerable dramatic power,
she has been successful, both as an actress and an entertainer. She
wrote a play called "Her World Against a Lie" (from her own novel),
which was produced at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, and in which she
played the chief comedy part, Mrs. Hephzibah Horton, with so much skill
and _aplomb_, that the _Era_, _Figaro_, _Morning Post_, and other
papers, criticised her performances most favourably. She also wrote
"Miss Chester" and "Charmyon" in conjunction with Sir Charles Young.
She was engaged for the opening of the Prince of Wales's (then the
Princes') Theatre when she played "Queen Altemire" in _The Palace of
Truth_. She has toured with D'Oyly Carte's _Patience_ companies, with
George Grossmith in _Entre Nous_, and finally with her own company in
_The Golden Goblet_ (written by her son Frank). Altogether Miss Marryat
has pursued her dramatic life for fifteen years, and has given hundreds
of recitations and musical entertainments which she has written for
herself. One of these last, called "Love Letters," she has taken through
the provinces three times, and once through America. It lasts two hours;
she accompanies herself on the piano, and the music was written by
George Grossmith. Another is a comic lecture entitled, "Women of the
future (1991); or, what shall we do with our men?" She has also made
many tours throughout the United Kingdom, giving recitals and readings
from her father's works, and other pieces by Albery and Grossmith.
For the last seven years Miss Marryat has never looked at a criticism on
her books. She says her publishers are her best friends, and their
purses are her assessors, and she is quite satisfied with the result.
She has an intense love of animals, and asks if you would object to the
presence of her dogs, as this is the hour for their admittance. On the
contrary, it is what you have been longing for, and two magnificent
bulldogs of long pedigree are let in. Ferocious as is their appearance,
their manners are perfect, and their great brown eyes seem human in
their intelligence as each comes up to make acquaintance. Meantime the
two doves have gone peacefully to sleep, each perched on a brass dragon,
and the dogs eye them respectfully, as if they were all members of "a
happy family."
A neat little maid comes in with a tea-tray, but ere she is permitted to
lay the prettily embroidered cloth, Miss Marryat directs attention to
the table, which is a curiosity. It is a small round table, made from
the oak planks of the quarter deck of H.M.S. _Ariadne_. This was sent to
her by a gentleman who never saw her, with a letter saying that she
would prize the wood over which her father's feet had so often trod. It
bears in the centre a brass inscription, as follows:--"Made from the
timbers of H.M.S. Ariadne, commanded by Captain Marryat, R.N., C.B.,
1828."
Miss Marryat, probably wishing to pay you a peculiar honour, pushes
forward her own special revolving writing chair; but no, you had
surreptitiously tried it whilst waiting for her, and unhesitatingly
pronounce it to be the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever made.
It is constructed of wood, is highly polished, and has a hard seat, hard
elbow rests, and a hard unyielding back. She laughs heartily, and
declares she will hear no word against her "old arm-chair"; she says she
has got used to it; it has been, like herself, a great traveller; she
has written in it for twenty years, and it is a particular favourite.
Miss Marryat wears a diamond ring, which has a peculiar history, and is
very old. During the first Burmese war in which her father was engaged,
the natives were in the habit of making little slits in their skin, and
inserting therein any particular stone of value they wished to conceal.
One of these men was taken prisoner, and on being searched, or felt
over--for there was not much clothing to search--a small hard lump was
found on his leg, which at once revealed the presence of some valuable.
A slight incision produced a diamond, which was confiscated, set, and
presented by the good old sailor to his sister-in-law, Mrs. Horace
Marryat, whose only son, Colonel Fitzroy Marryat, gave it to his cousin,
the author.
She takes you into the adjoining room to see two oil-paintings of
wrecks, _chef d'oeuvres_ of the great Flemish seascape painter, Louis
Boeckhaussen, and valued at a high figure. There is a story attached to
these also. They belonged originally to the Marryat collection at
Wimbledon House, and were given to her brother Frederick by his
grandmother on his being promoted to be first lieutenant of the
_Sphynx_, and were hanging in his cabin when that ship was wrecked off
the Needles, Isle of Wight. They remained fourteen days under water, and
when rescued were sent to a Plymouth dealer to be cleaned. Lieutenant
Marryat, for his bravery on that occasion, was immediately appointed to
the _Sphynx's_ twin vessel, the ill-fated _Avenger_, who went down with
380 souls on the Sorelli rocks.
After this catastrophe, the dealer sent the paintings to the young
officer's mother, saying it was by his instructions, and that he had
refused to take them to sea again, as he declared that they were "much
too good to go overboard." Miss Marryat also possesses a painting by
Cawno, from "Japhet in search of a Father," which was left to her by the
will of the late Mr. Richard Bently, the publisher, and this she prizes
highly. She has several presentation pens, one of porcupine quill and
silver, with which her father wrote his last five novels; another of
ivory, coral, and gold, inscribed with her name and presented by Messrs.
Macniven and Cameron; a third of silver, and a fourth of gold and ivory,
given by admirers of her writings; fifthly, and the one she values most
and chiefly uses, a penholder of solid gold with amethysts, which
belonged to an American ancestress of the family, for Miss Marryat's
paternal grandmother was a Boston belle. This was a tribute from her
American relations when she crossed the Atlantic, with the words that
she was "the most worthy member to retain it." A noise of barking and
scratching at the door is heard outside. Florence Marryat opens it, and
many tiny, rough, prize terriers rush in. She laughs at your exclamation
of surprise at the number of her dog friends and answers, "They are not
all kept entirely for amusement. I sell the puppies, and they fetch
large prices. It is quite the fashion to be in trade now-a-days, you
know. One lady runs a boarding-house, another, her emporium for
furniture, a third, her bonnet shop, a fourth, her dress-making
establishment, so why not I, my kennels? I love dogs better than
bonnets, or chairs, or people, and so I derive pleasure as well as
profit from my particular fancy, and I should be lonely without these
pets."
But, as though talking of old reminiscences had changed her mood from
gay to grave, she asks you to look at a few very special treasures in
her writing room. "I call this my room of home memories," she says with
exceeding softness and pathos. "There are my children's pictures;
those," pointing to a small shelf, "are my best friend's books." "_Here_
are portraits of all whom I love best, my living, and my dead!"
[Illustration: Emily Lovett Cameron]
MRS. LOVETT CAMERON.
