Читать книгу: «Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches», страница 15

JEAN MIDDLEMASS

Among the many quiet, shady nooks and corners to be found in the "busy, toiling, but ever pleasure-loving Metropolis," where, if a student desire, she can be in the world, and yet out of its distracting roar, Brompton Square can claim to be one; not that it is really a "square" at all, but merely two long rows of houses, connected at the further end by a semi-circle composed of three or four larger houses. The gardens which separate the two lines of old-fashioned, solidly built dwellings, are thickly planted with shrubs and grand old trees, that in summer time quite shut out any view of the opposite neighbours, and ensure a delightful privacy, whilst the twittering of birds, and the cawing of the rooks, who have built their nests therein, undisturbed for many generations, would almost cheat a stranger into the belief that it is a bit out of a country village. Alas! for the poor little buds which had struggled feebly into life before the devastating blizzard! They were all untimely nipped. Spring has lingered so long in the "lap of winter," that the summer greenery is somewhat backward, yet, at last, the green shoots which have slept "through the long night" are beginning to burst out into strength, and the gummy, swelling buds of the great lilacs within the railings are coming out, and are already casting a delicious perfume around the peaceful and old-world enclosure.

Nearly every house in Brompton Square is associated with the names of men and women who have left their mark in the history of London, chiefly of those who belonged to the theatrical and musical professions. On yonder side Mr. John Baldwin Buckstone, the well-known author-actor, entertained merry parties of wits. A few doors further on stands the house which Mr. Edward Fitzwilliam – famous in his day as a musical composer – inhabited. Spagnoletti, the leader of the Italian Opera orchestra, lived on the opposite side, and was succeeded in his tenancy by a famous and accomplished actress of those days, Mrs. Chatterly. Mr. James Vining, a much respected actor, owned the house which was afterwards occupied by the late Mr. Shirley Brooks. George Colman, the younger, lived and died there. Mr. William Farren, the elder, occupied one house, and owned another, which was the residence of Mr. Payne Collier, who, as Croker says in his interesting "Walk from London to Fulham," gave to the public several editions of Shakespeare, and who was long distinguished by his profound knowledge of dramatic literature and history, and his extensive acquaintance with the early poetry of England. In contradistinction to these more amusing personages, there lived in a house on the east side a man of solid and profound learning, Sir John Stoddard, who, within these walls, wrote at the age of eighty-five, a Polyglot grammar, which was much in use at schools of that period.

In addition to these world-known and histrionic names may be added those of the late Mr. Yates, Mr. John Reeve, Mr. Robson, Mr. Liston, the comedian, and Mr. Henry Luttrell, termed by Lord Byron "the great London wit," once well known in the circles of literature, the author of many epigrams, and of a volume of poetry. These have all been residents in Brompton Square, whilst, in later years, Mr. and Mrs. Keeley inhabited a house on the south side, and Mr. and Mrs. Chippendale lived a few doors further on.

What could be more appropriate than that Miss Jean Middlemass, author of "Dandy," "Patty's Partner," "A Girl in a Thousand," and many other bright and interesting stories, should take up her abode in this time-honoured locality, so full of literary and dramatic associations? She has settled herself in one of the larger houses in the bend of the semi-circle at the top, which was erstwhile the dwelling-place of Mr. Alfred Wigan. A spacious hall opens into two good-sized and lofty rooms, which are divided by massive doors, folded back, and draped with heavy Moorish curtains of subdued colouring.

