Inheriting talent from both parents, and reared among literary surroundings, Iza Duffus Hardy naturally turned to writing at a very early age. Before she was fifteen she had planned and begun a novel. Always of a retiring and studious nature, she describes her lessons as having been no trouble to her, and her greatest punishment would have been to deprive her of them. Being an only and delicate child, her parents did not like her to be much away from home, so she was only sent to school for about two years, receiving all the rest of her education at home. "But I think," says Miss Hardy, "that I learned more from my father than from all my teachers put together."
Her choice of reading was carefully guided, and an early determination was made that before all things she would be thorough and conscientious in her work.
Her two first novels, "Not Easily Jealous" and "Glencairn," were followed in rapid succession by "A Broken Faith," "Only a Love Story," and "Love, Honour, and Obey." These two last were originallybrought out by Hurst and Blackett, but have been since published by Mr. F. V. White in a single volume. Then came a short rest, after which the young author wrote "The Girl He Did Not Marry," of which Messrs. Hutchinson are about to produce a new edition in their "Popular Series." Then the first journey to San Francisco gave Miss Hardy fresh ground to break, and suggested the leading ideas of the incidents and graphic description of the life in the beautiful Californian valleys, so charmingly depicted in "Hearts and Diamonds" and "The Love that He Passed By" (F. V. White).
"The nucleus of this plot," says Iza Duffus Hardy, "was a story told to me by a fellow-passenger on the cars, who had been governor of the gaol at the time of the attack by the Vigilantes. I connected that with certain incidents in a celebrated murder trial which was going on about that time, and built up all the rest of the story around those scenes."
"Love in Idleness" is a picture drawn from the life, of a winter spent among the orange groves of South Florida, a happy and peaceful time of which Lady Hardy and her daughter speak most enthusiastically, and declare to have been quite idyllic, the days gliding away in dream-like fashion, boating on the lakes, driving through the open woods of the rolling pine lands, and lounging on the piazzas, enjoying the exquisite effects of the morning sunshine, the sunset hazes, or the glorious tropical moonlight. Besides these books, Iza Duffus Hardy has also embodied her American experiences in two interesting volumes, "Oranges and Alligators" (Ward and Downey) and"Between Two Oceans." The former in particular made such a decided hit that the first edition was exhausted in two or three weeks. This work, widely noticed and quoted, was strongly recommended by many papers to the attention of parents about to send their sons abroad, as giving a fair and true picture, showing both sides of life in Florida.
Asking Miss Hardy for a peep at her study, she leads the way to a comfortable little room at the back of the house, which she calls her "cabin." Here she works from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. daily, though she confesses to taking occasionally an extra hour or two late in the afternoon, and, the conversation turning on plots, she tells you how she constructs her own. "I always," she observes, "have the story completely planned out before I begin to write it. I often alter details as I go on, but never depart from the main lines. My usual way of making a plot is to build up on and around the principal situation. I get the picture of the strongest scene—the crisis of the story—well into my mind. I see that this situation necessitates a certain group of characters standing in given situations towards each other. Then I let these characters speak for themselves in my mind, and if they do not individualize themselves, I never feel that I can portray them satisfactorily. Having got the characters formed, and the foundation of the story laid, I build up the superstructure just as an artist would first get in the outline of his central group in the foreground, and then sketch out the background and the details."
Miss Hardy's later work, "A New Othello," ran first as a serial throughLondon Society, and was afterwardspublished by Mr. F. V. White in three volumes. It deals largely with hypnotism, and not only to those readers who are interested in this subject, but also to the genuine fiction-lover, it is evident that she has handled the matter in a masterly and skilful style, and has put excellent work into it. Before beginning this book she fully read up the details of hypnotism, studying all the accounts of Dr. Charcot's experiments, whilst Dr. Morton, of New York, personally related to her the interesting episodes from his own experience, which are so ably worked into the story. The author is also an occasional contributor of a biographical article, or a fugitive poem, or a short sketch, to various magazines, and she has just finished another book, called "Woman's Loyalty," now running through the pages ofBelgravia, which she says has been somewhat delayed, owing to a sharp attack of inflammation of the eyes, from which she has now happily recovered.
And so the busy days glide on, in peaceful contentment; not that these interesting, amiable gentlewomen shut themselves from society. On the contrary, their receptions are crowded with friends well known in the world of fashion, of literature, and of art. Work alternates with many social pleasures and amusements. Both being worshippers of music and the drama, concerts and theatres are an endless source of enjoyment to them. Perhaps one secret of their popularity may lie in the fact that they always have a good word to say of everyone, and it is well known to their many friends that they may rely as confidently upon their loyalty as upon their sympathy.