Nestling between Knightsbridge on the north, and Brompton Road on the
south, lies a quiet, old-fashioned square, which the organ-grinder and
brass band are no longer permitted to disturb. Everything is so still
that it is difficult to realise that it is within a few minutes' walk
from a busy, noisy thoroughfare. So near and yet so far from London's
"madding crowd." In summer time when the ancient trees, which are said
never to have been disturbed for generations, are in full leaf, the
little square might indeed be a slice out of the country itself; and
even now, with bare and leafless branches, it presents a peaceful, rural
appearance, for the hoar frost has covered every bough and shrub with a
million of glittering particles, which sparkle like diamonds in the
wintry sunshine. In the centre of the north side of Montpelier Square is
Mrs. Lovett Cameron's home, a cheerful-looking little house, gay with
window boxes, and fleecy muslin curtains draped with bright coloured
ribbons. An application at the brass horseshoe knocker is promptly
responded to, and you are admitted into the hall and vociferously
greeted by "Nancy," a handsome fox-terrier, the pet of the house, a
treasure-trove from the Dogs' Home. The first object which attracts
the eye, and, as it were, overshadows you, is the head of a gigantic
Indian buffalo, so sleek and life-like in appearance, with its huge
horns, that you involuntarily shudder to think what a formidable
opponent the savage monster must have proved in the flesh ere he became
the trophy of that gallant sportsman, the late Hector Cameron.
Ascending the staircase, the walls of which are hung with a series of
Colonel Crealock's spirited hunting sketches, you are ushered into the
drawing-room, which is divided midway by a carved white wood archway of
Moorish design. Large palms, tall arum lilies, and graceful ferns, are
grouped here and there about the room; no sound is heard save the song
of caged birds. The Oriental bowls and jars are filled with great double
chrysanthemums of golden brown, and other winter flowers; but a light
step approaches; the door softly opens, and the author enters: seeing
her framed in the doorway, clad in the soft folds of a simply-made
violet velvet tea-gown, the first glance conveys to the mind an
immediate impression that she is in thorough harmony with her
surroundings.
Mrs. Lovett Cameron is a fair, slight woman, a little below the middle
height; her large blue eyes have a very thoughtful, gentle expression;
her broad low brow is crowned with bright chestnut coloured hair. Her
habitually serious look changes, however, when having settled you into a
corner of the couch, with a cup of steaming coffee, she enters into
friendly conversation. Meanwhile you cast furtive glances around the
room. A bright fire blazes cheerfully on the blue and brown tiled
hearth. The carved white mantelpiece, with side recesses, is covered
with delicate specimens of old Dresden china, and surmounted by a broad
shelf, on which stand five exquisite antique Japanese jars, the _bleu
poudre_ and deep crimson being thrown into relief by the soft tints of
the "buttercup" coloured wall paper.
Amongst the pictures which adorn the walls is a portrait, after Sir
Godfrey Kneller, of Sir Edmund Verney, an ancestor of the family,
bearing the inscription "Standard Bearer to Charles I., who lost his
life in the Battle of Edghill." The original painting is at Liscombe,
Buckinghamshire, a property which still belongs to the Lovett family.
Further on is a lovely copy of the Madonna Caracci, in the Dresden
Gallery. Several pieces of valuable old blue china, quaint bits of
Oriental flat figures, together with a plate or two of old Dutch ware
decorate the walls, and an ancient convex mirror of great antiquity. Two
antique corner cupboards (Dutch) with flat glass doors disclose many
little treasures of enamel, old Worcester and Nankin, which Mrs. Cameron
says that she prizes as much from association as for their own intrinsic
value. An Italian cabinet inlaid with ebony and ivory occupies one side
of the wall, and, unlocking its doors, she takes out some priceless
scraps of old lace of cobweb-looking fabric, which she inherited from a
maternal ancestress, together with a few pieces of the Queen Anne silver
which are scattered on the tiny marqueterie table yonder. Amongst these
there is a richly-chased tankard, on which is the inscription, "Oration
Prize adjudged to Verney Lovett, of Trinity College, Cambridge, in the
year 1774." There is an amusing story told of another of Mrs. Cameron's
ancestresses. She was a Huguenot, a Mademoiselle de Bosquet, and, at the
time of the persecution of the French Protestants, when only a little
girl, she was packed up in a basket, smuggled out of France and sent
over to England to ensure her safety.
The long, dwarf bookcase on the right is filled with literary treasures,
inherited from the "Oration Prize" winner. Mrs. Cameron takes out
several, and mentions that they are valuable editions of "Montaigne,"
"Chesterfield's Letters," the "Tattler," the "Spectator," etc., but the
gem of the collection, and one that she greatly values, is a complete
set of the poems of Edmund Waller, dated 1729, in good preservation,
each poem headed with engravings by Vertue, chiefly portraits of the
Stuart family. The bookcase opposite contains several presentation
copies from brother and sister writers. Amongst them you look in vain
for the author's own works, but she says that they shall all be seen
presently in her own study below, and as she leads the way thither, past
the conservatory, you pause to admire the picturesque grouping of the
flowers and palms, some so high that the cages of the feathered
songsters are half concealed. Your hostess remarks that she "delights in
flowers, and is always lucky with them."
Turning to the right, she opens the door of her cosy little
writing-room. The dark red walls, with a frieze of large Japanese
flowers, are hung with etchings, photographs, and pictures, all of
which have their own story. Here is a complete series of Aitken's
"First Point to Point Race"; there portraits of the "Prize Fox-terriers
of England," presented to her by the late Sir John Reid. Also sundry
winners of the Derby, and many a pet dog and horse. Mrs. Cameron points
out her husband's favourite hunter, "Roscommon," and his wonderful pony,
"Tommy Dod," who "jumped like a cat," and carried him for many seasons
in Leicestershire, and who, with his master, was often mentioned with
honour in _Baily's Magazine_. A few sketches of the Thames indicate her
favourite resort for leisure hours, many summer days and autumn holidays
being spent on the river, in quiet nooks and corners, where, under the
able tuition of her barrister brother, Norman Pearson, late of Balliol,
and coach of the "Kingston Eight," Mrs. Lovett Cameron has achieved
considerable dexterity in sculling and canoeing.
Antlers and deers' heads, ranged high near the ceiling, testify further
to the sporting proclivities of the family. Over a quaint little corner
cupboard a big stuffed hawk looks down with an absurdly wise expression.
A high, three-cornered, and somewhat ascetic-looking chair is pushed
aside from a proportionately high and business-like writing table--a
handsome old English piece of furniture, which is loaded with manuscript
and books of reference, denoting the occupation in which Mrs. Cameron
was probably engaged when summoned to receive you, and you hastily begin
a word of apology; but she turns it aside and observes that she was
"quite glad to be interrupted, as she had been working beyond her usual
hour."
