To the befogged Londoner there is perhaps no greater treat than to escape for forty-eight hours to the seaside even in the depths of winter, and whilst spinning along by the London, Brighton, and South Coast express, there is a pleasurable sense of excitement in the feeling that you are going to breathe the fresh sea air of Eastbourne untainted by smuts and smoke. "The Empress of watering-places," as a well-known journalist has named it, is now seen in its best aspect. It presents quite a different phase in August and September, when the residents, almost to a man, desert the town, having previously with great prudence let their houses at a high figure, and the place is given over to the holiday-makers, nigger minstrels, braying bands, and itinerant beach preachers. Now its genial, pleasant society is in full swing, and merry golf parties are the order of the day. Few places have increased with more rapid growth during the last fifteen or twenty years, or become more popular as a residence than Eastbourne, partly owing to the excellent train service, partly to the well-organised supervision over every detail in the whole town, and again probably more to the bright, healthyatmosphere, which registers three hundred days of sunshine as against sixty-nine in London.
In one of the prettiest roads in this pleasant seaside town stands—a little way back from the red-and-black tiled pavement—a large brown creeper-covered house with red tiled roof built in the Gothic style of architecture. Though it has only been constructed during late years, the gables and points give it an old-fashioned and picturesque look, but beauty and variety of style are studied at Eastbourne, and each house is apparently designed with a view to artistic effect. College Road is bordered on either side by Sussex elms. The approach is by gates right and left which open into a garden filled with shrubs. On seeking admittance you are taken up to a bright, cheerful room which faces the west, and has all the outward and visible signs of being devoted to literary and artistic pursuits. As the young author, Edna Lyall, rises from the typewriter in the corner opposite the door, with kindly greeting, you are at once struck with her extremely youthful appearance. She is about the medium height, pale in complexion, with dark hair rolled back from a broad forehead which betokens a strongly intellectual and logical cast of mind. She has well-defined, arched eyebrows, and very dark blue eyes, which light up softly as she speaks. Her manner is gentle and sympathetic, and her voice is sweet in tone. She wears a simply-made gown of olive-green material, relieved with embroidery of a lighter colour.
The room seems exactly what one would expecton only looking at her. It is the room of a student who prefers books to society, and every part of it bears evidence of the simplicity, refinement, and quiet comfort of her tastes. It is square and low, with a broad cottage window, commanding a lovely view over the Downs, which have somewhat of an Alpine look, the high hills in the distance, and the furthermost broad belt of trees in the grounds of Compton Place are tipped with snow, as also are those in the foreground, belonging to some private gardens. The whole scene, now flooded in sunshine, is a constant delight to Edna Lyall, who says that she "rejoices in the knowledge that it can never be built out." Over the window hangs a wrought-iron scroll-work fern basket, which looks like Italian manufacture, but is in reality made by the boys of St. John's, Bethnal Green Industry, developed by Miss Bromby. Under this is a broad, low shelf, covered with terra-cotta cloth, which is the repository of many little treasures. The floor is covered with Indian matting, strewn about with a few brightly-coloured Indian and Persian rugs; and in the centre is a comfortable couch with a guitar lying on it. The pretty American walnut-wood writing-table against the wall on the right has a raised desk and little cupboards with glass doors, which reveal many good bits of china. On the further side is a handsome revolving table filled with books, and in the corner stands an old grandfather clock of the seventeenth century. There is a neat arrangement for hiding manuscripts out of sight, a tall piece of furniture with little narrow drawers, alsoa piano opposite, and a variety of quaintly-shaped chairs; but the feature of the room is a large ornamental book-case on the left, filled with a hundred or so of standard volumes. On the mantelshelf, amongst odds and ends of china, stand some favourite portraits, and the author particularly calls attention to a photograph of her great friend, Mrs. Mary Davies, whom she describes as "a woman of most beautiful character." Another is of Captain Burges, R.N., who was killed at Camperdowne, a third is a platinotype head of George Macdonald, a fourth is of Frederick Denison Maurice, the theologian, the others represent some of her principal heroes, Sir Walter Scott, Algernon Sydney, John Hampden, and Mr. Gladstone. There are many good pictures on the walls, a few pretty landscapes in water-colours, a fine photograph of Sant's "Soul's Awakening," and an Irish trout stream in oils; two are especially attractive, the large and beautifully-executed photograph over the fireplace of Hoffman's "The Child Christ in the Temple," and "The Grotto of Posilipo," the grotto described by Edna Lyall in her novel, "The Knight Errant."
Ada Ellen Bayly (Edna Lyall) was born and educated at Brighton. Her father, Mr. Robert Bayly, barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple, died when she was eleven, and three years later she lost her mother. Always a thoughtful, studious child, at the age of ten she had already written some short stories, which were read and thought promising by her parents, who, however, wisely made her understand that story-writing must stand second to her own training.From that time forward she was always preparing for her future profession. After losing both her parents the young girl made her home with a sister, who had married Canon Crowfoot, of Lincoln. It was shortly after leaving school that she wrote her first book, "Won by Waiting," a story of home life in France and England. It is a charming story, simple in sketch and style, with some clever bits of character-painting, in which, as her later books show, she excels.
There is a peculiar interest in her second novel, "Donovan." This work was written at intervals during three years. "When beginning it," says the young author, "I had very little notion of what I had undertaken. Sometimes I wrote easily; sometimes I was at a standstill." But the reason is easily explained. It was about that time that she began to experience a great mental conflict. Profoundly religious by nature, she entered deeply into the theological questions of the day, and though the struggle was deep and painful, she never rested until her mind was satisfied. "No one can regret," says Edna Lyall, "having been forced to face the problems which 'Donovan' had to face, and I am very thankful to have had that struggle. I wished to draw the picture of a perfectly isolated man and his gradual awakening. He had, of course, to begin by professing himself an atheist and a misanthrope; but very soon he begins to love a child, then a dog, then a woman. By these means he comes to realize his selfishness, and to detest it; he begins to love humanity, to pity and help his worst enemy, andfinally to 'love the highest' when he sees it. Someone made me laugh the other day by saying that 'it was stated on the best authority that Edna Lyall had cried most bitterly at the thought of having written "Donovan" and "We Two," and would give anything to recall them.' I can only tell you that all that makes life worth living came to me through writing those books. So much for gossip! The struggle is one which we have each to go through. We must think it all out for ourselves," she goes on to say softly, whilst a bright, glad smile illumines her face; for light and peace have come to her, and she describes herself as having surmounted the storm, and achieved the haven of rest and happiness in her belief. "Won by Waiting" and "Donovan" had, according to the author, "fallen flat."