Over the well-filled bookstand in the dining-roomhangs the picture of Lady Duffus Hardy, taken in her early married life. Except that the figure is slender and the hair dark, the likeness is still excellent. On one side of this painting there is a large-sized engraving of a portrait of Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy, of the Blue Squadron, painted in 1714, and on the other is a portrait of the late Lord Romilly, whose memory is treasured by your hostess as that of a kind and valued friend. The cuckoo clock opposite used to hang in Philip Bourke Marston's study, and was bequeathed to Miss Hardy, together with some other souvenirs, in memory of their life-long friendship.
A photograph of Mr. Henry Irving occupies a prominent place, and leads Lady Hardy to speak of the theatre. "I am very fond of the drama," she remarks, "and though I can thoroughly enjoy a good melodrama once in a way, yet I prefer plays of a more serious kind. I am a great admirer of Mr. Irving. Few actors, in my opinion, excel as he does both in tragedy and comedy. I think that the most intellectual treat I ever had was in witnessing the performances ofOthellowhen Henry Irving and Edwin Booth alternated the characters of Iago and Othello. Irving's Iago struck me as a subtle and masterly study. Salvini, too, realised most thoroughly my conception of Othello. He is indeed the ideal Moor of Venice. In New York we used to enjoy immensely the classic plays which are too seldom seen in London, such asCoriolanus,Julius Cæsar, andVirginius."
A visit to the theatre is in contemplation this evening; so, having been beguiled into making an unusually long but most enjoyable visit, you takeleave of Lady and Miss Duffus Hardy, with sympathetic admiration for the happy home life in which daily work is sweetened by harmony and affection. As Miss Hardy quoted the noble utterance, "Justice is the bed rock of all the virtues," you cannot help feeling that here are two women who at least endeavour to act up to their ideal.
[2]Since the serial publication of these sketches the death of the much beloved and respected writer has taken place.
[2]Since the serial publication of these sketches the death of the much beloved and respected writer has taken place.
The story of May Crommelin's life may be said to be divided into three parts. First, the period of her childish and girlish days in Ireland; next, that, when after the beginning of Irish land troubles, her family were enforced absentees, and suffering from anxieties and prolonged illness; and thirdly, during the last four years, when her London life began. The following is a brief account of her first home:—
On the east coast of Ireland there lies a long narrow neck of land, which, jutting out at the entrance to Belfast Lough, curves down by the coast of Down, and is called The Ards. Midway in it, where for an Irish mile "and a bit" the ground slopes upward from the shore, a tower rising just above the woods is a landmark for ships at sea. This is Carrowdore Castle, the home of the late Mr. de la Cherois-Crommelin, where May Crommelin (his second daughter and one of a large family) was reared.
The house, now belonging to her only brother, looks away at a dark blue belt of Irish Sea, across which on clear days after thunderstorms the Scotch coast and even houses are visible. Ailsa Craig has the appearance of a haycock on the northern horizon, andlying more southward the Isle of Man seems but a blurred mass. Behind is the salt backwater of Strangford Lough, and this arm of sea keeps the temperature so moist that snow rarely lies long, and the humid nature of the soil causes the garden of Carrowdore facing south to luxuriate in giant tree-myrtles, sweet verbenas, and even hot-house flowers growing out of doors. It is somewhat lonely in winter when the wind blows over the bare low hills that have caused The Ards to be compared to "a basket of eggs," but pleasant in summer and picturesque when its environing woods are green, when the corncrakes call from the meadows on June evenings, and the Orange drums beat along the lanes.
Such was May de la Cherois-Crommelin's early home. Her present abode is a pretty flat near Victoria Street. It seems quite appropriate that a well-filled bookcase should be the first thing that greets the eye as the hall door opens and admits you into a long carpeted passage, lined with a high dado of blue-and-white Indian matting, above which, on art paper of the same colours, hang several framed photographs, reminiscences of the Rhine, Nuremberg, and the Engadine. A little way down on the left is Miss Crommelin's writing-room, which is laid down with Indian matting, and contains an unusually large, workmanlike-looking writing-table, replete with little drawers, big drawers, and raised desk. The principal feature of this room is a carved oak fireplace, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and which is quite original in design and execution. There is a handsome old oak dower chest standing near the window, here anantique "ball-and-claw" footed table, and there a few good Chippendale chairs.