Over the table hangs a venerable canary, _aetat_. fourteen, who has
learnt to be mute in business hours. Opposite the window stands a large
antique Chippendale bookcase with glass doors, filled with hooks of
history, travel, biography, English poets, and old dramatists. One shelf
is reserved for another purpose, and here can be read the names of
fourteen three-volume novels, well known to the world, written by Mrs.
Lovett Cameron. Her husband has had them all bound alike in Russian
leather, and looks on them as his own especial property. This shelf is
now nearly full, and Mrs. Cameron remarks laughingly that "by rights she
ought to die when it _is_ full, as there will be no room for any more in
the cupboard." Of these novels, the first, "Juliet's Guardian," made its
bow to the public in 1876, having previously appeared in the pages of
_Belgravia_, "Jack's Secret" ran as a serial through the same magazine,
having been applied for, when _Belgravia_ changed hands, by the present
owner "to bring him luck." Taking out one after another of these
daintily-bound volumes--"Deceivers Ever," "Vera Nevill," "Pure Gold," "A
North Country Maid," "A Dead Past," "In a Grass Country," "A Devout
Lover," "This Wicked World," "Worth Winning," "The Cost of a Lie," "Neck
or Nothing," and other short stories--you see that most of them have
passed through several editions, and in "In a Grass Country," "ninth
edition," proving the special popularity of that particular book, which
chiefly made Mrs. Lovett Cameron's literary reputation. Her latest
additions to these entertaining works of fiction are "A Lost Wife,"
"Weak Woman," and "A Daughter's Heart."
It is always deeply interesting to hear about the early days of such a
well-known writer. Explaining to Mrs. Cameron that not only in Europe,
but also in the Colonies where her books are as largely circulated, that
she has many friends and admirers who will love to hear all about her
first literary efforts, she kindly consents to gratify you, and says,
that "to begin at the beginning," she was sent at the early age of six
to Paris, to acquire the language; she was placed in the family of the
late M. Nizard, an academician, and a man of some literary repute, who
later on became a member of the Senate. She has a vivid recollection of
the house--since demolished--surrounded by a large garden in the Rue de
Conscelles, where her childish days were spent. Amongst such
surroundings, it was natural that the girl should become imbued with a
love of reading, which, though carefully guided, was stimulated to the
utmost, and when, later on, after some further years at a school in
England, she returned home, she found herself in constant disgrace,
because she was always reading and hated needlework. As her mother and
sister were enthusiastic in this feminine accomplishment, and were
constantly engrossed in the embroidering of church altar-cloths and
linen, they were inclined to look on books as an excuse for idleness.
It was at this time that the young girl-student secretly wrote several
short stories, and, although very shy of these efforts, she one day
confided to her elder sister that she "felt certain she could write a
novel." With the honest candour of a family circle towards each other,
she was promptly extinguished with the remark, "That is nonsense. If you
had any talent for writing, it would have shown itself before this."
Thus discouraged, she laid aside the idea, and never resumed it until
after her marriage, when the talent which had lain dormant could no
longer be hidden. The story of the launching of her first novel is most
interesting, as showing the courage and perseverance of the young
author.
She had no acquaintance with a single member of the literary
profession--no interest with any editor or publisher; nevertheless, on
the completion of "Juliet's Guardian," she took up, by chance, the
nearest book at hand; reading therein the names of Chatto and Windus,
she then and there packed up her MS., and without any introduction, but
with many qualms, made her way to their office. She was courteously
received, and informed that she might leave it, and after a brief period
of anxious waiting, the good news came that it was accepted. Shortly
after, it was brought out, and the young author's first step to fame was
accomplished.
Rising to replace this volume, you inadvertently press against a panel
in the lower cupboard, which falling open, dislodges a large and
somewhat discoloured roll of newspapers, and hastening to gather them up
with a murmured word of regret for the accident, Mrs. Cameron remarks
with a laugh that they are copies of a paper, the _City Advertiser_,
which she and her two brothers started, and actually kept going for six
months, the three meeting once a week to carry it on. It was a source of
endless amusement to them, until the scattering of the family caused it
to die a natural death.
The easel yonder holds a large framed photograph of the head of an
Apollo, discovered when digging under the streets of Athens; and
opposite stands a portfolio full of sketches and maps, descriptive of
the route taken by her brother-in-law, Commander Lovett Cameron, the
well-known African traveller, who nearly seventeen years ago went on
foot across Africa with a small party of friends, but, alas! came back
alone. He was the only survivor of the intrepid band, the rest all
succumbed to the perils of the expedition. He it was who surveyed the
southern portion of Lake Tanganyika, proving it to be a lake, and
discovered the river Lukuga, which is the outlet thereof. Pursuing his
travels further, he also proved Lualaba and Congo to be one river, and
later discovered Lake Kassali and the sources of the Zambesi.
But whilst following out the route on a well-worn map, and listening to
these interesting details, youthful voices are heard outside, which
recall the fact that it is the first day of the holidays, and a tap at
the door is followed by the entrance of Mrs. Cameron's two fine, bright
boys, accompanied by their father.
The elder lad, "Verney" is at Winchester, the "school for scholars," and
he has already evinced a distinct talent for composition, combined with
a fund of humour, which has found vent in one or two clever, though
childish stories, which betoken the probability that he has inherited
his mother's gift of writing, but the younger boy, "Hector," bravely
tells you he "likes play better than lessons, and he means to go abroad
and shoot elephants." As he is, however, only twelve years old his
parents feel no immediate anxiety on _that_ score.
Mrs. Lovett Cameron seldom writes after two o'clock. She uses a pen
placed in a funny little stump of a broken mother-of-pearl holder, and,
handing it to you, she says, "I have a superstition about it. Every one
of my novels has been mainly written with it, and I often say that if I
use another penholder, I write badly. I have told my husband to put it
into my coffin."
She is a capital woman of business, and remarks that she "bought all her
experience for herself."
Those who do not know Mrs. Cameron well, think that she is cold and
proud. Truly, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve; but not to all
is revealed the true nature of the woman. Do you go to consult her on a
tiresome bit of business, to take a tale of deserving charity, to
confide a personal grief? Though in the midst of writing a sentence, the
busy pen is thrown aside, as she straightens the tangled web, opens her
purse to the pitiful story, or, with tender sympathy, enters into the
sorrow.
The good old "grandfather" clock in the corner is a very ancient and
much-treasured relic; its hands, however, mark that it is time to go;
but Mrs. Lovett Cameron asks you to "stay a moment." She runs lightly
upstairs and returns with a bunch of the gold and brown chrysanthemums,
which she puts into your hands; then, casting a last look at the fierce
buffalo, you pass out into the quiet little square, and in less than
five minutes find yourself again in the noisy region of cabs and
omnibuses.
[Illustration: M Hungerford]
MRS. HUNGERFORD.