In 1884 she introduced "We Two" to the world. This book, which is a distinct story, is yet in a sense a continuation of the former, and was the outcome of all that she had lived through in the preceding years. It was so well reviewed in all the leading journals, and became so much talked about, that people began to ask for "Donovan" so extensively, that it took a new lease of life, and was soon as popular as or more so than its sequel. These two works were brought out by Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.
In September, 1884, Edna Lyall came to Eastbourne, and established herself with her sister, Mrs. Jameson, whose husband, the Rev. Hampden Jameson, is attached to the handsome church, St. Saviour's,standing close by, and she is herself a member of the congregation. Soon after her arrival a new book was begun; this is a historical novel, and the author gives an interesting account of the facts which suggested the work. "Shortly after I had finished 'We Two,'" she says, "I happened to visit an uncle and aunt of mine, whose charming old house in Suffolk—Badmondisfield Hall—was connected with some of the happiest days of my very happy childhood. The place had always been an ideal place for dream stories and old-world plays. I knew every nook of the quaint old hall and garden and park, and now the spell laid hold of me again, and the characters of Hugo and Randolph, with whom I had had such delightful imaginary games in old days, started into life once more. One morning, pacing to and fro beside the bowling-green between the house and the moat, the thought flashed into my mind that the time of the Rye House plot would best develop the character of my hero—a naturally yielding and submissive boy, whose will was held in bondage by the stronger will of his elder brother. Little by little the outline of the story shaped itself in my mind. Every history of England to be found in the ancient bookcases was pulled down, old papers relating to the old house and its owners looked through, old pictures studied, and the possibility of Hugo's escapade in the musician's gallery at the end of the dining-hall tested by an inch tape and elaborate calculations."
On leaving Suffolk, Edna Lyall went up to London to study the reign of Charles II in the reading-room of the British Museum. The story was published in1885 under the title of "In the Golden Days"—"a title which," she says, "some people fancied I had meant seriously, but which, of course, referred to the first line of the 'Vicar of Bray.'" In this work are undoubtedly some of the finest characters of Edna Lyall's creation. The chapter headed "The Seventh of December" contains a most touching account of the patriot Algernon Sydney's death. Whilst still engaged on this book the author spent many weeks yachting in the Mediterranean, and during one visit to Naples and its neighbourhood used some of the experience she had gained during former visits to Italy to begin and think out the plot of "Knight-Errant." "The motive of that book," she remarks, "is, I think, so distinctly expressed that I need not say much about it. The motto I chose for the title-page shows that in its central idea—reconciliation—it is the completion of 'Donovan' and 'We Two,' though, naturally, as a story of stage life, it is quite unlike them in plot and surroundings. I dislike 'novels with a purpose' as much as any one," she adds, "but at the same time it seems to me that each book must have its particularmotive."
"Knight-Errant" is a book of thrilling adventure and absorbing interest; the account of the attack on the hero, Carlo, in the Grotto of Posilipo, is so powerfully drawn that it keeps the reader in breathless suspense. Norway, too, is one of her favourite haunts, and in the land of the mountain and the fjord she is quite at home. Intensely fond of nature, she has depicted, in her latest three-volume novel (Hurst and Blackett), "A Hardy Norseman," in most realistic language, the exquisite scenery that she witnessed during some of her long, solitary carriole drives. She spent many very happy days with her friends, Presten Kielland (brother of the well-known Norwegian author, Alexander Kielland) and his charming wife and children. "He and his eldest daughter," says the young author, "are excellent English scholars, and I owe to them an introduction to Norwegian life which as a mere tourist I could never have gained."
None who read Edna Lyall's books can fail to be struck by her tender and vivid word-painting of animals (the faithful dog, "Waif," is familiar to all) and of little children, but here she can draw from the life, as there are eight little nephews and nieces downstairs whom she adores, and with whom she is a great favourite.
But the mid-day sun is high in the heavens, and your hostess proposes to take you for a stroll round the grand extension parade below the Wish Tower, and as you walk she beguiles the time with pleasant conversation on personal incidents. Referring to a little sketch published in the form of a shilling book by Messrs. Longmans in 1887, called the "Autobiography of a Slander," "Ah!" she says smiling, "thatwaswritten 'with a purpose,' and was suggested by a very disagreeable incident. On returning from one of our delightful Norwegian tours, I was greeted on every side by a persistent report that had been set afloat to the effect that I was in a lunatic asylum! We found out at this time that an impostor had been going about announcing that she was 'Edna Lyall,' and that in Ceylon, and during her voyage home, shehad deceived many people. The only possible explanation of the lunatic asylum slander seems to be that this woman was in reality mad. But the episode was decidedly unpleasant, and set me thinking on the birth and growth of such monstrously untrue reports. During the autumn of 1886 I wrote the little story, taking different types of gossip for each stage in the Slander's growth and baleful power—the gossip of small dull towns, of country life, of cathedral precincts, of London clubs, and the gossip of members of my own profession in search of 'copy.'"