It is all so old-fashioned as to be in thorough keeping with the exterior; but though old-fashioned, the comfortable rooms are by no means dull or gloomy. A flood of sunshine steals in through the long, high windows, lighting up the crimson coverings of the furniture, and casting a bright ray on the picture of a head of Rembrandt, by himself, which is set in a handsomely-carved oak frame of great antiquity over the mantelshelf, on which stand three old and valuable Spode jars. On one side hangs a painting by Bowden of a lovely child, the son of Frederick Reynolds, the dramatic writer, and near it is one of Rivière's elaborately finished and exquisite miniatures of the author's mother taken in her youth. There are some choice bits of Dresden on a carved corner bracket, and scattered about here and there are several Japanese and Chinese curiosities, which have just been sent to Miss Middlemass from the East, including a magnificently carved junk, correct in every minute detail. Surely the very smallest writing-table at which author ever sat belongs to Jean Middlemass; but that, too, was a present, and was originally made tall enough for her to write at while standing, but as that position was found to be quite too fatiguing it has been cut down to suit her present requirements. There is a beautiful old oak mounted carving on the wall – so old that she "can remember nothing about it or its subject," she says, "beyond the fact that we always seem to have possessed it, and it has been greatly admired." Above it some delightfully quaint old china is arranged in a half circle; on either side hang four antique engravings of great value, classical subjects from Boucher, the French artist's paintings. But the picture which she prizes more than all is a life-size portrait in oils, the last work that was ever finished by the artist Jackson. It represents the author's grandfather. He held an appointment in the Treasury, and was the one member of the family who had any connection with literature, being intimately acquainted in his youth with Sir Joseph Banks, Mdme. de Stael, Lady Blessington, and other people of letters.

There is a look in Miss Middlemass which proclaims the relationship. She is above the middle height, very upright, with a good figure, fair complexion, grey curly hair, and keen, bright-blue, short-sighted eyes. She is dressed in black, relieved by a little rose-coloured ribbon round the wrists and throat, tied in a bow on one side. She is sprightly and merry in nature, full of pleasant conversation, and genial in manner.

Jean Middlemass is Scottish by descent. She was born in one of the pleasant terraces surrounding Regent's Park. Naturally a clever, intelligent girl, she began to write at a very early age, and, to encourage her in this taste, when yet quite a small child her father started a magazine for private circulation only, to which she, her brothers, and several other Harrow boys used to contribute scraps and stories, aided by pieces from a few older persons to encourage the juveniles. She describes herself as having been quick at learning by heart, quick in everything, and fond of study. Plays were her chief delight, and at eight years old she had read and could repeat pages of Shakespeare, often astonishing her parents by apt quotations given with considerable dramatic power. Her youthful enthusiasm in this direction soon, however, received a check, for on one occasion, being rebuked by her mother for some trifling fault, and told how much better people would think of her if she behaved well, she pathetically replied – coolly substituting a word at the end of the first line which she considered more suitable: —

 
Amen; and make me die a good old age!
That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing;
I marvel that her Grace did leave it out.
 

For this piece of childish and precocious impertinence, as it was deemed, she was punished by the prompt confiscation of her beloved Shakespeare, whereat she wept copiously.

"I was kept hard at my lessons," says Miss Middlemass; "no expense or pains were spared to educate me well, and I enjoyed them. My father was a great student, and himself instructed me in Latin and the rudiments of Greek. I used to attend M. Roche's French classes, and constant residence abroad has enabled me to speak French and German as fluently as English. Music I disliked from the first, and when a tiny child, if my mother were singing, I used to cry out, 'Speak it, speak it!' I do not care for music to this day, and rejoice in the exceeding thickness of the old walls of this house, which causes even the sound of neighbouring pianos to be quite undisturbing. History and biographies were always favourite studies, and I prefer reading French to English. For some years I wrote in a desultory sort of fashion, and it was not until after my mother's death, about fourteen years ago, that feeling lonely – for my four brothers all died young – I adopted writing as a profession."

At the age of eighteen, being emancipated from the school-room, Miss Jean Middlemass was brought out, made her début at an early Drawing Room, and enjoyed the gaieties of two London seasons, but after the death of her father the family moved to Brighton, where, later on, her inherent talent for acting asserted itself; she studied recitation and elocution, and constantly took part in amateur theatricals, sometimes playing in as many as four parts in one evening at the Royal Pavilion, coached by Mrs. Stirling. On one occasion she recited "Lady Macbeth" before a full audience at the Dome, and she was always in great request at private parties, where she used to arrange and take part in tableaux, charades, proverbs, and such like entertainments.

