Notable Women Authors of the Day Part 7

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 ent.i.tled "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 princ.i.p.al reading. Expressing the wish to her, she smiles pleasantly, and says: "My favourite English novels are 'Villette' and 'The Scarlet Letter,' both perfect to my thinking, and consummate as stories and works of art. In German, my favourite novelist is Paul Heyse. George Sand I regard as the greatest novelist of the age. George Eliot's sombre realism repels me, whilst I fully admit her enormous power. 'Don Quixote' in Spanish, with some other favourite works, I read over and over again, Lessing's 'Nathan the Wise,' Schiller's 'aesthetic Letters,' these, and some of Goethe's smaller works I re-read regularly every year; they are necessary mental pabulum. Spinoza is also a favourite, second only to Plato. Of contemporary writers, Spencer, Harrison, Morley, and Renan stand first in my opinion; whilst of the living novelists I can only say that I endeavour to appreciate all. For the stories of the late Mrs. Ewing I entertain the highest admiration; also I delight in the graceful author of 'The Atelier du Lys.' Tolstoi, Ibsen, Zola, and that school, I find repulsive in the extreme.

Imaginative literature should, above all things, delight. With the sadness inherent in life should be mingled a hopeful note, a touch of poetry, a glimpse of the beautiful 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 he wears his present "necklace," bearing the following inscription:--

My name is m.u.f.f, 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 t.i.tus 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ada Ellen Bayly, "Edna Lyall"]

EDNA LYALL.

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 s.m.u.ts 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, n.i.g.g.e.r 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, healthy atmosphere, which registers three hundred days of suns.h.i.+ne 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 Suss.e.x 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 expect on 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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 gla.s.s 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 ma.n.u.scripts out of sight, a tall piece of furniture with little narrow drawers, also a 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 princ.i.p.al 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, and finally 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 in 1885 under the t.i.tle of "In the Golden Days"--"a t.i.tle 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 t.i.tle-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 particular _motive_."

"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 s.h.i.+lling book by Messrs. Longmans in 1887, called the "Autobiography of a Slander," "Ah!" she says smiling, "that _was_ written '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, she had 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 fas.h.i.+on of Eastbourne are out enjoying a sun-bath. Amongst the _habitues_ you 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 strolls his 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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 in _Murray'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 this gifted 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Rosa Nouchette Carey]

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.

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 ma.s.sive 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; cranes and stones and heaps of rubbish have transformed their time-honoured lawns into desolation. No scheme of utilization seems to suggest itself, and meanwhile the n.o.ble 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 sh.o.r.e 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 Ess.e.x, 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 eldest widowed 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 c.o.c.kateel, 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 pa.s.sages, 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 Ess.e.x 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 G.o.dwin, widow of Sh.e.l.ley, 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 s.h.i.+p-broker, and afterwards had vessels of his own. He was a man of singularly amiable character, and his integrity and many virtues made him universally beloved and respected. Her childhood was pa.s.sed 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 to write, 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 Riethmuller, 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 friends.h.i.+p with Mathilde Blind, afterwards the clever translator of Marie Bashkirtseff's Journal, and author of "The Descent of Man," and other works. This friends.h.i.+p, 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 witnessed their 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 ma.s.sive 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, circ.u.mstances 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 grat.i.tude, 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 p.r.o.nounces 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 pa.s.sed into a new edition.

Her next five novels--ent.i.tled 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." Then came 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 G.o.dfrey's Grand-daughters." She is also on the staff of the _Girl'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.