By this time you have reached a spot called by the inhabitants Mentone. The broad tiled walk is sheltered by the great cliff, behind which is a steep embankment prettily planted with shrubs, and traversed here and there by steep little zigzag paths running upwards to the heights, whilst before you rises the grand outline of Beachy Head. The sky is brilliantly blue as far as eye can reach all around. The sun (which you had not seen in town for six weeks) is shining brightly, casting its radiance on the calm sea, the little wavelets are gently breaking over the pebbles below, and the fresh, pure air is most exhilarating. A few invalids in bath chairs are being drawn slowly along, and all the beauty and fashion of Eastbourne are out enjoying a sun-bath. Amongst thehabituésyou recognize many well-known faces. That tall, graceful, Madonna-like woman, with her fair young daughter, surrounded by a group of friends, is Mrs. Royston-Pigott, widow of the eminent scientist. The handsome soldierly man with the benevolent face is General Buchanan, of cavalry renown, and close to him strollshis youngest daughter, radiant in the beauty of youth. Edna Lyall observes that Mr. Balfour is occasionally to be seen on the links enjoying a game of golf. Everyone seems revelling in the warmth of this January sunshine, but time presses, and you may not linger. If aught could compensate for turning away from such a scene, it is the charm of your hostess's conversation, as she walks with you and speaks of her favourite poets—Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, and Whittier, whilst she declares her favourite characters in prose fiction are "Jeanie Deans" and Thackeray's "Esmond." Asking her which are her special pets in her own books, she says laughing, "As Anthony Trollope said when asked a similar question, 'I like them all,' but perhaps Carlo the best, so far. You asked me just now, when we were interrupted, how my books succeeded. 'Won by Waiting' had a very small sale. It was favourably reviewed in several papers, and cut into mincemeat by a very clever weekly journal, so wittily, that even a youthful author could only laugh! Then it 'joined the majority.' 'Donovan,' in spite of many excellent reviews, shared the same fate; only 320 copies sold, then he, too, sank into oblivion temporarily. It was a hard time, and I could not resist weaving some of my memories of those literary struggles into my latest story—a little sketch called 'Derrick Vaughan, Novelist,' published first inMurray's Magazine, later, in one volume form, by Methuen. Since May, 1889, I have been unable to write at all, owing to my long attack of rheumatism and fever, but now that I am growing strong, I hope to set to work again"; and as you bid adieu to thisgifted and interesting woman, you heartily re-echo the wish.
Sic transit gloria mundi.A couple of hours later the train has borne you swiftly from the glorious sunlight and sea into the persistent gloom and obscurity of London. The speed slackens, you glide into the station, your brief holiday is at an end.
Although a sad change has come over the ancient and historic village of Putney, and it has lost much of its quaint and picturesque environment since the destruction of the toll-house and the dear old bridge of 1729, with its score of narrow openings—at once the delight of artists and the curse of bargees—there is still a bit left which has escaped the hands of the Philistines. Unique and fair is the view from the magnificent, though aggressively modern, granite structure which now spans the river; and how many memories of the past are aroused! The grey old church of St. Mary's, Putney, and the massive tower of All Saints, Fulham, flank either end. This latter edifice, originally built as a chapel of ease to Wimbledon, is of great antiquity, and has been twice rebuilt, once in the reign of Henry VII. and again in 1836, when the grand old tower, which gives such a prominent feature to the landscape, was restored. On one side is the fine terrace of lofty houses known as The Cedars, with their wide breezy gardens overlooking the river, so short a time since the scene of many pleasant garden parties, when a well-known and popular author occupied one of these houses. Now, alas! they are all empty and deserted; cranesand stones and heaps of rubbish have transformed their time-honoured lawns into desolation. No scheme of utilization seems to suggest itself, and meanwhile the noble site is unused, and these handsome tenements are rapidly solving the question, and, abandoned to all the ravages of time, are dropping into obtrusive decay. On the other side of the bridge there is a glimpse of the shady grounds of Fulham Palace, the leafy foliage of the Bishop's Moat and Avenue, and a view of a lovely line of trees on the shore skirting the grounds of old Ranelagh—now given up to the building fiend—and Hurlingham, while the broad silvery river itself, and its slow-moving barges and boats with brown and red sails, give life and colouring to the scene. At night, when the lights only of unlovely Hammersmith are gleaming across the water, the effect is decidedly picturesque.
In a second the mind involuntarily travels back a few centuries, and pictures to itself the appearance of this same spot when the army under Cromwell made it their head quarters, while the King was a prisoner in Hampton Court; when forts were standing on each side, and a bridge of boats was constructed across the river, by order of the Earl of Essex, during the Civil War, on the retreat of the Royalists after the battle of Brentford. But the imaginary panorama fades, and your thoughts return to the present age as you drive a few hundred yards further on, and reach the top of a long terrace of small but artistically built red-brick Elizabethan houses, where in one which is semi-detached, the well-known writer, Miss Rosa Nouchette Carey, has made her home with her eldestwidowed sister and her family. The author meets you at the threshold of her study at the top of the staircase, and takes you into what she calls her "snuggery," a simple, but tastefully furnished room, looking out into a large garden, where birds of all sorts are encouraged to come; a thrush sings melodiously, and is among many singing birds a daily visitor. An oak knee-hole writing-table, with raised blotting-pad, stands in the corner by the window, and on it is a vase full of bright scarlet geraniums and ferns. Everything is arranged with great neatness, and each spot seems to have its use. Little and big lounging chairs, a low spring couch, one or two small tables, a bookcase filled with well-bound books, and a cabinet covered with photographs and pretty little odds and ends of china, all combine to make a cheerful, comfortable, and attractive whole. A cage is on the floor, and perched on the top is a beautiful cockateel, or Australian Joey bird, of the parrot type, with grey top-knot, yellow tuft and pink feathers on the sides of the head, which give it the odd appearance of a fine healthy colour on the cheeks. This intelligent bird is a great pet of your hostess, and walks up and downstairs in answer to her call.
Miss Rosa Nouchette Carey is tall, slender, and erect in carriage. She has large blue-grey eyes with long lashes, and her soft dark hair, in which a silver thread may be seen here and there, is parted smoothly over her brow, and plaited neatly round her head. She wears a black dress with brocaded velvet sleeves, and is cordial and peculiarly gentle in manner.