Miss Middlemass never acted in a theatre, though she may have had a strong desire to do so, and she smilingly confesses to being perhaps a little of the Bohemian at heart, inasmuch as she dislikes formalities and conventionalities, and loves freedom of action. She has played Esther in Caste, Pauline in Delicate Ground, Lady Aubrey Glenmorris in School for Coquettes, Lady Constance in a scene from King John, besides others too numerous to mention. Her most successful recitations have been selections from the works of Dante Rossetti, and Tennyson, Hamilton Aidé's "Lost and Found," and Hood's "Dream of Eugene Aram"; also scenes from plays – Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, and Pauline in the Lady of Lyons. Her memory being excellent, her répertoire was very large, and, according to those who witnessed her performances, her histrionic powers entitled her to a prominent position in the Thespian temple of fame, for in all that she undertook, whether in acting or reciting, she worked with indomitable energy, exhibiting the conceptions of a discriminating and educated mind, marked by the influence of a rich and cultivated taste.

"After a few years," says Miss Middlemass, "I began to publish some of my stories, and as the love of writing grew upon me more and more, I found I could not write and act too, so as the histrionic amusements were gradually abolished, I turned my attention more exclusively to my pen, and wrote my first novel, 'Lil.' My mother used to like my stories when they were out, though she never enjoyed them whilst in process of being written. I generally make out a vague plot of half a page, then draw it out into chapters, and arrange the characters. I prefer writing stories of middle or low class life, I don't know why; it came to me, and I often pick up ideas of the lower London life from standing about here and there to listen. I compose and write very quickly, going over it all several times; and I have never had much help, but have just struggled on through it alone. At night, when I go to bed, I work out all the thoughts and ideas which have suggested themselves during the day; often going to sleep in the middle of it, but in the morning it all comes back to me, and I write it out readily and rapidly."

"Lil," which is well calculated to keep alive the interest of the reader, and has, moreover, the merit of being animated in dialogue, was soon followed by "Wild George," in which the beautiful but dangerous French adventuress and her faithful old soldier servant play so prominent a part. Next came "Baiting the Trap," "Mr. Dorillon," "Touch and Go," succeeded by "Sealed by a Kiss" and "Innocence at Play." In all these works there is much insight into human nature, and the French scenes are particularly bright and life-like, betokening the author's intimate knowledge of foreign cities. "Four-in-Hand" was the sporting title of a volume of short stories. "Sackcloth and Broadcloth" contains some capital sketches of clerical life and its surroundings, about which Miss Middlemass has had considerable experience. Perhaps up to that date she scored her greatest success with "Dandy," written in 1881; of this book the critics and the public were unanimous in their applause. Penetrating into the haunts of the poorest section of humanity in order to depict naturally and truthfully the scenes so touchingly described therein, she gained an unusual insight into their words and ways, their occasionally high, their too often low standard of morality.

"Patty's Partner" is a delightful and interesting tale of the porcelain manufacture works in the West of England, where Miss Middlemass is as much at home as she is in the scenes in "Dandy." It is full of humour and clever writing. Among other of the author's works may be mentioned "Poisoned Arrows," "By Fair Means," "The Loadstone of Love," and "Nelly Jocelyn, Widow." A three-volume story published lately, entitled "Two False Moves," contains some powerful pieces of writing, and the characters of Derek Home, Ruth Churchill, and the Rev. John Eagle are drawn to the life. Her last work in one volume is entitled "How I Became Eminent."

In poetry Miss Middlemass does not as much incline to modern writers as to the ancient classics in which she was so early instructed. In politics she is a strong Conservative. Until the last year or two she was, as may be supposed, a frequent visitor at the theatre, but being, unfortunately, so short-sighted, the necessity for using strong glasses temporarily strained her eyes, so that pleasure is partially laid aside for the present.

Miss Middlemass is, as usual, full of literary engagements. A new novel is being meditated, though it may not actually be begun; several short stories are in requisition, and one appeared in an early number of John Strange Winter's weekly paper. Among other enjoyments, Jean Middlemass delights in travelling; "Not in the sea part of it," she adds, smiling; "I am an especially bad sailor, and do not like being on the water. I always take the shortest sea-routes." She has made many journeys on the Continent, and in former days lived for a year in Paris. She knows her Paris well, and loves it so dearly that she has often felt that she would like to make her home in that gay and festive capital. She is equally familiar with Brussels, and has been a good deal in Germany, but only on the Rhine, passing some time at Wiesbaden, and paying what she describes as a "delightful visit to the old city of Nuremberg."