It is well worth encountering the perils of the sea, even in the middle
of winter, and in the teeth of a north-east wind, if only to experience
the absolute comfort and ease with which, in these space-annihilating
days, the once-dreaded journey from England to the Emerald Isle can be
made. You have resolved to accept a hospitable invitation from Mrs.
Hungerford, the well-known author of "Molly Bawn," etc., to visit her at
her lovely home, St. Brenda's, Bandon, co. Cork, where a "hearty Irish
welcome" is promised, and though circumstances prevent your availing
yourself of the "month's holiday" so kindly offered, and limit an
absence from home to but four days, it is delightful to find that,
travelling by the best of all possible routes--the Irish Mail--it is to
be accomplished easily and without any fatiguing haste.
Having given due notice of your intentions, you arrive at Euston just in
time for the 7.15 a.m. express, and find that by the kindness of the
station-master a compartment is reserved, and every arrangement,
including an excellent meal, is made for your comfort. The carriages are
lighted by electricity, and run so smoothly that it is possible to get a
couple of hours' good sleep, which the very early start has made so
desirable. On reaching Holyhead at 1.30 p.m. to the minute, you are met
by the courteous and attentive marine superintendent, Captain Cay, R.N.,
who takes you straight on board the _Ireland_, the newest addition to
the fleet of fine ships, owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet
Company. She is a magnificent vessel, 380 feet long, 38 feet in beam,
2,589 tons, and 6,000 horse-power; her fine, broad bridge, handsome
deck-houses, and brass work glisten in the bright sunlight. She carries
electric light; and the many airy private cabins indicate that, though
built for speed, the comfort of her passengers has been a matter of much
consideration. She is well captained, well officered, well manned, and
well navigated. The good-looking, weather-beaten Captain Kendall is
indeed the commodore of the company, and has made the passage for nearly
thirty years. There is an unusually large number of passengers to-day,
for it is the first week of the accelerated speed, and it is amusing to
notice the rapidity with which the mails are shipped, on men's backs,
which plan is found quicker than any appliance. Captain Cay remarks that
it is no uncommon thing to ship seven hundred sacks on foreign mail
days; he says, too, that never since these vessels were started has
there been a single accident to life or limb. But the last bag is on
board, steam is up, and away goes the ship past the South Stack
lighthouse, built on an island under precipitous cliffs, from which a
gun is fired when foggy, and in about an hour the Irish coast becomes
visible, Howth and Bray Head. The sea gets pretty rough, but luckily
does not interfere with your excellent appetite for the first-class
refreshments supplied. The swift-revolving paddles churn the big waves
into a thick foam as the good ship _Ireland_ ploughs her way through at
the rate of twenty knots an hour, "making good weather of it," and
actually accomplishes the voyage in three hours and fifteen minutes--one
of the shortest runs on record. The punctuality with which these mail
packets make the passage in all weathers is indeed truly wonderful--a
fact which is experienced a few days later on the return journey.
Kingstown is reached at 6.10 p.m. (Irish time), where the mail train is
waiting to convey passengers by the new loop line that runs in a curve
right through "dear dirty Dublin," as it is popularly called, to
Kingsbridge, and so on to Cork, where you put up for the night at the
Imperial Hotel.
Another bright sunshiny morning opens, and shows old Cork at her best.
Cork! the old city of Father Prout's poem, "The Bells of Shandon," which
begins thus:--
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood
Fling round my cradle their magic spells,
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on, etc., etc.
The river Lee runs through the handsome little city, and has often been
favourably compared with the Rhine. But Bandon must be reached, which is
easily managed in an hour by rail, and there you are met by your host
with a neat dog-cart, and good grey mare; being in light marching
order, your kit is quickly stowed away by a smart-looking groom, and
soon you find yourself tearing along at a spanking pace through the
"most Protestant" town of Bandon, where Mr. Hungerford pulls up for a
moment to point out the spot where once the old gates stood, whereon was
written the legend, "Let no Papist enter here." Years after, a priest in
the dead of night added to it. He wrote:--
Whoever wrote this, wrote it _well_,
The same is written on the gates of _Hell_.
Then up the hill past Ballymoden Church, in through the gates of Castle
Bernard, past Lord Bandon's beautiful old castle covered with exquisite
ivy, out through a second gate, over the railway, a drive of twenty
minutes in all, and so up to the gates of St. Brenda's. A private road
of about half a mile long, hedged on either side by privet and hawthorn
and golden furze, leads to the avenue proper, the entrance gate of which
is flanked by two handsome deodars. It takes a few minutes more to
arrive at a large, square, ivy-clad house, and ere there is time to take
in an idea of its gardens and surroundings, the great hall door is flung
open, a little form trips down the stone steps, and almost before the
horse has come to a standstill, Mrs. Hungerford gives you indeed the
"hearty Irish welcome" she promised.
It is now about four o'clock, and the day is growing dark. Your hostess
draws you in hastily out of the cold, into a spacious hall lighted by a
hanging Eastern lamp, and by two other lamps let into the wide circular
staircase at the lower end of it. The drawing-room door is open, and a
stream of ruddy light from half-a-dozen crimson shaded lamps, rushing
out, seems to welcome you too. It is a large, handsome room, very lofty,
and charmingly furnished, with a Persian carpet, tiny tables, low
lounging chairs, innumerable knick-knacks of all kinds, ferns, winter
flowers of every sort, screens and palms. A great fire of pine-logs is
roaring up the chimney. The piano is draped with Bokhara plush, and
everywhere the latest magazines, novels, and papers are scattered.
Mrs. Hungerford is a very tiny woman, but slight and well-proportioned.
Her large hazel eyes, sparkling with fun and merriment, are shaded by
thick, curly lashes. She has a small, determined mouth, and the chin
slightly upturned, gives a _piquante_ expression to the intelligent
face--so bright and vivacious. Her hair is of a fair-brown colour, a
little lighter than her eyelashes, and is piled up high on the top of
her head, breaking away into natural curls over her brow. She is clad in
an exquisite tea-gown of dark blue plush, with a soft, hanging, loose
front of a lighter shade of silk. Some old lace ruffles finish off the
wrists and throat, and she wears a pair of little high-heeled _Louis
quinze_ shoes, which display her small and pretty feet. She looks the
embodiment of good temper, merry wit, and _espieglerie_.
It is difficult to realize that she is the mother of the six children
who are grouped in the background. One lovely little fairy, "Vera," aged
three and a half, runs clinging up to her skirts, and peeps out shyly.
