Notable Women Authors of the Day Part 12

Later on, whilst being regaled with all sorts of cakes and hothouse grapes, the conversation turns on literary matters. "I have no particular writing-room," says your hostess, "I generally write in the evening after dinner, with my people chattering all the time, but I am too much accustomed to that to be disturbed by it. My first essays in fiction were magazine stories. I suppose I have written over four-score of these, and they always seemed to find a good deal of favour with the leading provincial journals. I sold a story called 'Manoeuvring' for a very nice little sum to a French editor for translation into _L'Etoile_, and I was very much pleased when I got a requisition for a tale from the _Lady's Magazine_ in Philadelphia, but of later years I have written about five-and-twenty three-volume novels. The first of these was called 'Faithless.' The next two: 'Denison's Wife,' and 'Not While She Lives.'

After that 'Her Plighted Troth,' 'A Maddening Blow,' 'A Thing of Beauty,' and 'A Fatal Pa.s.sion' came out. These are names which recur to me at the moment out of all that I have written. I like the last best, and next to it 'A Leader of Society,' and 'The Match of the Season,'

perhaps because I took the heroes and heroines from real life. More recently Mr. F. V. White has brought out my books, and they have all more or less been excellently noticed, especially 'Daughters of Belgravia,' 'The Last Drawing Room,' and 'The New d.u.c.h.ess,' all of which have gone into two or three editions. Occasionally I send a piece of poetry to the magazines, and it generally gets a little _kudos_ from the Press, and some little time ago I wrote a sacred song called 'Calvary's Cross,' which gained much popularity; a copy of it was very graciously accepted by the Queen." The latest of all is "A Modern Bridegroom."

Mrs. Fraser observes that she has often been asked what is her "method"

in writing, and that on one occasion she received a letter from a clergyman in Nottingham, begging her to "describe it exactly." "I laughed when the letter came," she continues, "and I am ashamed to say I never answered it, because I have no method. I simply write straight on, and never copy my MSS., and pity the poor printers who have to decipher my hieroglyphics. I am very fond of recitations, too, and some years ago I studied elocution under Mrs. Stirling. Once, in her unavoidable absence, I recited two of her pieces before a large audience in St.

George's Hall. I felt horribly nervous, but I suppose I did the "pathos"

pretty well, for I noticed a good many people crying, and was much pleased to see them do so! I have recited several times in America also, but now I never exert myself beyond writing a novel or a short story just when I feel inclined for it."

After tea Mrs. Fraser proposes a stroll through the grounds. "It is very cold, but dry," she says, "so we might venture; but first come into the billiard-room, which is our usual postprandial resort." Pa.s.sing through the hall and another conservatory, with vines thickly intersecting overhead, and full of splendid specimens of maidenhair ferns, with the vivid scarlet of geraniums between them, she takes you into a large and lofty room, panelled in oak. At the further end a flight of oaken steps leads up to a sort of das, from which the game can be well surveyed.

The furniture is all of carved oak and crimson velvet, with the exception of two great easy chairs, whose backs and arms and legs are composed of buffalo horns, beautifully polished and mounted. These were sent to her from Russia, and are the admiration of the neighbourhood.

All round the walls hang pictures of the celebrated American trotting horses, whose performances in Central Park, New York, were a daily delight to Mrs. Fraser. A tall bookcase, carved quaintly, stands in a recess, but she tells you not to expect to see any of her own novels in it, as she invariably gives them all away, except one copy of each, which her mother, who lives with her, always confiscates, and values as her dearest possessions. This lady must have been one of the loveliest of women in her youth, and she is still wonderfully handsome and young-looking.

Mrs. Alexander Fraser comes of a good old stock. Her grandmother was a sister of Sir Wolstan Dixie, descended from the Sir Wolstan Dixie who settled at Bosworth, Leicestershire, in the time of Queen Elizabeth. On her mother's side she is related to the ancient house of Dunboyne, dating as far back as Sir Thomas Butler, or Le Botelier, in the reign of Edward II.; and she is a connection of William Makepeace Thackeray. Of this she declares herself to be "most proud," and adds:--"I consider his 'Becky Sharp' is one of the most able studies of character that was ever written. How much I should delight in his power of reading character, though perhaps he took somewhat too caustic a view of it occasionally!"

A stand close by contains the whole set of Mrs. Lovett Cameron's novels--"I enjoy her writing so much," says your hostess. "When I was younger I was _fanatica_ on Ouida; but though I still admire her marvellous command of language, especially in description of scenery, I have grown too sober and prosaic and practical in my ideas and views of life to appreciate her works as I used to do."