"I keep on my quarters in town," continues your hostess, "principally as a pied-à-terre. The severity of the long winter, then the sudden change of spring for a few days in February, following those dreadful fogs and frosts, and then the terrible gales and east winds, were all most trying, and I am again contemplating a trip abroad to more seasonable climates; first, a short tour in Holland, then on to Paris for a few weeks, and later, into North Italy, perhaps on to Venice, if the weather then be not too hot."

The brightness and vivacity of foreign life suit well Miss Jean Middlemass's happy disposition and sunny nature. Blessed with good spirits, full of clever anecdote and harmless repartee, with great conversational power, her prevailing characteristic is an utter absence of selfishness and affectation. She has a soft, merry laugh, and a kind, warm heart. With this good gift, it is almost needless to say that she goes through life making no enemies, and many friends. In her ready wit there is no sting. Before all things scandal and backbiting are an abomination to her; it has been truly quoted of this talented and amiable woman, as it has been said of many great and famous persons, "Though knowledge is power, yet those who possess it are indulgent to weaker intellects, and become as one of them in sociability and friendship."

AUGUSTA DE GRASSE STEVENS

Among the younger American authors who have made their mark on the literature of the day, Augusta de Grasse Stevens takes a high stand. Highly educated and deeply read, as well versed in the political and civil history of her own country as in that of the land of her adoption, her mind expanded by much continental travel, and inheriting the talents of her brilliantly gifted parents, it is no wonder that she should have attained the depth of thought, the originality of idea, and the fluency of expression which characterise her writings. The young author, who is petite in stature, and slight in figure, with grey-blue eyes and brown hair, was born in Albany, on the Hudson River, the capital city of New York, a quaint old Dutch town that bears to this day many marked peculiarities of its rich founders, whose manor lands, granted by royal patent, stretched far and wide along the river banks. Her father was the Hon. Samuel Stevens, one of the most brilliant lawyers the American bar has ever produced; his opinions are still quoted in legal matters on both sides of the ocean. He was a man of the keenest intellect, and most wonderful memory; a power wherever he appeared, and one who had the reputation of never losing a case. The courtesy title was bestowed upon him by the State Legislature in recognition of his great services to that body. He was the life-long friend of such men as Chancellor Walworth, Henry Clay the statesman, and Daniel Webster, who declared that "in his opinion Mr. Stevens as a lawyer stood first in the United States, and that as a colleague he welcomed him in every case, but as an opponent he hoped each case would be the last." From Mr. Stevens' conduct of so many cases, involving important inventions, he has been called unanimously "The Founder of American Patent Law."

"Mr. Phelps, the late U.S. Minister, has often told me," says Miss Stevens, "that he, as a young man, used to travel miles to hear my father argue a case, such a lesson was it in eloquence and profound legal knowledge, and he retained as one of his happiest memories the remembrance of certain interviews he had had with him in which he learned more from my father than in hours of study and private research. My paternal grandmother was of French birth and lineage. She was Mdlle. Marie de Grasse, the daughter of Pierre de Grasse, who was a brother of the famous Admiral Comte de Grasse, the intimate friend of La Fayette, whose patriotism, like his own, was devoted to the American cause. Her parents left France in the seventeenth century, and established themselves in a country home not far from Albany. My grandmother was very beautiful, and retained her beauty to an advanced age, and it is from her we take the name of De Grasse. My great-grandfather was an ardent patriot, and I have often heard my aunt say, that stored away in the attic of their house were trunks full of 'national paper bonds,' not worth the paper on which they were printed, but which represented the sums that he had advanced to the American Government during the War of Independence, and which afterwards they were unable to redeem. My father married rather late in life, my mother being only a girl of eighteen at the time. She was very charming in manner and appearance and highly educated." On the maternal side, Miss de Grasse Stevens can trace her descent back without a break to that brave Simon de Warde who fought with the Conqueror and who fell at Hastings, and whose name is engraved on the Battle Abbey Roll, among those for whom "prayer perpetual is to be offered up" within the Abbey walls. The Wards emigrated to America some time in the year 1600, and settled in New England. They were staunch Puritans and patriots, and begrudged neither life, nor money, nor substance to the cause. General Artemas Ward, one of Washington's chief generals, early distinguished himself in the service, and he was but one in a long line of similar instances. It was while walking through an old churchyard in Connecticut that the late Samuel Brown, coming upon General Artemas Ward's tomb-stone, first saw the name that he afterwards adopted and made world-famous in a far different fashion.

