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 cheerfullyon 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, thebleu poudréand 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 toVerney 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 whichhave 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 inBaily'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 gladto be interrupted, as she had been working beyond her usual hour."
Over the table hangs a venerable canary,ætat. 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 itisfull, 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 ofBelgravia, "Jack's Secret" ran as a serial through the same magazine, having been applied for, whenBelgraviachanged 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 madeMrs. 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-studentsecretly 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 theaccident, Mrs. Cameron remarks with a laugh that they are copies of a paper, theCity 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 adistinct 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 onthatscore.
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.
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 theIreland, 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 interferewith your excellent appetite for the first-class refreshments supplied. The swift-revolving paddles churn the big waves into a thick foam as the good shipIrelandploughs 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 recollectionI often think of Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhoodFling 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 ShandonThat 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 goodgrey 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 itwell,The same is written on the gates ofHell.
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 dooris 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 apiquanteexpression 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-heeledLouis quinzeshoes, which display her small and pretty feet. She looks the embodiment of good temper, merry wit, andespièglerie.
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 isactually 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: theyare 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 neverhavea plot really, not thebonâ fideplot 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 mychef d'[oe]uvre, 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 thoughtthen 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 inBelgravia. "Lady Patty," asociety 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. "Everyonewas 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 ofstrawberry 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.
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 andmany 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 ofpapier-maché. "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'sconfrères, 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 themedium 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 themotifof 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 thelate 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 throughGood Wordsas 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 inHarper's Weekly Magazinein 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 thanthe 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 cyclopædia 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 busyauthor 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 ofden Grossvaterin 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!"), andFräulein 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 'Æsthetic 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 and of the ideal."
Miss Betham-Edwards has one faithful and cherished companion, who always accompanies her in her walks, and who sits quietly beside her when she writes. This is a white Pomeranian dog, very intelligent and affectionate, who will certainly never be lost while hewears his present "necklace," bearing the following inscription:—
My name is Muff,That's short enough;My home's Villa Julia,That's slightly peculiar;On the east side you'll find it,With Fairlight behind it;My missus is a poet,By this you should know it.
Ere the train leaves there is a good hour to spare; so, taking leave of the gifted author, you employ the time in sauntering about the town, and first go to see the fine church of St. Mary Star-of-the-Sea, founded by Mr. Coventry Patmore; also some ancient buildings of quaint architecture, in which the notorious Titus Oates is said to have lived. The Albert Memorial is the most prominent object in the town, occupying a central position at the junction of six roads, and close by are the renowned Breach's oyster rooms, where the temptation to taste the Whitstable bivalve in the fresh white-tiled shop is not to be resisted; but whilst there the great clock on the Memorial warns you to be up and away. There is much food for meditation on the return journey to town; and on reflecting over all that Miss Betham-Edwards has learnt and achieved, the poet's lines involuntarily suggest themselves:
"And still the wonder grew,That one small head should carry all 'she' knew."