Her delicate colouring suggests a bit of dainty Dresden china. Later on,
you discover that this is actually the pet name by which she is known,
being indeed quite famous here as a small beauty. "Master Tom," a
splendid roly-poly fellow, aged sixteen months, is playing with a heap
of toys on the rug near the fire and is carefully watched over by a
young brother of five. The three other girls are charming little
maidens. The eldest, though but in her early teens, is intellectual and
studious; the second has a decided talent for painting, whilst the
third, says her mother, laughing, "is a consummate idler, but witty and
clever."
By and bye your hostess takes you into what she calls her "den," for a
long, undisturbed chat, and this room also bears the stamp of her taste
and love of study. A big log fire burns merrily here, too, in the huge
grate, and lights up a splendid old oak cabinet, reaching from floor to
ceiling, which, with four more bookcases, seems literally crammed with
dictionaries, books of reference, novels, and other light literature;
but the picturesque is not wanting, and there are plenty of other
decorations, such as paintings, flowers, and valuable old china to be
seen. Here the clever little author passes three hours every morning.
She is, as usual, over-full of work, sells as fast as she can write, and
has at the present time more commissions than she can get through during
the next few years. Everything is very orderly--each big or little
bundle of MSS. is neatly tied together and duly labelled. She opens one
drawer of a great knee-hole writing table, which discloses hundreds of
half sheets of paper. "Yes," she says, with a laugh; "I scribble my
notes on these: they are the backs of my friends' letters; how
astonished many of them would be if they knew that the last half sheet
they write me becomes on the spot a medium for the latest full-blown
accounts of a murder, or a laugh, or a swindle, perhaps, more
frequently, a flirtation! I am a bad sleeper," she adds, "I think my
brain is too active, for I always plan out my best scenes at night, and
write them out in the morning without any trouble." She finds, too, that
driving has a curious effect upon her; the action of the air seems to
stimulate her. She dislikes talking, or being talked to, when driving,
but loves to think, and to watch the lovely variations of the world
around her, and often comes home filled with fresh ideas, scenes, and
conversations, which she scribbles down without even waiting to throw
off her furs. Asking her how she goes to work about her plot, she
answers with a reproachful little laugh--"That is unkind! You know I
never _have_ a plot really, not the _bona fide_ plot one looks for in a
novel. An idea comes to me, or I to it," she says, airily, "a scene--a
situation--a young man, a young woman, and on that mental hint I begin
to build," but the question naturally arises, she must make a beginning?
"Indeed, no," she replies; "it has frequently happened to me that I have
written the last chapter first, and so, as it were, worked backwards."
"Phyllis" was the young author's first work. It was written before she
was nineteen, and was read by Mr. James Payn, who accepted it for
Messrs. Smith and Elder.
Mrs. Hungerford is the daughter of the late Rev. Canon Hamilton, rector
and vicar choral of St. Faughnan's cathedral in Ross Carberry, co. Cork,
one of the oldest churches in Ireland. Her grandfather was John
Hamilton, of Vesington, Dunboyne, a property thirteen miles out of
Dublin. The family is very old, very distinguished, and came over from
Scotland to Ireland in the reign of James I.
Most of her family are in the army; but of literary talent, she remarks,
it has but little to boast. Her principal works are "Phyllis," "Molly
Bawn," "Mrs. Geoffrey," "Portia," "Rossmoyne," "Undercurrents," "A
Life's Remorse," "A Born Coquette," "A Conquering Heroine." She has
written up to this time thirty-two novels, besides uncountable articles
for home and American papers. In the latter country she enjoys an
enormous popularity, and everything she writes is rapidly printed off.
First sheets of the novels in hand are bought from her for American
publications, months before there is any chance of their being
completed. In Australia, too, her books are eagerly looked for, whilst
every story she has ever written can be found in the Tauchnitz series.
She began to write when very young, at school taking always the prize in
composition. As a mere child she could always keep other children
spellbound whilst telling them fairy stories of her own invention. "I
remember," she says, turning round with a laugh, "when I was about ten
years old, writing a ghost story which so frightened myself, that when I
went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep till I had tucked my head under
the bedclothes. This," she adds, "I have always considered my _chef
d'oeuvre_, as I don't believe I have ever succeeded in frightening
anyone ever since." At eighteen she gave herself up seriously, or
rather, gaily, to literary work. All her books teem with wit and humour.
One of her last creations, the delightful old butler, Murphy, in "A Born
Coquette," is equal to anything ever written by her compatriot, Charles
Lever. Not that she has devoted herself entirely to mirth-moving
situations. The delicacy of her love scenes, the lightness of touch that
distinguishes her numerous flirtations can only be equalled by the
pathos she has thrown into her work every now and then, as if to temper
her brightness with a little shade. Her descriptions of scenery are
specially vivid and delightful, and very often full of poetry. She is
never didactic or goody-goody, neither does she revel in risky
situations, nor give the world stories which, to quote the well-known
saying of a popular playwright, "no nice girl would allow her mother to
read."
Mrs. Hungerford married first when very young, but her husband died in
less than six years, leaving her with three little girls. In 1883 she
married Mr. Henry Hungerford. He also is Irish, and his father's place,
Cahirmore, of about eleven thousand acres, lies nearly twenty miles to
the west of Bandon. "It may interest you," she says, "to hear that my
husband was at the same school as Mr. Rider Haggard. I remember when we
were all much younger than we are now, the two boys came over for their
holidays to Cahirmore, and one day in my old home 'Milleen' we all went
down to the kitchen to cast bullets. We little thought then that the
quiet, shy schoolboy, was destined to be the author of 'King Solomon's
Mines.'"
Nothing less than a genius is Mrs. Hungerford at gardening. Her dress
protected by a pretty holland apron, her hands encased in brown leather
gloves, she digs and delves. Followed by many children, each armed with
one of "mother's own" implements--for she has her own little spade and
hoe, and rake, and trowel, and fork--she plants her own seeds, and
pricks her own seedlings, prunes, grafts, and watches with the deepest
eagerness to see them grow. In springtime, her interest is alike divided
between the opening buds of her daffodils, and the breaking of the eggs
of the first little chickens, for she has a fine poultry yard too, and
is very successful in her management of it. She is full of vitality, and
is the pivot on which every member of the house turns. Blessed with an
adoring husband, and healthy, handsome, obedient children, who come to
her for everything and tell her anything, her life seems idyllic.
"Now and then," she remarks laughing, "I really have great difficulty in
securing two quiet hours for my work"; but everything is done in such
method and order, the writing included, there is little wonder that so
much is got through. It is a full, happy, complete life. "I think," she
adds, "my one great dread and anxiety is a review. I never yet have got
over my terror of it, and as each one arrives, I tremble and quake
afresh ere reading."