Miss Stevens can remember well her great-grandfather Ward, though she was only a child when he died. He was a typical gentleman of the old school, and wore to the day of his death his hair tied in a queue, the knee breeches, silk stockings, low shoes with gold buckles, fine cambric frill, and neckerchief of his time. Her childish recollections are full of pictures of him, and she can shut her eyes and recall without effort the long, sunny drawing-room, so still, and full of a certain awe, the trees outside bending in the summer wind, the warm crimson hangings at the wide windows, the fire on the open hearth, burning there all the year round, and the great arm-chair drawn close within its rays, in which was seated the dignified figure of her great-grandfather, Dr. Levi Ward, his beautiful clean-shaven face, slightly stern when in repose, breaking into a kindly smile at the first sound of his daughter's voice. By his side on a little table lay the great Bible, always open, which he knew literally by heart, and from which, when the blindness of old age came upon him, he could repeat chapter after chapter with unfailing accuracy. "My great-grandmother, his wife, I cannot remember," says Miss Stevens, "but she, too, was a remarkably handsome woman, and one who throughout her whole life held a distinguished position in society as well as being a leader in all philanthropic and charitable undertakings. Their beautiful home, Grove Place, Rochester, New York, was the perfection of a country seat, and about it cluster many tender memories and associations. Their daughter married my grandfather, Mr. Silas Smith, whose daughter in turn became my father's wife, and went with him to his home in Albany, where she soon won for herself a position of much responsibility, and became, puny as she was, a recognised power in all social matters. My father died when I was very young, and my earliest recollections do not date beyond his death. My mother, a young widow, returned with her little family to her father's home, Woodside, just out of Rochester, and with that dear and beautiful home all my happiest, fondest memories are knit up indissolubly. Woodside was a typical home; a large and spacious mansion set in the midst of acres of park land, gardens, and meadows. I think there never was just such a home! Everything that refinement, cultivation, and wealth could procure surrounded us, yet all was distributed and governed with so just and wise a hand that luxurious ostentation and wastefulness were never known amongst us. Here I grew from babyhood to girlhood, and to the fond remembrance and recollection of life there my thoughts turn always when I speak or think of —home."

The young American author describes her mother and her system of education in touching and eloquent words. Her mother, she says, was possessed of one of those rare, unselfish natures to whom personal grief was unknown. Even in her early widowhood her first thought was for her children, and to their care and education she devoted herself unsparingly. Possessing a gifted mind and great personal attractions, a voice of unusual sweetness and power, and a heart that literally did not know the meaning of the word self, she called forth in everyone with whom she came in contact the greatest admiration and affection. "Her children loved her passionately," says Miss Stevens. "How well I can remember when I was but a tiny mite of five, how she would gather us all around her in the grey winter afternoons, and with me nestled close at her knee, read to us by the hour together, but not fairy tales or story books. She went straight to the big heart of Shakespeare, of Longfellow, of Tennyson, of Thackeray, of Dickens, and opening the treasure-houses of their genius, read them to us with only such explanations and changes as necessity required to meet the status of her youthful audience. I cannot remember the time when Shakespeare was unknown to me, or when the Poet Laureate, and Campbell, and Dickens, were not dear, familiar friends. Out of this galaxy of riches, The Tempest, Midsummer Night's Dream, Hiawatha, and Dombey and Son, stand out clearest in my mind. Then she would sing to us, play to us, and so we became familiar with Mendelssohn, Mozart, Schubert, and with all the plaintive, old English ballads and Scotch border songs; and in the morning hours, while she was busy with a large correspondence and literary work, my dear grandmother taught us, my sister and me, to sew, cut out, and knit, inculcating meantime many a goodly lesson in charity, kindliness, and thoughtfulness for others. To my dear mother, indeed, I owe all that I am. She is gone from me now, but to her clear mind, wise criticism, and sound judgment is due whatever literary reputation I may have earned. I wrote for her, she was my public!"