"We have lived here six years," she says, in a low,tuneful voice; "but Putney is getting quite spoilt. They have pulled down and built over the grand old Jacobin House, which stood close by in the Richmond Road, with its seven drawing-rooms, subterranean passages, and lovely gardens which were a joy to us, also Fairfax House, with its pleasant garden and its fine old trees."
There are other, not a few, historical recollections of Putney. Queen Elizabeth used often to stay at the house of Mr. Lacy, the clothier, who also entertained Charles I. It was the birthplace of Edward Gibbon, author of "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire"; of Thomas Cromwell, who was made Earl of Essex by Henry VIII.; and of Nicholas West, Bishop of Ely, who originally erected the small chantry chapel in the old church near the bridge; but though this has been removed from the east end of the south aisle to the east end of the north side, the old style has been carefully preserved. Many eminent people have lived here. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, widow of Shelley, had her residence at the White House by the river; Leigh Hunt lived and died in the High Street. Among others, Theodore Hook, Douglas Jerrold, Henry Fuseli, the painter; Toland, the friend of Leibnitz; James Macpherson; and last, but not least, Mrs. Siddons. Putney also witnessed the death of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham.
Rosa Nouchette Carey was born in London, near Old Bow Church, but she has only vague memories of the house and place. She was the youngest but one of a large family of five sisters and two brothers. Her father was a ship-broker, and afterwards had vessels ofhis own. He was a man of singularly amiable character, and his integrity and many virtues made him universally beloved and respected. Her childhood was passed at Hackney in the old house at Tryons Place, where many happy days were spent in the room called the green-room, overlooking a large old-fashioned garden well filled with shady trees. "It was a simple, happy, uneventful life," says Miss Carey. "Being a delicate child, my education was somewhat desultory. My youngest sister and I were left a good deal alone, and I remember that my chief amusement, besides our regular childish romps, was to select favourite characters from history or fiction, and to try and personify them. I was always the originator of our games, but my sister invariably followed my lead. I used to write little plays which we acted. I began a magazine, and wrote several pieces of poetry, of the most foolish description probably," she adds, smiling, "for I am sure I could not write a line now to save my life! My greatest pleasure was to relate stories to this same sister over our needlework or under the shade of the old trees."
In this way the whole of "Nellie's Memories" was told verbally, when still in her teens, and was only written down seven years afterwards. "My mother was a strict disciplinarian and was very clever and practical," she continues. "As a girl I was singularly dreamy, and spent all my leisure time in reading and writing poetry; feeling the impossibility of combining my favourite pursuits with a useful, domestic life, and discouraged by my failures in this respect, I made a deliberate and, as it afterwards proved, a fruitless attempt to quench the longing towrite, while at the same time I endeavoured to be more like other girls, but this unnatural repression of a strong instinct could not last, and after some years I gave it up. I am not aware that my mother knew of this strange conflict, but she was the first to rejoice at my literary success. My literary taste is not inherited, except in one solitary case, my father's cousin, Christopher Riethmüller, author of "Teuton," "Legends of the Early Church," "The Adventures of Neville Brooke," and "Aldersleigh."
Later on the family moved to South Hampstead, where Rosa Carey's schooldays began, and it was whilst at school that she formed an enthusiastic friendship with Mathilde Blind, afterwards the clever translator of Marie Bashkirtseff's Journal, and author of "The Descent of Man," and other works. This friendship, which was a source of great interest to both girls, was only interrupted by a divergence of their religious opinions. Mathilde Blind was brought up in the most advanced school of modern freethought, but Rosa Carey, adhering to the simple faith of her childhood, could not follow her there, and the friends drifted apart, sorrowfully, but with warm affection on each side.
The next change in her life was the death of her father, after which terrible bereavement the widowed mother and three daughters lived together, but the gradual breaking-up of the once large family had set in. After their mother's death, the youngest daughter's convictions led her to embrace a conventual life, and she entered the Anglican Sisterhood of St. Thomas of Canterbury. The death of their mother occurred on the same day which three years before had witnessedtheir father's end. After this sad event Miss Rosa Carey says her real vocation in life seemed to spring up, and she and her remaining home sister went to Croydon to superintend their widowed brother's household. Three years later the circle was again narrowed. Her sister married the Rev. Canon Simpson, vicar of Kirkby Stephen, Westmoreland, on the Valley of the Eden, a most lovely spot, where the author for eleven years regularly paid an annual visit, and where she laid the scenes depicted in vivid and eloquent words in her novel "Heriot's Choice." Rising, she points out four pictures, reminiscences of Westmoreland, which hang over her writing-table. One is a view of great beauty, a second the exterior of the church, a third is the handsome interior, which looks more like a cathedral with its massive pillars and groined roof, and the fourth represents the vicarage. Her brother's death soon left the orphan nieces and nephew to her sole care. "The charge somewhat tied my hands," said Miss Carey, "and prevented the pursuing of my literary labours as fully as I could have otherwise done. Interrupted by cares of house and family, the writing was but fitfully carried on. Six years after, however, circumstances tended to break up that home. Three of my charges are married, and one of my nephews is a master at Uppingham. These six years have been my first leisure for real work."
The launching of "Nellie's Memories" threatened at first to cause the young writer some disappointment. Quite unacquainted with any publishers, and without any previous introductions, she took the MSS. to Mr.Tinsley, who at first declined to read it. Some months later she consulted Mrs. Westerton, of Westerton's Library, who good-naturedly undertook to induce him to do so. "I am glad to name her," says Miss Carey. "I shall always remember her with gratitude, for, on hearing that the reader's opinion was highly favourable, she hurriedly drove from some wedding festivity to bring me the good news. I can even recall to mind the dress that she wore on the occasion."