Losing her father at a very early age, when only fifteen, Mrs. Fraser went to India, after spending two years at a school in Paris, and at the age of sixteen she married Captain, now General Alexander Fraser, C.B., sometime Member of Council, for many years Secretary to the Government of India, and only surviving brother of the late Bishop of Manchester.

She describes her life in India in glowing colours. "I liked India immensely," she remarks. "Most women do, I fancy. They are so hospitable out there, and there is so much fun and 'go' in the society. Besides,"

she adds, laughing, "one has so much attention that one feels in a delightfully chronic state of self-complacency!"

A door at the further end leads through the fernery to the western side of Carylls, which is perhaps the prettiest part of the place. It is curiously decorated with Suss.e.x tiles, and has an ivy-clad gable and long window in stained cathedral gla.s.s. Turning to the right, your hostess takes you round a tastefully-laid-out rosery, at the extremity of which is a gla.s.shouse over a hundred feet in length, which is full of peach, apricot, nectarine, and other big trees. Emerging at the other door, you find yourself in a great double garden with an archway between, and the whole is enclosed within high walls covered with fruit-trees. Here are vineries and hot-houses, all in most exquisite order, for this is Mrs. Fraser's particular hobby. The day is so clear that the view all around is seen to perfection, extending to the Surrey Hills, and dotted here and there with a few white houses shown up against the dark green of the ma.s.ses of firs which seem to abound in these parts. Expressing a wish to see the stables, Mrs. Fraser leads the way thither through the courtyard. Four good-looking horses stand in the stalls, and as she opens a small square window near, the black velvety muzzle of the sweetest little pony rubs against her shoulder, whilst he eagerly devours the carrot she has brought for him. "I drive this little fellow myself," she says. "I had a pair of them, 'Blink' and 'Wink,' but poor 'Wink' has gone over to the majority, I grieve to say."

A little further on are some picturesque kennels, and the inmates greet their mistress vociferously. These are the fox-terriers who won the prizes in the drawing-room. They are animals of long pedigree and long price, and are pretty well known at all the shows in England. "They are not only ornamental but useful," says your hostess. "Some are loose at night, and I pity the individual who approaches them."

Whilst leisurely rambling here and there, you stroll up to some broad stone steps (overshadowed by oaks, and with pillars on either side surmounted by large vases of flowering berberis) that lead past an upper lawn enclosed by a shrubbery, in which syringas and _Gloire de Dijon_ roses hold prominent places. "These two tennis courts are in constant use in summer time," observes Mrs. Fraser, "but I really am a bit of a recluse, eschewing society as much as possible, though I thoroughly enjoy a quiet tea with my favourite neighbours. When I lived in town," she adds, "I had a charming house in Clarges-street, and used to like my Wednesday afternoons, when a number of diplomats generally looked in, and there used to be a Babel of languages going on, but long residence in the country makes one grow daily more of a stay-at-home, and I have so much to do that I never find the day too long."

Close by on the lawn lies a carefully-kept gra.s.sy mound. This is the grave of three favourite dogs, and a much deplored grey parrot. One of these dogs was a Schipperke, the breed kept by the bargemen of Belgium to guard their goods and chattels. "He was a real beauty," says your hostess, sadly, "and he travelled with me all over the Continent, then across the Atlantic, and back again. I think one really grows to care for a dog or a horse as much as for a human creature, and this pet was almost human in his intelligence."

Mrs. Alexander Fraser is warmly attached to her beautiful home, and takes the keenest interest in the improvements. She brought the design of the low double walls from the Park at Brussels, and herself superintended their building, as also the re-arrangement of the lawns.

She rarely goes to town, and then only on a flying visit just to see her lawyers, or her publishers, "all the while longing to get home again,"

she says. She promises herself, however, to go up to stay with some friends in the season, in order to do the opera and theatres, confessing that she dearly loves a good drama. "Something that makes me weep copiously," she adds, laughing. "I dislike comic pieces."

After a stroll round the lawns to watch the glories of the setting sun, you return towards the house, pa.s.sing by a piece of water enclosed by low walls, fringed all round with large weeping willows, and enter through a heated conservatory on the eastern side, not yet visited. Here is a wealth of tea roses in every shade of colour. Mrs. Fraser ungrudgingly cuts a handful of the choicest buds, and gives them to you, a welcome present indeed at this season. "Flowers," she says, "are a pa.s.sion with me. I like to have them everywhere, and always have a big bunch on my table when I write." The eastern side door leads into a little room containing many Oriental treasures, notably a carved screen of sweet-smelling sandal-wood, a curious "neckbreaker" used by Indian dacoits, and some rare ivory and enamels. Conspicuous among them there stands a small inlaid table, and on it lies an evidently cherished volume, "The Life of Bishop Fraser," together with a photograph of him, in a costly frame. "He was my best friend," says Mrs. Alexander Fraser, in a low tone and with much pathos; "and my _beau ideal_ of a man both personally and mentally. I felt his loss from my heart, and I am sure that thousands have done the same."