But whilst you are taking a brief scrutiny around, Miss Crommelin enters. It is very easy to describe her. She is certainly above the middle height, but looks taller than she really is by reason of her absolutely faultless figure. It is exquisitely moulded, and every movement is graceful. The good-shaped head and slender neck are well set on her shoulders, fair chestnut-coloured hair curls over a low, wide brow. The eyes, large and of the real Irish grey, are fringed with long lashes, she has a straight nose, and the expression of mouth and chin is that of dignity and repose. Her manner is peculiarly gentle and sweet, and her voice is pleasant to the ear. The long, dark blue velvet tea-gown that she wears, with its paler blue satin front folded in at the shapely waist, becomes her well, and harmonises with the artistic decorations of her pretty little drawing-room into which she has taken you. The curtains are made of some art blue fabric, the walls are pale yellow with a lighter frieze above, and are encrusted with memories of the last three or four years, when the author first set up housekeeping in London. All the woodwork is of dark walnut, as are the overmantel andétagère, the doors are panelled with Japanese raised paper, a long carved bracket has an excellent background of choice photographs, and there is a delightful little "cosy corner," draped with dark terra-cotta and blue tapestry, over which is a carved rail and shelf filled with odds and ends of china, pet bits of blue Dutch delft, and quaint little old brasses and bronzes from Munich andFlorence. There is an Innocenza framed in box-wood, and on the small tables yonder are some little carved woodenstovisuch as are used in Holland, an old-fashioned brass Lucernina, and many more little souvenirs, all of which she has gathered together on foreign excursions. Amongst the pictures there is one which Miss Crommelin particularly values—it is a large and beautiful etching of Joan of Arc, by Rajon, who presented it to her shortly before his death, with an inscription in his own handwriting.
Some photographs of Carrowdore on the table close by lead you to ask her for some particulars of her people. "Mr. Smiles remarked to me," she says, "'Yours is a historical name' (he has written about us in his 'Huguenots'). I will try to think about some little family incidents, though I am afraid that to talk about my family will rather bore you, but I can briefly tell you the first that we know of them is in the archives of Ghent. In 1133 the Count of Flanders concluded an 'Accord' between the Abbot of St. Pierre de Gand and Walter Crommelin concerning the domain of Testress. In 1303, one Heinderic Crommelin was three times burgomaster of Der Kuere, near Ghent. I have been told it is strange that simple burghers had a surname in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries."
Later on came those terrible times of the persecutions in the Netherlands, when women were buried alive, and men were burned at the stake for their faith. The Crommelins fled to France, and a pious ancestor of that day wrote the history of their adventures, which record is preserved in the British Museum. It begins, "Au nom de Dieu. Armand Crommelin et safemme vivoient dans le Seizième Siécle, dans un tems de troubles, de guerres, de persécutions cruelles, etc." This was their first flight. In France they prospered exceedingly by special favour of Henri IV., until came the Edict of Nantes. But acting on the old Huguenot motto, "Mieux vaut quitter patrie que foi," they chose exile rather than renounce their religion. This time, one brother escaped with difficulty to Holland, where his descendants still reside, but another, Louis Crommelin, offered his sword to William of Orange, crossed with him to England, and finally settled in the north of Ireland, where he brought Huguenot weavers and taught the linen trade, which is one of the greatest sources of Ulster's commercial prosperity. To this day his name is honoured as a benefactor, and he received a Royal grant from William III., which founded anew the fortunes of his family.
The de la Cherois, who were of a noble family in Champagne, also fled with difficulty from France. They and the Crommelins were closely connected by marriage, and also married into other families of the little Huguenot colony in Ulster. "Perhaps this keeping to themselves preserved their foreign characteristics longer and their faith stronger," says your hostess. "Then one ancestress—we have her picture at home, taken in a flowing white gown, and piled-up curls—married the last Earl of Mount Alexander. At her death she left the present County Down estate to my great-grandfather. He first, I think, took unto himself a wife of the daughters of Heth. She was a beautiful Miss Dobbs, of the family now living at Castle Dobbs in County Antrim. I must show you aphotograph of her portrait. Would it not make a lovely fancy dress?—the grey gown with puffed sleeves and neck-ruffle, and wide riding-hat and feathers. Then my grandfather married the Honourable Elizabeth de Moleyns, Lord Ventry's daughter. You see her picture is scanty skirted, with the waist under the arms. My grandfather must have been rather too splendid in his ideas. Some of these were for improving the country generally, as well as his own estate, but he lost many thousands in trying to carry them into practice. I must tell you that an ancestress, Judith de la Cherois, escaped from France with her sister by riding at night across the country, their jewels sewn in their dresses. She lived to be 113, and was quite strong to the last, and though she lived fifty years in Ireland she could never speak English, which she said, with vexation, was because people laughed rudely at her first attempts.