"April's Lady" is one of the author's lately published works. It is in
three volumes, and ran previously as a serial in _Belgravia_. "Lady
Patty," a society sketch drawn from life, had a most favourable
reception from the critics and public alike, but in her last novel, very
cleverly entitled "Nor Wife, Nor Maid," Mrs. Hungerford is to be seen,
or rather read, at her best. This charming book, so full of pathos, so
replete with tenderness, ran into a second edition in about ten days. In
it the author has taken somewhat of a departure from her usual lively
style. Here she has indeed given "sorrow words." The third volume is so
especially powerful and dramatic, that it keeps the attention chained.
The description indeed of poor Mary's grief and despair are hardly to be
outdone. The plot contains a delicate situation, most delicately worked
out. Not a word or suspicion of a word jars upon the reader. It is not
however all gloom. There is in it a second pair of lovers who help to
lift the clouds, and bring a smile to the lips of the reader.
Mrs. Hungerford does not often leave her pretty Irish home. What with
her incessant literary work, her manifold domestic occupations, and the
cares of her large family, she can seldom be induced to quit what she
calls, "an out and out country life," even to pay visits to her English
friends. Mr. Hungerford unhesitatingly declares that everything in the
house seems wrong, and there is a howl of dismay from the children when
the presiding genius even suggests a few days' leave of absence. Last
year, however, she determined to go over to London at the pressing
invitation of a friend, in order to make the acquaintance of some of her
distinguished brothers and sisters of the pen, and she speaks of how
thoroughly she enjoyed that visit, with an eager delight. "Everyone was
so kind," she says, "so flattering, far, far too flattering. They all
seemed to have some pretty thing to say to me. I have felt a little
spoilt ever since. However, I am going to try what a little more
flattery will do for me, so Mr. Hungerford and I hope to accept, next
Spring, a second invitation from the same friend, who wants us to go to
a large ball she is going to give some time in May for some charitable
institution--a Cottage Hospital I believe; but come," she adds, suddenly
springing up, "we have spent quite too much time over my stupid self.
Come back to the drawing-room and the chicks, I am sure they must be
wondering where we are, and the tea and the cakes are growing cold."
At this moment the door opens, and her husband, gun in hand, with muddy
boots and gaiters, nods to you from the threshold; he says he dare not
enter the "den" in this state, and hurries up to change before joining
the tea table. "He is a great athlete," says his wife, "good at cricket,
football, and hockey, and equally fond of shooting, fishing, and
riding." That he is a capital whip, you have already found out.
In the morning you see from the library window a flower garden and
shrubbery, with rose trees galore, and after breakfast a stroll round
the place is proposed. A brisk walk down the avenue first, and then back
to the beech trees standing on the lawn, which slopes away from the
house down to a river running at the bottom of a deep valley, up the
long gravelled walk by the hall door, and you turn into a handsome
walled kitchen garden, where fruit trees abound--apple and pear trees
laden with fruit, a quarter of an acre of strawberry beds, and currant
and raspberry bushes in plenty.
But time and tide, trains and steamers, wait for no man, or woman
either. A few hours later you regretfully bid adieu to the charming
little author, and watch her until the bend of the road hides her from
your sight. Mr. Hungerford sees you through the first stage of the
journey, which is all accomplished satisfactorily, and you reach home to
find that whilst you have been luxuriating in fresh sea and country air,
London has been wrapped in four days of gloom and darkness.
[Illustration: M Betham-Edwards]
MATILDA BETHAM-EDWARDS.
A winding road from the top of the old-fashioned High Street of Hastings
leads to High Wickham, where, on an elevation of some hundred feet above
the level of the main road on the East Hill stands a cottage, which is
the abode of a learned and accomplished author, Miss Betham-Edwards. The
quaint little "Villa Julia," as she has named it after a friend, is the
first of a terrace of picturesque and irregularly-built houses. A
tortuous path winds up the steep ascent, and on reaching the summit, one
of the finest views in Southern England is obtained.
The vast panorama embraces sea, woodland, streets, and roads, the
umbrageous Old London coach-road, above, the grassy slopes reaching to
the West and Castle hills. Far beyond may be seen the crumbling ruins of
the Conqueror's stronghold (alas! this historic spot is now defaced by
an odiously vulgar and disfiguring "lift!"), and further still, the
noble headland of Beachy Head and broad expanse of sea, on which the
rays of sunshine glitter brightly. Between the East and West hills, a
green environment, lies nestled the town, with its fine old churches of
All Saints' and St. Clement's. On a clear day, such as the present,
no view can be more exhilarating, and the ridge on which Miss
Betham-Edwards's cottage stands is lifted high above the noise of the
road below. Behind stretch the gorse-covered downs leading to Fairlight,
from whence may be seen the coast of France, forty miles off, as the
crow flies. Close under the author's windows are hawthorn trees made
merry by robins all through the winter, and at the back of the house may
be heard the cuckoo, the thrush, and the blackbird, as in the heart of
the country. Truly, it is a unique spot, inviting to repose and
inspiring cheerfulness of mind.
The interior of the Villa Julia is in thorough keeping with the
exterior. The little study which commands this glorious view is
upstairs. It is a charming room, simplicity itself, yet gives evidence
of taste and culture. There is nothing here to offend the eye, and no
suggestion of the art-decorator, but it is all just an expression of its
occupant's taste and character. "I have a fancy," says Miss
Betham-Edwards, "to have different shades of gold-colour running through
everything. It is an effective background for the pictures and pottery";
accordingly, the handsome Morocco carpet, bought by herself in the
Bazaar at Algiers, is of warm hue. The furniture and wall-paper have the
prevailing delicate tints; an arched recess on each side of the
fireplace displays lovely specimens of brilliant pottery from Athens and
Constantinople, with many shelves below, filled with volumes in various
foreign languages. On the mantelshelf stand statuettes of Goethe and
Schiller, remembrances of Weimar; the walls are hung with water-colour
sketches by Mdme. Bodichen and many French artists. Long low dwarf
bookcases fill two sides of the room, the top shelves of which are
lavishly adorned with more pottery from Germany, Italy, Spain, and
Switzerland, the whole collected by the author on her foreign travels.
Her choice little library contains first and foremost the great books of
the world, and, besides these, a representative selection of modern
literature. "It is in a small compass," she remarks, "but I keep it for
myself, eliminating and giving away useless volumes which creep in." On
a neatly arranged writing table stand a stationery-case and a French
schoolboy's desk, which is rather an ornamental contrivance of
_papier-mache_. "I invariably use it," says Miss Edwards, "it is a most
convenient thing, and has such a good slope. When one is worn out I buy
another. I do not like things about me when I write; I keep a clear
table, and MSS. in the next room. I rise early, and work for five hours
every morning absolutely undisturbed: my maid does not even bring me a
telegram."