Not to many girl-authors is it given that her first novel shall bring her name and fame, but this simple, domestic story of English home-life speedily became a great favourite. Though free from any mystery or dramatic incidents, the individuality of the characters, the pure wholesome tone, and the interest which is kept up to the end, caused this charming story to be widely known and to be re-issued in many editions up to the present date. The next venture was "Wee Wifie," which Miss Carey pronounces to have been a failure; but as that work has been quite lately demanded by the public, it is possible that she may have taken too modest a view of its merits. On being applied to for permission to bring it out again, she at first refused, thinking that it would not add to her literary reputation; but subsequently, however, she rewrote and lengthened it, though without altering the plot, and it has passed into a new edition.
Her next five novels—entitled respectively "Barbara Heathcote's Trial," "Robert Ord's Atonement," "Wooed and Married," "Heriot's Choice," and "Queenie's Whim"—came out at intervals of two years between each other, and were followed by "Mary St. John." Thencame a delightful book called "Not Like Other Girls," which was a great success. This is a spirited and amusing story of a widowed mother and her three plucky girls, who, in the days of their prosperity, were sensibly brought up to make their own frocks, and who, when plunged into poverty, turned this excellent talent to such good account that they set up in business as dressmakers, being employed alike by the squiress at the Hall and by the village butcher's wife, and there is as much of quiet humour described in their interview with this worthy dame, and their attempts to tone down her somewhat florid taste, as there is in the discussions and opinions of the neighbours and friends of the family about the venture of these wise and practical girls. Since Miss Carey came to Putney she has brought out "Lover or Friend," "Only the Governess," "The Search for Basil Lyndhurst," and "Sir Godfrey's Grand-daughters." She is also on the staff of theGirl's Own Paper, and, whenever she has time, sends short stories, which run as serials for six months in that journal before being issued in single volume form. Four of these tales have already appeared.
It is quite obvious to the readers of Miss Carey's works that she is fond of young people—she has, indeed, at the present time a regularly established class for young girls and servants over fifteen years of age, which had already been formed in connection with the Fulham Sunday School, in which she takes a great interest—and that the distinctive characteristic throughout all her books is a tendency to elevate to lofty aspirations, to noble ideas, and to purity ofthought. With great descriptive power, considerable and often quiet fun, there is a delicacy and tenderness, a knowledge and strength of purpose, combined with so much fertility of resource and originality that the interest never flags, and the sensation, on putting down any of her works, is that of having dwelt in a thoroughly healthy atmosphere. "Heriot's Choice" was originally written for Miss Charlotte Yonge, and was brought out as a serial in theMonthly Packetbefore being issued in three-volume form, but all Rosa Nouchette Carey's books are published by Messrs. Bentley.
"My ambition has ever been," says the gentle author, "to try to do good and not harm by my works, and to write books which any mother can give a girl to read. I do not exactly form plots, I think of one character and circle round that. Of course, I like to meditate well on my characters before beginning to write, and I live so entirely in and with them when writing that I feel restless, and experience a sense of loss and blank when a book is finished, and I have to wait until another grows in my mind. I have sometimes rather regretted a tone of sadness running through some of my earlier stories, but they were tinged with many years of sorrow. Now I can write more cheerfully. Like many authors, I only work from breakfast to luncheon, sometimes at the table, more often with my blotting-pad on my knee before the fire, and I cannot do without plenty of air and exercise, and often walk round Putney Heath. More than twenty years ago I was introduced to Mrs. Henry Wood, who used often to come down to the old Jacobin House, of which I spoke just now. Our acquaintance ripenedinto an intimacy which only ended with her life. She was very quiet, interesting, and unlike anyone else, but no one ever filled the niche left by her death. Some of my favourite books are 'Amiel's Journal,' Currer Bell's works, George Eliot's, and biographies; also psychological works, the study of mind and character, whilst in poetry I prefer Jean Ingelow and Mrs. Browning."
The long-standing friendship with Helen Marion Burnside—the well-known writer of many clever tales for children, booklets, verses, and songs—began when they were in their early womanhood. Eighteen years ago Miss Burnside became an inmate of Miss Carey's house, and ever since they have shared the same home, living in pleasant harmony and affection.
Presently comes an invitation to join the family five o'clock tea-table. Glass doors in the drawing-room lead into the conservatory, whence issues the soft cooing of ring-doves. The pretty marqueterie cabinets disclose a set of Indian carved ivory chessmen and many quaint bits of china, whilst on a sofa, in solitary state, sits a knowing-looking little tame squirrel with a blue ribbon round its neck. After tea, on the arrival of some visitors, you are so lucky as to get a few minutes' private conversation with Miss Burnside, and you learn a few facts concerning your hostess that could never have been gleaned from one of such reticence and modesty as she. "I do not think," says Helen Marion Burnside, "that I have known any author who has to make her writing—the real work of her life—so secondary a matter as has Rosa Carey.She has so consistentlylivedher religion, so to speak, that family duty and devotion to its many members have always come first. She never hesitates for a moment to give up the most important professional work if she can do anything in the way of nursing or comforting any of them, and she istheone to whom each of the family turns in any crisis of life. Having had so much of this, and rather weak health to struggle against, it is the greatest wonder to me that she has been able to write as many books as she has done, and in so bright a spirit as many are written. Of course, real womanly woman's workisthe highest work, but I think few writers put it so entirely above the professional work as she does. I have often been surprised at her surprise when some little incident has brought her public value home to her. Even now she does not in the least realize that she has her place in the literary world as other contemporary authors have. It is really quite singular and amusing to come across such a simple-minded 'celebrity.' I wonder if you found it out for yourself," she adds quaintly.
Certainly no better words could be found to describe the sympathetic, gifted, and lofty-souled Rosa Nouchette Carey.
Despite the proverb that "comparisons are odious," there is a great fascination to those who love to explore the old quarters of London, and to hunt up the records of people who have lived and died there, leaving their mark whether for good or evil, and then to note the difference that a hundred or so of years have made in its buildings and inhabitants. Take old Bloomsbury for instance—by no means an uninteresting stroll—described by Evelyn in 1665 as "a little towne with good aire." Pope alludes to this once fashionable locality thus:—
"In Palace Yard at nine, you'll find me there,At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury Square."