If it be true that the girl is mother to the woman (to change the proverb), then May Crommelin still retains some characteristics of her childhood. A shy child, sensitive to an intense degree, and shrinking from the observation of strangers, her great delight when small was to be allowed to run almost wild about the woods and fields with her little brothers and sisters, and to visit all the tenant-farmers' houses, where the children from the Castle were always warmly welcomed, and regaled with tea, and oatmeal or potato cakes, in the parlour. In these later years she still retains the intense love of nature that she had then, and her descriptions of scenery have ever been praised as word-painting of rare fidelity. Takingin her impressions early she produced them later in a book called "Orange Lily," which proved how well she knew the peasant life of Ulster, a work which was declared by good judges to be absolutely faithful, while she herself was proud to find the farmers on her father's estates in Down and Antrim had copies of the book sent home from America, where it could be bought cheap, and where the many immigrants from the "Ould Country" welcomed it.
At five years of age she could read fluently, and thenceforth through childhood she read so ardently that, having then defective vision, though unfortunately it was unnoticed, it probably contributed to a delicacy of eyesight that still troubles her. All the children used to improvise, and from seven years old there hardly ever was a time when May and her elder sister had not a story, written on their copybook paper, stuffed into their pockets to read to each other at night. The girls did not go to school, but were educated by foreign governesses, and Miss Crommelin has not forgotten the miseries she and her sister went through under the tuition of one whom she calls "that charming fiend," and there is somewhat of indignation in her gentle voice as she recalls her experiences.
"I believe," she says, "that one's character is greatly influenced for life by the events of one's childhood. Mine was. A boy may be made or marred at his public school, a girl likewise looks back to her governess as the mistress of her mind and manners. We had one for three or four years who was so plausible that I am not surprised in later years, our mother used to say with regretful bewilderment she could notunderstand how it was that she never knew our sufferings. Ulster was gay in those days, and our parents were often absent on visits of a week or so, all through the winter. Our mother was highly accomplished, and we were always anxious to be praised by her for progress in the schoolroom. Our tormentor devised a punishment for us when she was offended (and she seemed to hate us because we were children) of not correcting our lessons. For weeks we blundered at the piano or brought her our French exercises—returned with a sneer—while swallowing our indignant tears, knowing well how our dulness and inattention would be complained of on our parents' return. She poisoned our innocent pleasures, and I can still remember how our hearts stood still at that catlike footstep, but," Miss Crommelin adds, with a laugh, "I put her into one of my books, 'My Love, she's but a Lassie,' under the guise of a cruel stepmother!" A curious incident happened to this smiling hypocrite. The servants execrated her, and one day in the nursery, when the poor little girls had whispered some new woe into the ears of two or three of the warm-hearted maids, one of them exclaimed, slowly and solemnly, the while pointing out of the window to the enemy standing below: "Madam Mosel, I wish you an illness that may lay you on your back for months!" Soon afterwards the malediction was fulfilled. The governess became ailing, took to the sofa for weeks, and was obliged to leave. Both servants and children were much awed, and quite convinced that it was a "judgment."
Next came a kindly German, who found the childreneager to be taught, and she was not loath to gratify them, but rather beyond their expectations. "I remember," says Miss Crommelin, "after a long morning and afternoon's spell of lessons, her idea of a winter evening's recreation was for my sister and self to read aloud 'Schiller's Thirty Years' War.' Meanwhile, the wind would be howling 'in turret and tree,' making such goblin music as I have never heard elsewhere. We were happy for two years under this good woman."
When about sixteen years of age, May and her sister began secretly to contribute to a paper which kindly offered to print beginners' tales on payment of half-a-crown. Alas! that bubble burst, as many a youthful writer has found out for herself.
Reared in the very heart of the country, and growing up with little or no society of other young people, the children were warmly attached to each other. May Crommelin describes her elder sister as clever, ardent, with flashes of genius; but never, unfortunately, finishing any tales, and exercising much of the same sort of influence over her as Emily Brontë over her sister Charlotte. By and by, when schoolroom days ended, came the usual gaieties of a young girl introduced into Irish county society, much livelier then than during later years. There were the usual three-days' visits to the country houses of Down and Antrim through the autumn, when pheasants were to be shot; or merry house-parties met by day at hunt races and steeplechases, and filled roomy carriages at night to drive courageously many miles to a ball. The canny northern farmers allowed no foxes to be reared, but still there was a good deal of sport to be had with thelittle pack of Ards harriers, of which Mr. Crommelin was master, and the long, cold springs were sometimes broken by a season or two in Dublin.