From the window just below on the left can be seen the house of one of
Miss Betham-Edwards's _confreres_, Mr. Coventry Patmore, the poet. A
little further on is the picturesque villa which Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell
(the first woman doctor) inhabits. "As remarkable and good a woman as
ever lived," she adds. "I do not go much into society, for I find the
winter is the best time for writing. I lead a completely retired
literary life, but I have a few kindred spirits around me, and I
occasionally hold little receptions when we all meet."
In person Miss Betham-Edwards is about the medium height, middle-aged,
and slender in figure. She is fair in complexion; has hazel eyes, and a
mass of thick, dark hair, grey over the temples, and worn in a twist at
the back, the ends dispersed neatly round a small and compact head. She
is wearing black for the present, being in mourning, but is fond of
warm, cheerful colours for habitual use. "But, indeed," she says,
smiling, "I have not much time to think of dress, and I was greatly
amused by the remark of a former old landlady who, anxious that I should
look my best at some social gathering, remarked austerely to me,
'Really, Madam, you do not dress according to your talents!' Upon which
I replied 'My good woman, if all folks dressed according to their
talents, two-thirds, I fear, would go but scantily clothed.'"
Matilda Barbara Betham-Edwards is a countrywoman of Crabbe, R.
Bloomfield, Constable, Gainsborough, and Arthur Young. She was born at
Westerfield, Suffolk, and in the fine old Elizabethan Manor House of
Westerfield, Ipswich, her childhood and girlhood were spent. There was
literature in her family on the maternal side, three Bethams having
honourably distinguished themselves, viz., her grandfather, the Rev. W.
Betham, the compiler of the "Genealogical Tables of the Sovereigns of
the World"; her uncle, Sir W. Betham, Ulster King of Arms, the learned
and ingenious author of "Etruria Celtica," "The Gael and the Cymri,"
etc.; and lastly, her aunt and godmother, Matilda Betham, the author of
"A Biographical Dictionary of Celebrated Women," and other works, and
the intimate friend of Charles and Mary Lamb, Southey, and Coleridge.
From the paternal side Miss Betham-Edwards inherited whatever mother-wit
and humour she displays; her father, for whose memory she entertains the
deepest affection, was like Arthur Young, an agriculturist, and
possessed a genuine vein of native humour. Left motherless at a very
early age, she may be called self-educated, her teachers being plenty of
the best books, and with her first story-book arose the desire and fixed
intention to become herself a story-teller.
In these early days among the cowslip meadows and bean fields of
Westerfield, books were the young girl's constant companions, although
she had the happiness of having brothers and sisters. By the time she
was twelve, she had read through Shakespeare, Walter Scott, "Don
Quixote," "The Spectator," "The Arabian Nights," Johnson's "Lives of the
Poets"; then, _inter alia_, Milton was an early favourite. As she grew
up, the young student held aloof from the dances and other amusements of
her sisters, writing, whilst yet in her teens, her first published
romance, "The White House by the Sea," a little story which has had a
long life, for it has lately been re-issued and numerous "picture-board"
editions have appeared. Amongst new editions, cheaper and revised, are
those of "Disarmed," "The Parting of the Ways," and "Pearls." By
request, some penny stories will shortly appear from her pen. "John and
I" and "Dr. Jacob" were the result of residences in Germany, the former
giving a picture of South German life, and dates from this period, and
the latter being founded on fact.
"On arriving at Frankfort," says Miss Betham-Edwards, "to spend some
time in an Anglo-German family, my host (the Dr. Paulus of 'Dr. Jacob'),
almost the first thing, asked of me, 'Have you heard the story of Dr.
J---- which has just scandalized this town?' He then narrated in vivid
language the strange career which forms the _motif_ of the work." That
novel too has had a long existence. It was re-issued again lately, the
first edition having appeared many years ago. The personages were mostly
taken from life, "a fact I may aver now," she says, "most, alas! having
vanished from the earthly stage." On the breaking up of her Suffolk
home, the author travelled in France, Spain, and Algeria with the late
Madame Bodichen--the philanthropist, and friend of Cobden, George Eliot,
Dante Rossetti, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, and Herbert Spencer--herself a
charming artist, and writer of no mean power, but best known, perhaps,
as the co-foundress with Miss Emily Davis of Girton College. "To the
husband of this noble woman," she continues, "I acknowledge myself
hardly less indebted, for to Dr. Bodichen I owe my keen interest in
France and French history, past and present, and I may say, indirectly,
my vast circle of French friends and acquaintances, the result of which
has been several works on French rural life, and the greatest happiness
and interest to myself."
"Kitty," which was first published in 1870 in three volumes, later on,
in one volume, and which is, perhaps, the most popular of Miss
Betham-Edwards's stories, belongs to this period. In Bishop Thirlwall's
"Letters to a Friend" occurs the following from the late Lord Houghton:
"'Kitty' is the best novel I have ever read."
A compliment the author valued hardly less came from a very different
quarter. Messrs Moody and Sankey, the American revivalists, wrote to
her, and asked if she could not write for their organ a story on the
lines of "Kitty," but with a distinctly Evangelical bias. The request
was regretfully refused. Each character in this original and delightful
book is drawn to perfection and sustained to the end, which comes all
too soon. The genuine novel-lover, indeed, feels somewhat cheated, for
did not the author almost promise in the last page a sequel? A new
edition has just been published.
"Kitty" was followed by the "Sylvestres," which first ran through _Good
Words_ as a serial. Socialistic ideas were not so much in evidence then
as now, and many subscribers to this excellent family journal gave it
up, frightened by views which are at the present moment common property.
No story, nevertheless, has brought Miss Betham-Edwards more flattering
testimony than this; especially grateful letters from working men
pleased a writer whose own views, political, social, and theological,
have ever been with the party of progress. The books already mentioned
are, without doubt, her most important novels, though some simple
domestic stories, "Bridget" for instance, "Lisabee's Love Story," "The
Wild Flower of Ravenswood," "Felicia," and "Brother Gabriel," are
generally liked; whilst in America several later works, "Disarmed," and
particularly the two German Idylls, "Exchange no Robbery" and "Love and
Mirage" (which last novel originally appeared as a serial in _Harper's
Weekly Magazine_ in America), have found much favour. Of this novel,
indeed, Miss Betham-Edwards received a gratifying compliment from Mr.
John Morley, who wrote to her, saying: "'Love and Mirage' is very
graceful, pretty, interesting, and pathetic. I have read it with real
pleasure." It has twice been translated into German. Of later years many
editions have been reproduced in one volume form. Another American
favourite is the French idyllic story, "Half-Way," now re-issued in one
volume.