But the carriage is announced, and Mrs. Alexander Fraser gives a whispered order to the butler, which results in a basket of large, purple hothouse grapes being brought, "to cheer you on your way back,"

she says. During the drive to the station she hospitably invites you to "come again when the strawberries are ripe and the roses are in bloom."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Julia B. Chetwynd]

THE HON. MRS. HENRY CHETWYND.

There is an old house in a quiet old-world street leading out of Hans Place, called Walton Place, where the Emperor Napoleon III. used to live after he left King Street, St. James's, and which was the scene of some of his famous political dinner-parties. This house, which is back to back with Jane Austen's home in London, once stood in its own gardens, but the ground was too valuable to spare for the picturesque, and it has long since been turned into a row of neat dwelling-places. Standing well back from the noisy thoroughfare and the incessant roar of traffic in the Brompton Road, there is a sense of peace and quiet about it externally which prepares you to find that within it is a home of talent, of refinement, of domestic harmony and affection.

Whilst ascending the stairs a fresh, sweet soprano voice is heard, giving thrilling expression to Tosti's lovely song, "Love Ties." On being shown into a fair-sized double drawing-room, your first impression leads to the belief that there are some good old bits of carved oak furniture to be studied, but there is more to learn about that presently. Mrs. Chetwynd is busily engaged in finishing a large coverlet of art needlework, which she puts aside as she rises to greet you with much grace and cordiality. She is very fair in complexion, with large blue eyes and softly shaded eyebrows. The hair, parted smoothly on a broad forehead, is gathered up at the back, and brought round the head in a plait, worn in coronet shape in front. She is dressed in black with a scarf of old black lace knotted becomingly round her throat, and a bunch of violets nestles in the folds. She has an air of high breeding, combined with an irresistibly sweet and pleasant manner.

The musician is Mrs. Chetwynd's youngest daughter, and you cannot resist the temptation to beg her to indulge you with yet another verse of the song. She good-naturedly complies, rendering the melody with much skill and pathos. On your thanking and complimenting her, she tells you that she is a pupil of Madame Bonner, and has never had any other teacher, and truly she does credit to her instructress.

There is an artistic simplicity about these bright, cheerful rooms which is very fascinating. The walls are hung with gold-coloured paper, copied from a pattern at Hampton Court, and taken from an Italian palace.

Carpets of electric-blue colour cover the floors, and tapestry curtains of the same shade, with inner ones of cream-coloured guipure, shade the windows; close to your hostess's chair there is an enormous Moorish bra.s.s tray mounted on a Moorshebar stand. This was sent home by a dear absent naval son for his mother's afternoon tea-service, but as it is so heavy that it would require two servants to carry it, Mrs. Chetwynd has turned it into a most appropriate work-table. Large plants of the "Sacred Lily of j.a.pan" are flowering beautifully yonder, a big j.a.panese screen stands near the door, armchairs of every shape and degree of comfort, together with a broad couch, are placed apparently exactly where they ought to be; nearly everything else in the room has a story, and now the secret of the old oak furniture is learned. You could have declared it was a production of the seventeenth century. The material is of cypress wood, and Miss Katherine Chetwynd is now carving some oak, which was a gift, and which is old, very old, inasmuch as it was taken out of the Thames, at Blackwall, and formed part of the planks and stakes driven in there to keep out the Spanish Armada. It is black with age, but still sound. It would appear to be a curious present for three young girls, but Mrs. Chetwynd's daughters have a genius for wood-carving; collecting old designs, they actually made the fire-place entirely by themselves, with its rich, broad pattern on each side, the Rose and the Shamrock for their father, and the Thistle entwined in compliment to their Scottish mother, and with the help of their brother they even fitted and placed it without the aid of a carpenter. Several tables, too, carved in a variety of designs, are the manufacture of their clever fingers, and their talents do not end here, for on one of these tables you recognize a life-size portrait, in red crayons, of the fair young musician herself, executed with masterly and skilful touch by her elder sister. The painted panels of the outer and inner doors as also of those which divide the rooms, are the work of these young artists, in thoroughly correct j.a.panese style, the rising sun, the storks, and the tall flowers in raised gilt, being all perfectly orthodox. This talent is inherited from their mother, for every picture on the walls is from her own brush. On the right hangs her large painting from Siegert's "Liebesdienst," in the Hamburg Gallery, and she was very proud of obtaining permission to copy it, as it was then only the second copy allowed. On one side of the fireplace there is her portrait in oils of the beautiful Miss Bosville, afterwards Lady Macdonald of the Isles, Mrs. Chetwynd's great-grandmother; on the other "The Holy Margaret," copied in the Dresden Gallery, a Madonna after Rotari, and a cherub after Rubens, in all of which pictures it is easy to see that she excels in flesh tints, and has a fine eye for colour.