Her first introduction to county society inspired May Crommelin to write "Queenie." She did this secretly, and about that time she went over to England on a visit to a kind uncle and aunt, to whom she was much attached. Alone with them, she confided the secret of her literary venture, and coaxed her uncle to take her MSS. to a publisher whose name caught her eye. This he did, but declined to give the name of the young author. She waited in breathless expectation, and "thought it strange that a whole week elapsed before their reply came." It arrived on a Sunday morning—unluckily—because it was a good and wise custom of the house, that no business letters should be opened on that day. It was accordingly placed in a locked cabinet with glass doors, where she could at least gratify herself by looking at the address, and never was a letter more tantalizing. The next morning, however, her hopes were rewarded by the joyful news of the publishers' acceptance, with a substantial sum of money down and a promise of so much more if the edition sold out, which it did. On returning home she in great trepidation told her father. He was somewhat of a disciplinarian, and had rigid ideas on feminine dependence and subordination, and though he did not actually forbid her writing, he never encouraged it. Thenceforth she wrote steadily in her own room, sending her MSS. to the same publishers, who had promised to take all the future works she would sendthem, whilst another offered to reprint in the same way cheaper editions.
"Black Abbey" also followed; but shortly before Miss Crommelin wrote "A Jewel of a Girl," which was the result of a visit to Holland, the head of the Crommelin family settled there wrote and asked his distant kinsman to renew the acquaintance dropped for so many years. This laid the foundation of future friendship and other mutual visits, though such little breaks were few and far between, from the island bounded by "the melancholy ocean."
As yet May Crommelin's longings from childhood had been unfulfilled. She desired to travel, to see new scenes, to become acquainted with literary-helpers, critics, or advisers. Of these she knew not one, excepting that Lord Dufferin, on his rare visits at Clandeboye, had always a cheering word of encouragement for his young neighbour. The late Amelia B. Edwards, too, a friend of some relatives in England, sent her some letters of most gratefully received advice, and the Rev. Dr. Allon, editor of theBritish Quarterly Review, having once, by chance, met the young writer for two hours when he was on a visit to Ireland, became an occasional kind correspondent and a lasting friend. Others there were none during these years.
But dark days were coming. What seemed apparently trifling accidents, through horses, led to bad results. First of all, Mr. Crommelin had a fall when out hunting, the effects of which prevented his following for ever after his favourite sports, and his health declined. Then a carriage accident was thebeginning of his wife's later always increasing illness. Their eldest daughter had not been strong, when she, too, met with a mischance. Her horse ran away with her, and she experienced a shock from which she never wholly recovered. The Irish land troubles had begun; no rents were to be expected for two years; servants and horses had to be reduced. So, like other neighbours, they resolved to be absentees for a while in a milder climate, rather than endure the loneliness of the country, far from town or doctors, and they removed to Devonshire for two years, during which time May's eldest sister died after a summer at Dartmoor.
Meantime the young author was not idle. She wrote "Miss Daisy Dimity," "In the West Countree," and "Joy." These two last are both full of lovely descriptions of moorland scenery and air, and heather scent. Then Mrs. Crommelin became rapidly worse. She could not bear the journey to Ireland, so they moved to Clifton, where, after a long period of suffering, she passed away, followed a year later by her husband. These years of hopeless illness were a terrible strain on the family; nevertheless, during the intervals of watching and nursing, Miss Crommelin wrote "Brown Eyes," a remembrance of Holland, which little work was an immense favourite; also a sketch called "A Visit to a Dutch Country House," and this was translated into several Dutch papers. Then came "Goblin Gold" in one volume, and "Love, the Pilgrim," begun before her father's death, and finished under the difficulties of temporary homelessness. Left thus free to choose an abode on her brother's returning to take possession of his Irishhome, May Crommelin at once resolved to come to London, and established herself in her present home in the cosy little flat. She describes this as "by far the happiest period of her life." Surrounded by the literary and artistic society she had always wished for, a favourite with all, enjoying also the companionship of a sister, and having opportunities for travelling when it suits her, she declares herself quite contented.
Since coming to London she has written a charming and spirited novel, "Violet Vivian, M.F.H.," of which she supplied the leading idea of the tale and two-thirds of the story, the more sporting part excepted; also "The Freaks of Lady Fortune." "Dead Men's Dollars" is the strange but true story of a wreck on the coast opposite her old home. Next came "Cross Roads," and "Midge," considered by many as her best book. Later "Mr. and Mrs. Herries," a sweet and pathetic story, and lastly "For the Sake of the Family." To the readers of May Crommelin's novels it is quite apparent that the idea of Duty is the keynote. Whilst all her works are remarkable for their refinement and purity of thought and style, she almost unconsciously makes her heroes and heroines (though they are no namby-pamby creations) struggle through life doing the duty nearest to hand, however disagreeable the consequences or doubtful the reward. She holds Thoreau's maxim that tobegood is better than to try anddogood; indeed, the first and greater proposition includes the latter, and from her youth up she has loved and taken for her motto the lines of Tennyson:—
"And because right is right, to follow rightWere wisdom in the scorn of consequence."