In 1891 Miss Betham-Edwards received a signal honour at the hands of the
French Government, viz., the last dignity of "_Officier de l'Instruction
Publique de France_." She is the only English woman who enjoys this
distinction, given as a recognition of her numerous studies of rural
France. Her last and most important work in this field is in one volume,
"France of To-day," written by request and published simultaneously in
London, Leipzig, and New York. In fiction her most recent contributions
are "The Romance of a French Parsonage" in two volumes, "Two Aunts and a
Nephew" in one volume, and a collection of stories, entitled "A Dream of
Millions." Of this the late lamented Amelia B. Edwards wrote to her
cousin: "It is worthy of Balzac."
Miss Betham-Edwards has devoted herself entirely to literature, and is
an excellent linguist. "I have been again and again entreated," she
says, "to take part in philanthropy, public work, to accept a place on
the School Board, etc., but have stoutly resisted. A worthy following of
literature implies nothing less than the devotion of a life-time.
Literary laziness and literary 'Liebig,' _i.e._, second-hand knowledge
or cramming, I have ever held in disesteem. If I want to read a book I
master the language in which it is written. If I want to understand a
subject I do not go to a review or a cyclopaedia for a digest, but to the
longest, completest, most comprehensive work to be had thereon. In odd
moments I have attained sufficient Latin and Greek to enjoy Tacitus and
Plato in the original. French, German, Spanish, and Italian I consider
the necessary, I should say the obligatory, equipments of a literary
calling. It seems to me that an ordinarily long life admits of reading
the choicest works of the chief European literatures in the original,
and how much do they lose in translation!"
An early afternoon tea is served in the snug little dining-room below,
in which stands a magnificent inlaid Spanish oak chest, occupying nearly
the whole side of the wall. This is a treasure heirloom, and is dated
1626, the time of Charles I.'s accession to the throne. Two quaint old
prints of Ipswich and Bury St. Edmunds are also old family relics. On
the table is a German bowl from Ilmennau--Goethe's favourite
resort--filled with lovely purple and white anemones, which have just
arrived from Cannes, and in other little foreign vases are early
primroses and violets, for Hastings has enjoyed a long continuance of
bright sunshine and mild weather. Whilst at tea, the conversation turns
on music, celebrated people whom your hostess has met, and many social
subjects. Miss Betham-Edwards says, "Music has ever been one of my
recreations, the piano being a friend, a necessity of existence, but, of
course, a busy author has not much time for pianoforte playing. _Vidi
tantum!_ I have known and heard the great Liszt. I have also spent a
week under the same roof as George Eliot and G. H. Lewes. I have watched
the great French artist, Daubigny, paint a flotilla of fishing boats
from a window at Hastings. I have heard Gambetta deliver an oration,
Victor Hugo read a speech, the grandson of Goethe talk of _den
Grossvater_ in the great poet's house at Weimar. Browning, too, I used
to meet at George Eliot's and Lord Houghton's breakfast parties.
Tourgenieff, Herbert Spencer, and how many other distinguished men I
have met! It is such recollections as these that brace one up to do, or
strive to do, one's best, to contribute one's mite to the golden
store-house of our national literature, with no thought of money or
fame!"
Miss Betham-Edwards is a first cousin of the late Miss Amelia Blandford
Edwards, the distinguished Egyptologist, and author of "Barbara's
History," etc. The author of "Kitty" is a Nonconformist, and holds
advanced opinions. She is an ardent disciple of Herbert Spencer, a keen
antagonist of vivisection, and has written on the subject, the only
social topic, indeed, which ever occupies her pen. She divides her time
between her cottage residence on the hills above Hastings and her
beloved France, where she has as many dear friends as in England. Of her
own works, the author's favourite characters are the humorous ones. The
Rev. Dr. Bacchus in "Next of Kin," Anne Brindle in "Half-way," Polly
Cornford in "Kitty" ("Where on earth," Lord Houghton asked her, "did you
get the original of that delightful woman!"), and Fraeulein Fink in "Dr.
Jacob," a study from life. As works of imagination, perhaps "Love and
Mirage" and "Forestalled" are, in her estimation, the best. "The Parting
of the Ways," "For One and the World," are also among a long list of
Miss Betham-Edwards's works. She has written a great many short stories,
whilst four charming volumes of travel must not be omitted; they are
entitled "The Roof of France," "A Winter with the Swallows," "Through
Spain to the Sahara," and "Holidays in Eastern France." These journeys
are all described with much brightness, reality, and graphic
word-painting, and betoken so thorough a knowledge of the scenes and
people that they form most pleasant and instructive reading. Many of the
works above mentioned have been translated into French--"Kitty" has just
gone into its second edition in that language--German, and Norwegian,
and all are published in Tauchnitz.
"I am always glad," remarks the author, "to hear of cheap editions. I
should like to see good books brought out at a penny. I have had various
publishers, and never quarrelled with any of them. I know Mr. George
Bentley well. He is a man of great literary culture, and is always
kindness itself to me. The late Mr. Blackett, too, was a great friend."
Miss Betham-Edwards holds such decided and sensible views on one of the
great questions of the day that they shall be given in her own words. "I
consider," she says emphatically, "cremation to be an absolute duty
towards those to come, and support it on hygienic and rationalistic
grounds. Each individual should do his or her best to promote it."
The conversation of this sympathetic and intellectual woman is so
fascinating that you are loath to leave without hearing somewhat of her
own principal reading. Expressing the wish to her, she smiles
pleasantly, and says: "My favourite English novels are 'Villette' and
'The Scarlet Letter,' both perfect to my thinking, and consummate as
stories and works of art. In German, my favourite novelist is Paul
Heyse. George Sand I regard as the greatest novelist of the age. George
Eliot's sombre realism repels me, whilst I fully admit her enormous
power. 'Don Quixote' in Spanish, with some other favourite works, I read
over and over again, Lessing's 'Nathan the Wise,' Schiller's 'AEsthetic
Letters,' these, and some of Goethe's smaller works I re-read regularly
every year; they are necessary mental pabulum. Spinoza is also a
favourite, second only to Plato. Of contemporary writers, Spencer,
Harrison, Morley, and Renan stand first in my opinion; whilst of the
living novelists I can only say that I endeavour to appreciate all. For
the stories of the late Mrs. Ewing I entertain the highest admiration;
also I delight in the graceful author of 'The Atelier du Lys.' Tolstoi,
Ibsen, Zola, and that school, I find repulsive in the extreme.
Imaginative literature should, above all things, delight. With the
sadness inherent in life should be mingled a hopeful note, a touch of
poetry, a glimpse of the beautiful an
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