According to Timbs, in his interesting work on London, this "little towne" was the site of the grand old Domesbury Manor, where the kings of England in ancient days had their stables. Yonder great corner house was built by Isaac Ware, editor ofPalladio, originally a chimney-sweep, of whom it was said, that "his skin was so ingrained with soot, that to his dying day he bore the marks of his early calling." By the way, that particular trade would appear to have beenextremely lucrative in those days, as it is well known and authenticated that two great squares—not a hundred miles away—were entirely built by one David Porter, "who held the appointment of chimney-sweep to the village of Marylebone."
A few hundred yards further on to the north-west, and you reach the quiet thoroughfare of Chenies Street, which connects Gower Street and Tottenham Court Road, and here, indeed, a transformation has taken place. Where are the solid, but dull, old, grey houses which erstwhile stood on this spot? Within the last few years they have all been swept away, and the street is vastly improved by the imposing block of red-brick mansions which has been erected, and which bears outside a brass plate, inscribed "Ladies' Residential Chambers." A long-felt want is here supplied. In an age when hundreds of women of culture and of position are earning their living, and whose respective occupations require that they should dwell in the metropolis, a necessity has arisen for independent quarters, such as never can be procured in the ordinary lodgings or boarding-house, where, without being burdened with the cares of house-keeping, the maximum of comfort and privacy with the minimum of domestic worry can be obtained. All this is amply provided for within these walls. Touching an electric button without, the door is opened by the porter—the only man in the house—who wears on his breast the Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman, and Sebastopol medals, you enter a spacious hall, which opens on all sides into a number of self-contained flats. In the centre is a vast well staircase running up to the top of the building.
On the present occasion business takes you only to the first floor, where, rounding the great corridor, are separate little vestibules, each containing a complete suite of rooms, and Miss Adeline Sergeant's chambers are reached. They are so exquisitely arranged, and display so much artistic taste and refinement, that a few words must be said in description of them. The outer door is covered inside with a striped Moorishportière, and leads into a little hall faced by the study, and opening into the drawing-room on the right. The blue and white walls, on which hang half-a-dozen pictures, are of conventional floral design, relieved by cream-coloured mouldings, which throw up the rich Oriental draperies of the couch and Japanese screen near the door. The floor is laid down with peacock-blue felt and a few Persian rugs of subdued tints, whilst a white Siberian wolf, mounted on a fine black bearskin forms the rug. The broad bay windows are hung with soft cream-coloured muslin and guipure curtains, peeping out from the folds of oatmeal cloth hangings of the same shade of blue. Three dwarf bookcases are fitted into recesses, and are well filled with all the books necessary to a woman of letters. A clear fire blazes and sparkles in the tiled hearth, and throws out a ruddy glow over the bright brasses. The fireplace is draped with wine-coloured brocaded velvet curtains; the mantelshelf is high, and the long oblong mirror, in plain black narrow frame, is raised just sufficiently to show off the beautiful Oriental china, Benares brass vases, and Indian jars standing thereon. Over it hangs a single plaque, framed in dark oak, copied by Miss F. Robertson, inviolet de feron china,from the original engraving of "Enid, a Saxon Maiden." There are flowers everywhere—pots of lilies of the valley, ferns and palms, alike on the little hexagonal ebonised table in the windows and the small cabinet, whilst cut daffodils and anemones are grouped in vases in other parts of the room. The great Arabian brass salver, with its mystic scrolls and ebonised stand, forms a suitable tea-table alongside the comfortable American rocking-chair. The copper-coloured brocaded silk gown, with a tinge of red, which Adeline Sergeant wears, with leaves of darker and flowers of lighter pattern woven in, is in unison with the prevailing tints by which she is surrounded. A black fur boa is carelessly thrown round her shoulders, she is rather below the middle height, dark grey eyes, with a mischievous twinkle in them, can be discerned behind thepince-nezwhich she habitually wears, her good colouring betokens a healthy constitution her extremely thick hair, lightly touched with grey, is loosely rolled back from her forehead, she has a merry, bright smile, and laughs with silvery sweetness on being told you had nervously expected, from her pictures, to see a strong-minded, austere-looking woman; but until a sun-portrait can produce rich colouring, earnestness of purpose, combined with an ever-changing, laughing expression, she will appear to those who have only seen her photograph as being somewhat severe and stern.
Adeline Sergeant was born at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire. Her father belonged to an old Lincolnshire family who had lived since the sixteenth century, at least, on the same ground, and had inhabited for many years a long, low, rambling house, of which heused to delight to tell her stories. When yet but a child she went with her parents to Selby, Easingwold, Weston-super-Mare, Worcester, and Rochester, where, when she was nineteen years of age, her father died, and their wanderings practically ended.
"My mother was a quiet, delicate, refined, sensitive woman," says Miss Sergeant, while a look of sadness comes over her face. "She spent most of her spare time in writing, and from her, I suppose, I inherit some of my taste for writing, though it comes from my father's side too, for a cousin of mine is a literary man, and several of my relations dabbled a little in literature. My mother wrote verses and religious stories chiefly; she had a very high ideal of style, and one of my earliest and latest recollections of her is seeing her covering scraps of paper with her peculiarly beautiful handwriting in pencil, and afterwards copying them most carefully in ink at her desk. She had a long illness; she died of consumption, after eight years of confirmed invalidism and gradually wasting away. I remember it now as a remarkable fact that I never knew her to complain or to have anything but the sweetest, brightest smile. Her sense of the ridiculous was acute to the very last, and she was always ready to enjoy a good story. Her appreciation of literature was very great, and it was from her that I learned to enjoy Browning as well as the older masters of verse. After my father's death we removed to the suburbs of London, and my mother died fifteen months later. We were united heart and soul, and her death was the greatest sorrow of my life, especially as I had been much separated from her by school and college life,and had been promised that I should live at home and care for her when my elder sister married, but my mother died four months before the wedding, and that dream—hers as well as mine, I think—was never realized."