One particular Monday, near Christmas, will long be remembered as being perhaps the most terrible day hitherto experienced in an abnormally severe winter. The heavy pall of dense fog which has settled over London has disorganized the traffic and caused innumerable accidents. Great banks of snow are piled up high at the sides of the roads, a partial thaw has been succeeded by a renewed severe frost, making the pavements like ice, and causing locomotion to become as dangerous as it is detestable. Arriving at Victoria District Station early in the afternoon, with the intention of paying a visit to the veteran novelist, Mrs. Houston, in Gloucester Street, you find yourself in Cimmerian darkness, uncertain whether to turn to north or south, to east or west. A small boy passes by, from whom you inquire the way, and he promptly offers his escort thither in safety. He is as good as his word, and after a quarter of an hour's walk you arrive at your destination. Thankfully presenting him with a gratuity, and expressing surprise at his finding the road with such unerring footsteps, thechild replies in a cheerful voice, "I live close by here. I have been blind from my birth; darkness and light are both alike to me"; and he goes off whistling merrily.
The septuagenarian author is upstairs in the drawing-room, lying on a long, low, comfortable spring couch, from which, alas! she is unable to move, some affection of the muscles having caused a complete uselessness of the lower limbs. She is bright and cheerful, notwithstanding; serene and patient. Her intellect is undimmed, her memory is perfect, her conversation is delightful, and her dress is suitable and picturesque. She wears a black velvet gown, which is relieved by a full frill of old lace gathered up round the wrists and throat, a crimson silk shawl on her shoulders, and a lace cap with a roll round it of the same coloured ribbon. Her hair, for which she was famous in her childhood, is still soft and abundant, and only changed from "the great ruddy mane of her youth," as she calls it, to the subdued brown and grey tints of her present age. Her eyes, of grey-blue, are bright, and light up with keen intelligence as she converses, and her voice is low and sweet. She isgrande dameto the tips of her fingers, and the small, aristocratic-looking hands are white and well-shaped. With an old-world courtesy of manner she combines a juvenility of thought, and being a great reader, she is as well up in the literature of the day as she is in the records of the past. A brilliantraconteuse, Mrs. Houston possesses a fund of anecdote, as original as it is interesting.
On each side of her couch stands within her easyreach a little table, containing her favourite authors and some writing materials, and her caligraphy is particularly neat, small, and legible. A broad verandah runs along the front of the house; in summer it is her particular care, as she superintends the training of the creepers over the wide arches, and also the arrangement of a small conservatory, which can be seen through the heavy Orientalportièreswhich divide the two rooms. There, a fine plumbago creeper, with several Australian plants and ferns flourish, which give it quite a tropical appearance.
There is a great variety of old Dresden china on the mantelpieces; a Japanese screen stands near the further door. The book-cases in both rooms are well filled, and so is the large round table at the side yonder; they are kept in such method and order that Mrs. Houstoun has only to order "the eighth book on the top of the shelf at the right," or "the tenth book on the lower shelf at the left," to ensure her getting the needed volume. She calls attention to her pictures, which are mostly of considerable value. Over the piano hangs, in a Florentine frame, Sasso's copy of the Madonna del Grand Duca, a painting by Schlinglandt, which is remarkable for its extraordinary attention to detail, and others by Vander Menlen and Zucarilli. A vacant space on the wall has lately been occupied by one of Bonnington's best seascapes, which she has kindly lent for exhibition.
Mrs. Houstoun is the daughter of the late Edward Jessé, the distinguished naturalist. The family is of French extraction. He was the representative of ayounger and Protestant branch of theBarons of Jesse Levas, one of the oldest families in Languedoc, who emigrated after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes to England, and bought an estate in the county of Wilts, but when they became English country gentlemen they dropped, like sensible people, not only the distinctivede, but the accent on the finale, which marked their Gallic origin. Her grandfather was the Rev. William Jesse, incumbent of the then only Episcopalian church of West Bromwich, Staffordshire. "I have no very distinct personal recollection of him," she observes, "but I have reason to believe that his value, both as a good man and a learned divine, was duly recognized. Bishop Horne, author of 'Commentaries on the Psalms,' was at one time his curate." In 1802, Mr. Jesse (then twenty years of age) was chosen by Lord Dartmouth to be his private secretary, and four years later, through his influential chief, he obtained an appointment in the Royal Household. The duties which his post as "Gentleman of the Ewry" entailed were of the slightest, consisting merely of an attendance in full Court dress on great State occasions, to present on bended knee a golden ewer filled with rose-water to the Sovereign. The royal fingers were dipped into it and dried on a fine damask napkin, which the "gentleman" carried on his arm. For this occasional service the yearly pay was three hundred pounds, together with "perquisites"; but though the absurd and useless office was long since done away with, whilst it existed its influence over Mr. Jesse's prospects in life was very considerable, as it enabled him to marry the beautiful daughter of SirJohn Morris, a wealthy Welsh baronet. Mrs. Houstoun's childish days were spent first at a house in the prettiest quarter of Richmond Park, and later on at a cottage close to Bushey Park. "Those were the days before the then Duke of Clarence became king, and the Sailor-Prince showed himself to be one of the most good-natured of men," says Mrs. Houstoun. "He often joined my father and me in our rides about the Park, and on one occasion he inquired of my father concerning the future of his only son."