This beloved home was ever one of open hospitality, and to it came at all times guests of every kind. Here, Miss Stevens tells you, her grandfather had welcomed Talleyrand and Louis Napoleon, and here in later days gathered many a company of literary giants whose names are now household words. After six years of widowhood her mother married the late Mr. John Fowler Butterworth, a man who was universally beloved and respected, of high position, wealth, and great personal attractions. "We all went with them to the new home in New York," adds Miss Stevens. "He was the only father I have ever known, and I loved him most tenderly."

From this time the family spent much of their time on the Continent of Europe. Miss Stevens and her sister were educated in Paris, having for their instructress a very charming and capable woman, who had been gouvernante to the Orleans Princesses. It was their habit to spend at least three months of every year abroad, and in this way the young girl saw much more of foreign countries than her own. Italy, Switzerland, France, Germany, the Tyrol, each were visited in turn, and such was the method of their travelling that every country and town were indelibly and individually impressed upon her memory. Rome, Florence, Geneva, Verona, Turin, Munich, Innspruck, each one and all are to her bright with particular associations. After her stepfather's death Miss Stevens and her mother settled permanently in London, where they had many friends and many family ties, her sister having married and made her home in England.

The young author's first literary efforts were begun at a very early age. "I can scarcely," she says, "remember a time when I did not scribble. My first attempt was a sermon on the text 'God is Love,' and I distinctly recollect how and where I wrote it, crouched behind a long swinging glass in my mother's bed-room, printing it off in capital letters – writing being then far beyond my attainments – and getting very hot and flushed in the effort." Her next attempt was a decided advance. Her sister and two cousins had established a small home newspaper, called the Dorcas Gazette, price one halfpenny, circulation strictly private and confidential, its end and aim being the helping of the "Dorcas Society," a body formed to make clothes for the poor. The circulation amounted to six copies a week, each of which had to be written out in fair round hand on two sheets of foolscap paper. To this ambitious venture she was invited to contribute, and for two years was writer in chief, furnishing serials, short stories, and anecdotes, her sister doing the political and poetical parts. "I have still," says Miss Stevens, smiling, "one or two of those old 'gazettes,' time-stained and yellow; I look on them with the utmost respect, and feel that for harrowing plot and thrilling adventure, my 'serial' in five chapters, called 'Blonde and Brunette,' beats the record of any of my subsequent work!" Her first book, written when she was seventeen, was a small novelette called "Distance." It was published by Appleton, of New York, and was well received and reviewed. On coming to London, Miss de Grasse Stevens was asked by the proprietor of the principal American journal, the New York Times, to prepare for them a series of articles upon English art and artists, and for ten years she filled the position of special art critic to that paper, her letters upon London artists and their studios being the first of the kind ever written, while her account – a two-column article – of the private view and pictures at the Royal Academy, which appeared in the morning edition in New York the next day, was the first "art-cable" sent across the wires. Her first short story, written long ago, appeared in Harper's Magazine. She wrote it secretly, and sent it off furtively. It was called "Auf Wiedersehn," and was subsequently translated into German, and reprinted in many English papers. "After sending it off," she relates, "I waited in sickening suspense for ten long days, and when at last a letter came bearing the well-known Franklin-square stamp, I dared not open it. When I did I fell upon the floor and cried bitterly from bewildering joy! It contained a satisfactory cheque, and a request for 'more matter of the same sort.' From that moment the spell of literature held me as in a vice. I have never known a moment of purer, more unalloyed joy than that, and to it I owe my perseverance in the 'thorny path.'"