Adeline Sergeant began to write at the very youthful age of eight. Her first published verses appeared when she was but thirteen, and a volume of verse when she was sixteen years of age. "It always seems to me," she continues, "that I owe a great deal to the influences of the free country life of my early childhood when we lived at Eastington, near Stonehouse, for two years. I believe that modern teachers would say that I wasted my time, for I went to no school then, but 'did lessons' with my mother in a desultory fashion." Rambling for hours in the fields and lanes by herself, sometimes with a book and sometimes without, the young author used conscientiously to set herself her own tasks; she wrote innumerable stories, had no playfellows, and no children's books, but she had the run of her father's library. Here she read Shakespeare until she knew him by heart; next to Shakespeare her favourite book was Addison's "Spectator"; after these came Byron, Mrs. Hemans, and many earlier poets, Prior, Gay, Dryden, etc. Here, from the age of eleven to fifteen, she also studied theological writers like Chalmers, Butler, and Jeremy Taylor; whilst a set of Encyclopædias, in twenty-two volumes, gave her many happy hours. It is no wonder that Adeline Sergeant declares this to have been one of the most fructifying periods of her life, and that her impressions of landscape, cloud scenery, effects of light, shade,sound, etc., are still coloured by her remembrances of that time.
"I think," she observes, smiling, "that this was better bracing for the mind than the indiscriminate devouring of story-books, which is characteristic of young folks nowadays. But I must also add that at Weston, our next place of residence, I simply gorged myself on novels of all sorts, as I had the command of every circulating library in the place, and no control was ever exercised over my reading."
At sixteen Miss Sergeant went to Laleham, Miss Pipe's well-known school at Clapham; and at eighteen to Queen's College, Harley Street, where she held a scholarship for some time. The death of her sister two years after her marriage left the young girl very much alone in the world. For some years she lived with very dear and kind friends, whose two daughters she had some share in teaching. Having much time free, she went on with her literary work, which had been suspended for a long while after her bereavements, when she had no heart to write anything. After leaving college, Adeline Sergeant devoted herself entirely to study for the Cambridge and other examinations. After taking her First Class Honours Certificate in the women's examination, she gave up her time to teaching, writing, and parochial work of all sorts; she played the organ in church, held Sunday and week-day classes for village children, trained the choir, and so on. A temporary failure in health made a winter in Egypt a real boon to her about that time, and it was on her return that she gave herself up more to literary work.
"I was not at all successful at first," says Miss Sergeant in a cheerful tone of voice. "My first novel has never seen the light to this day. My second was also refused, but has since been re-written and re-issued, under the name of 'Seventy Times Seven.' I wrote little stories for little magazines, and a child's book or two. But I had no success for many years. In 1880 I competed for a prize of £100 offered by the DundeePeople's Friendfor a story, and gained it, to my great delight. I have kept up my connection with this paper ever since, and am always grateful to the editor for the help he gave me at a critical time. This story was 'Jacobi's Wife.' When I heard the good news I was in Egypt, where I was spending a winter at the invitation of my friends, Professor and Mrs. Sheldon Amos. On my return I wrote 'Beyond Recall,' which embodies my impressions of Egyptian life. I went on writing for the next two years, and doing other work as well, but in 1883 I made up my mind to throw myself entirely into literature."
Miss Sergeant's next step was to write and consult the kindly Dundee editor on this subject, and in return she received a proposition from the proprietors that she should go to live in Dundee and do certain specified literary work for them. She did so, and counts it as one of the most fortunate occurrences of her life, as she made many friends and led a pleasant and healthful life, first at Newport, in Fife, and then in Dundee. Two years later, however, it seemed better to her to return to London, though without severing her connection with Dundee. Since 1887 Adeline Sergeant has lived more or less in London, although she spendsa good deal of time at the seaside, in the country, and in Scotland, or in visiting at friends' country houses in different parts of England.
Besides the works already named, Adeline Sergeant has produced several highly interesting novels, notably, "An Open Foe," "No Saint," "Esther Denison," and "Name and Fame"—this last was written in collaboration with A. S. Ewing Lester—"Little Miss Colwyn," "A Life Sentence," "Roy's Repentance," "Under False Pretences." Her later works are "Caspar Brooke's Daughter," "An East London Mystery," and "Sir Anthony." "Esther Denison" and "No Saint" are, perhaps, the author's own favourites, although she frankly says that she thinks that they have not found as much favour with the public as some of her more "sensational" stories, though the critics generally liked them better, and, indeed, compared them with George Eliot and some of Mrs. Oliphant's works. Both these books contain many transcripts from her own personal experiences. "Esther Denison" is, indeed, largely autobiographical. It is evident that Miss Sergeant has put her whole heart in this story. A somewhat caustic wit is pleasantly relieved by the earnest tone which runs through it. Without being a theological novel, the description of the struggles of the high-souled but sympathetic heroine is powerfully and faithfully drawn. Many of these books contain strong dramatic incidents; they are all full of interest, and are characterized by the exceeding good taste and the excellent English in which they are written. They are all popular in America, where they are published by Messrs. Lowell & Son.
"I have sometimes been misunderstood by critics," Miss Sergeant observes, "on account of the absence of anydatato my books. Having disposed some years ago of many of the copyrights, I see them issued as if they were freshly written, which is not always the case. A weekly reviewer expressed great surprise at the publication of 'Jacobi's Wife'after'No Saint.' As a matter of fact it had been written and sold some years earlier. My own works seem to me to fall into two classes: the one, of incident, when I simply try to tell an interesting story—a perfectly legitimate aim in art, I believe—and the other, of character, with the minimum of story. I like to analyze a character 'to death,' so to speak, and I look on my stories of this sort as the best I have written."