"What are you going to do with him?" asked H.R.H.
"Well, sir," was the reply, "he has been ten years at Eton, a rather expensive education, so I entered him yesterday at Brazenose——"
"Going to make a parson of him, eh? Got any interest in the Church?"
"None whatever, sir, but——"
"Might as well cut his throat," said the Duke. "Why not put him into the Admiralty? I'll see he gets a clerkship."
The royal promise was faithfully kept. Young John Heneage Jesse got his appointment almost immediately, and worked his way up the different grades, always standing high in the opinion of his chiefs, until after a long period of service, he finally retired on a pension, and is well known in the literary world as the author of "The Court of England under the Stuarts and Houses of Hanover," and sundry historical memoirs.
Reverting to these long bygone days, your hostess says she can remember the famous philanthropist,William Wilberforce, in whose unflagging efforts to effect the freedom of the West Indian negroes, her aunt, Mrs. Townsend, was so zealous and able a coadjutrix; she recollects to this day the childish grudge she felt against them both, when after the visit of the great emancipator all cakes and puddings were strictlytabooed, as they contained West India sugar, and therefore to eat them was a sin. Living close to the home of her father's old friend, John Wilson Croker, she became acquainted with many world-famed and literary men; amongst them she mentions Theodore Hook, Sir William Follett, the poet Moore, Sir Francis Chantrey, and Sir Thomas Lawrence, subsequently Samuel Rogers, Mr. Darwin, Wordsworth, the gifted Mrs. Norton, and James Smith, the most popular and brilliant of the authors of "Rejected Addresses."
At the early age of sixteen she became engaged, and shortly after married Lionel Fraser, whose father died when he was Minister Plenipotentiary at Dresden, but in less than a year she became a widow. Mr. Fraser, just before leaving Cambridge, had met with an accident. In a trial of strength, an under-graduate threw him over his shoulder: the lad fell on his head, and was taken up for dead, but after a while recovered, and was to all appearance the same as before; but the hidden evil had been slowly though surely working, and the rupture of a small vessel in the brain brought to a sudden close the young life of so much promise. Inconsolable, the young widow returned to her father's house, where she lived in close seclusion for nearly four years, and then became engaged to CaptainHoustoun, of the 10th Hussars, second son of General Sir William Houstoun, Bart. His son George, who succeeded him, added the name of Boswall on marrying an heiress.A proposof that engagement, Mrs. Houstoun has an amusing story to tell. "Another of the friends," she says, "to whom we were indebted for many pleasant hours, was that courtly Hanoverian soldier Baron Knesbeck, equerry to the Duke of Cambridge. We were riding on Wimbledon Common, and I was mounted on the second charger of my betrothed, when the old Duke, on his stout bay, joined our party; my engagement had not at that time been announced, and I therefore parried, as best I could, the Duke's questions as to the horse and its owner. At last, however, the climax came, for with a wink of his eye, more suggestive than regal, His Royal Highness put the following leading question as we rode slowly on: 'Sweetheart, hey?' There was no resisting this point-blank query, and the soft impeachment had to be owned at last."
After her second marriage Mrs. Houstoun and her husband lived for a year in their yacht "Dolphin," during which time they visited Texas and the Gulf of Mexico. Later on they spent two winters at New Orleans before slavery was abolished. Then came a tour on the Continent, where they travelled from Paris to Naples in their own britska, taking four horses and two English postillions. When they stayed for any length of time at any place, the horses were saddled, and they would ride forty or fifty miles a day, revolvers in saddle pockets, into the wildest parts of the country. After a roving and adventurous time,escaping hairbreadth dangers, for Mrs. Houstoun says her husband was "as bold as a buccaneer," they returned home, where Captain Houstoun, after trying various places, finally took on a long lease Dhulough Lodge, about one hundred square miles of ground in the west of Ireland, and there for twenty years she found her lot cast. In sheer weariness of spirit she took to her pen. As a girl she had always been accustomed to correct her father's proofs, and had written some short stories and poems, but she then wrote her first novel, "Recommended to Mercy." It was so well reviewed in theTimesthat, encouraged by her success, Mrs. Houstoun followed it with "Sink or Swim," "Taken upon Trust," "First in the Field," "A Cruel Wrong," "Records of a Stormy Life," and "Zoe's Brand," which last book M. Boisse, editor of theRevue Contemporaine, asked permission to translate into French, but by some omission his application was never answered, and the project fell through. Some time later she wrote "Twenty Years in the Wild West" and several other novels, and she has lately finished a new story in two volumes, entitled "How She Loved Him," published by Mr. F. V. White, of whom she remarks with warmth, "He stands high amongst the publishers I have known for liberality and honour, and is one of my best and kindest friends."
"Amongst other books," says Mrs. Houstoun, "I look back with thankfulness to my novelette, entitled 'Only a Woman's Life,' the writing of which was successful in obtaining the release, after twelve years of convict life, of an innocent woman, who had been originally condemned to death on circumstantial evidence for the murder of her child. Of the death sentence I was so happy, at the eleventh hour, as to obtain a commutation."
But it is difficult to get the lonely old lady to talk much of her books, and though her memory is perfect in everything else, both past and present, she declares that she has forgotten even the names of some of her own works. She infinitely prefers to speak about those of her friends. She is devoted to Whittier's poems, and to Pope, and can quote passages at great length from this great favourite; whilst among modern novelists she prefers Mrs. Riddell and the late George Lawrence, though she says, laughing, she fears that this last shows a somewhat Bohemian taste.
"I am sure I was born to be a landscape gardener," remarks Mrs. Houstoun. "That was my real vocation in life. If you had but seen our home amongst the Connaught Mountains when I first saw it! The 'wild bog,' as the natives call the soil, reached to my very doors and windows. A wilderness of moist earth-bog myrtle and stunted heather alone met the eye, very discouraging to such a lover of dainty well-kept gardens and flowers as I am. Towering above and beyond our roughly-built house was a mountain called Glenumra, over 3,000 feet in height, whilst in front was Muelhrae, or King of the Irish Mountains (as it is the loftiest), and a part of it effectually concealed from us all the glories of the setting sun. The humid nature of the soil was favourable to the growth of plants. I designed and laid out large gardens, and had only to insert a few feet or inches, as the case might be, of laurel, fuchsia, veronica, or hydrangiainto the ground, and the slips took root, grew and flourished. Long before we left there were fuchsias thirty feet high; the veronicas, over six feet, blossomed in November. Then I built a stove-house and conservatory, where my exotic fernery was my great delight, and I spent much of my time there. All the money I earned by my writings I spent on my ferns and plants."
But the damp of the climate, the constant sitting up at night with their poor sick dependents, at whose beck and call she was ever ready, and the impossibility of procuring any medical attendance, laid the seeds of a severe neuralgic affection of the joints, from which she has never recovered, and a terrible fall resulted in a hopeless injury to both knees. She says that during her twenty years' residence in that distressful country she never knew the blessing of really good health.
Mrs. Houstoun is extremely hospitable and sociable in disposition. One of her chief regrets in being so completely laid by is that she is no longer able to give the pleasant little weekly dinners of eight in which she used to delight. She enjoys nothing more than visits from her friends, who are always glad to come in and sit with her and listen to her amusing and interesting conversation. She is a great politician and an extreme Liberal, "though," she adds, "not a Gladstonian." At the present moment she is deeply absorbed in the Stanley controversy, and, as she is a cousin of the late Major Barttelot, and was much attached to him, she naturally remarks that she "never knew anything but good of him."
But though this venerable lady is unable to entertain her friends in her former manner, she does not forget the poor and suffering. She gives little teas and suppers to aged men and women, whose sad cases have from time to time been recommended to her, at which charitable gatherings, with doors rigidly shut to exclude the smell of the poor old men's tobacco smoke, she allows them to indulge in the luxury of a pipe.
Though enduring constant pain and many long sleepless nights, she avows that she is never dull or miserable. No word of complaint or murmur passes her lips at her crippled condition. On the contrary, she expresses the deepest content and thankfulness for her many comforts and blessings, amongst which, she remarks, are her three maids, all sisters, who are as devoted to her as if they had been born in her service. They carry her up and down stairs, and wait on her, hand and foot, with tender care. "And only think," she concludes cheerfully and with a smile, "what a mercy it is that I retain my memory so well, and that my mind is so clear, whilst I lie here useless!" "Nay, not useless," is your reply, as you rise to leave, "they also serve who only stand and wait."