Of one of Adeline Sergeant's late novels, "An East London Mystery," no single word of the plot shall be hinted at, nor shall the intending reader's interest be discounted beforehand. Suffice it to say that from the first page to the last it is full of deeply-absorbing matter. Each character is drawn with a masterly touch, and is admirably sustained throughout; it may be safely predicted that when taken up it will scarcely be laid down until the last leaf be turned.
A peculiar interest is attached to a book which has lately come prominently before the public, and which has created much sensation, called "The Story of a Penitent Soul" (Bentley & Son), to which Adeline Sergeant's name was not affixed, but of which she now acknowledges herself to be the author. It deals with a sad subject handled in a powerful but most delicate manner, and is quite a new departure from her formerworks. For some time the critics, whilst mostly praising it warmly and at once recognizing that it was written by no ''prentice hand,' were somewhat puzzled as to the authorship. Gradually the secret leaked out, and Miss Sergeant relates in a few eloquent words her reasons for the concealment of her identity with the story. "Every now and then," she says, "I feel the necessity of escaping from the trammels imposed by publishers, editors, and the supposed taste of the public. I want to say my own say, to express what I really mean and feel, to deliver my soul. Then I like to go away 'into the wilderness' and write for myself, not for the public, without caring whether anybody reads and understands what I write, or whether it is published or not. That is how and why I wrote 'The Story of a Penitent Soul.' It was written because ithadto be written; it wrote itself, so to speak. Work done in this way is the only work that seems worth doing and is in itself a joy, but it cannot be done at will, or every day."
Novel-making, however, does not absorb all this industrious author's time. She is an ardent novel reader in three languages. Her favourite writers in English are Thackeray, George Eliot, and Meredith. As she reads French authors more for style than for subject she is not afraid to avow that she greatly admires Daudet, Pierre Loti, Flaubert, and Georges Sand; the Russian novelists Tolstoi, Dostorievski, and Tourguénieff are also much to her liking, and she reads American modern writers such as Howell, Henry James, and Egbert Craddock, with pleasure. "But I read other things besides novels," she says. "Even as a childI was always of a metaphysical turn, and my delight in books of that sort is so great that I hardly dare touch them when I am trying to write fiction. They fascinate and paralyse me. Economics and some kinds of theological speculation are also a favourite study."
Her love for economics and the discussion of social problems has led Adeline Sergeant to join the Fabian Society, in which she takes great interest. Her religious tendencies are all in the direction of what is called "Broad Church," and she is an ardent believer in Women's Suffrage. She is a member of the committee of the Somerville Club for women, and is on two sub-committees. She is the co-secretary for the Recreative Evening Schools Association in St. Pancras District, and an Evening School Manager for north and south St. Pancras. "I must say that I have a great deal too much to do," she adds, "and I cannot get through half as much business as I ought. I have a rather large circle of friends, and I find it difficult to keep up with my social duties. I generally write all the morning, but I like to write and can write all day. At St. Andrews, for instance, where I have just spent two months, I wrote and read for quite nine or ten hours every day. One cannot do that in London." As a recreation Miss Sergeant prefers music to any other, and, indeed, used to play a good deal once, but has now no time to keep up any pretence attechnique. The same reason has caused her to discard her old pastime of pen-and-ink drawing, of which she is passionately fond, but which she found to be rather too trying to the eyes to be pursued with advantage. "I have donesome elaborate embroidery in my time," she says, "but now I never use my needle for amusement; only for necessity. Any sort of philanthropic work that I undertake is purely secular. I love foreign travel, though I have not gone abroad very lately. I have been in Holland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, and France, besides in Egypt. Switzerland I reserve for a future occasion. It may interest you to hear my unknown American readers every now and then send me kind letters, with requests for autographs or photographs, and that this last likeness, which misled you to think me 'severe and stern,' was taken chiefly in order to be reproduced for the benefit of American as well as English readers. I wonder if it will have the same effect on them," she adds, laughing.
The little study beyond must be visited, and here are Miss Adeline Sergeant'ssecretaireand library. It contains a fairly good collection of English authors, and much French literature; but she has moved about so constantly from place to place, that she has been unable to collect as many books as she would have liked. The great broad couch by the window is a comfortable lounge for a weary writer, and the rest of the furniture is all snug and suitable. Miss Sergeant imparts some interesting information about this unique establishment, which was founded for gentlewomen only, of different occupations. The number of rooms in each flat varies from two to four or five, according to requirements. The whole concern is conducted entirely upon the principles of a gentleman's club, with the great advantage that the tenants can be as much at home and enjoy as absolute a privacy as they desire.Thecuisineand all domestic details are under the management of an experienced housekeeper. Breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners are served in the great club-room below during stated hours, each allowing a good margin for the convenience of the members, whilst an adjoining room is reserved for their private parties. This is a gala day at the "Ladies' Residential Chambers." There is a large afternoon "At Home," which is an annual entertainment. Each lady has sent cards to her friends and the guests are beginning to flock in. The coloured-tiled corridors and window-ledges are gaily decorated with palms, ferns, and flowers. A hospitable custom prevails. Wherever a hall-door is found open it is a signal that visitors to the other residents are permitted to enter and look round the rooms. Should any lady be unable to receive she "sports her oak." Ample refreshments are provided in the club-room, and as many doors are invitingly thrown open, you take advantage of the implied permission, and are kindly received by each hostess. There are members of many professions within these walls. Two sets of chambers are occupied by practising medical women, a third by a busy journalist, a fourth by an artist, a fifth by a young musician, a sixth by a fair and gentle girl, who modestly tells you that she is a high-school mistress, and, with kindling eyes, adds, "there is a glorious independence in earning one's own bread." There is a happycamaraderieprevailing in this big hive of scholarly, industrious women. Such things as quarrels or petty jealousies are unknown, and when it is stated that these mansions have only been built for four years, and that all thetwenty-two sets of chambers which they contain are inhabited, it will be readily understood how much the comfort and freedom of this cheerful club life is appreciated. But the three or four hundred guests are dispersing, and you take leave of Miss Adeline Sergeant, with a sense of gratitude for an entirely novel and interesting entertainment.