Mrs. Chetwynd is the daughter of the late Mr. Davidson of Tulloch, by his first wife, the Hon. Elizabeth Macdonald, one of the lovely daughters of the late Lord Macdonald of the Isles. Mr. Davidson inherited, besides the family place, Tulloch Castle, the deer forest of Inchbae, and many thousands of acres on the West Coast, which he sold to Sir John Fowler, Mr. Banks, and others. He was first in the Grenadier Guards, then member for the county, and, finally, Lord-Lieutenant of Ross-shire. He was noted for his handsome person and his great kindness to everyone around him; a most popular landlord, he possessed a great charm of manner, and was much in advance of his day, especially in the matter of education. Though he was the best and kindest of fathers, he was strict in discipline. His daughters were made to learn Latin and mathematics, and, besides a resident English and foreign governess, the village schoolmaster came to teach them history and geography every evening.

"It was impossible," says Mrs. Chetwynd, "to have had a happier childhood than ours, particularly up to the time of my mother's death.

Though I think that education was perhaps a little overdone, we had a great deal of exercise on horseback and on foot to counteract it. We were made to keep very early hours, to be in the schoolroom at six o'clock every morning in summer and seven in winter. The piper's walking up and down playing in front of the old place at eight o'clock was the signal for our breakfast, of which we had great need, having previously studied for two hours. We then worked hard at our books till noon, when my mother always appeared at the schoolroom door with peaches, grapes, or something good in her hand; then we rode for two hours in all weathers, dined at two o'clock, worked till four, out again till six, then tea, preparation, and to bed."

It is probably just the regularity, order, and method of the happy, healthy country life of her girlhood, and the constant out-of-door exercise, which have preserved Mrs. Chetwynd's const.i.tution so excellently, that until four years ago, when she met with a severe accident at Rugby Station--from which she has never quite recovered--she could walk long distances, and go out at night afterwards without feeling any fatigue. "The walks and rides," she continues, "that we were accustomed to take in the elastic Highland air, sound wonderful to those who have not experienced the ease with which one can walk there.

We, as girls, would tramp seven miles to a luncheon party, join in any expedition, and return the whole way on foot easily. We have often ridden twenty-five miles, (sending other horses on early, and changing halfway), gone out with the friends with whom we spent the afternoon, and ridden home in time to dance at a gillies' ball."

Another great excitement in their youth was the acting of French and Italian plays, which were adapted for their own capacities from _Moliere_, _Goldoni_, etc., by the foreign governess, enjoying thoroughly the applause, the dressing-up and the arranging of the costumes, which were made in strict keeping. "But what we did not enjoy," adds your hostess, smiling, "was the trouble of our long and thick hair, which as often as not was powdered for these juvenile performances, and I can remember to this day how unmercifully our cross French maid used to pull and tug at it next morning."

The autumn holidays were often spent up at the West Coast place or on the Continent. The former was, however, the favourite holiday resort of these happy, hardy young people, where they boated, fished, and bathed to their hearts' content, often going off to one of the many islands on the coast, taking books, work, and provisions; then, sending away the boat, they would spend half the bright, warm days swimming about in the sea. When these vacations were spent abroad the opportunity was seized to give them the best masters to be found; "and, though we enjoyed foreign life very much," says Mrs. Chetwynd, "we always felt we were being cheated out of our holidays. In later years my uncle, General Macdonald (known as Jim Macdonald) lived at the Ranger's Lodge in Hyde Park, and going there was always a great pleasure. He was so clever and entertaining, never too busy to enter into anything affecting his family, so overflowing with wit of the best kind, that he made one see the amusing side of the most commonplace things."

The excellent education she received, the beautiful scenery in which she was reared, the clever people (George Eliot among them) with whom she was brought in contact--all conspired to expand the young girl's mind, and to pave the way for her subsequent career as a novelist. She describes their charming supper-parties at St. Andrews which were constantly joined by such learned men as Princ.i.p.al Tulloch, Professors Aytoun and Ferrier, and Sir David Brewster, who used to talk to her in the most fascinating manner about astronomy and other science, as "being an education in itself." Thackeray, too, gave her the greatest encouragement, and showed her much kindness. But the girlish days were coming to a close. In February, 1858, she married Lieutenant, now Post-Captain, the Hon. Henry Chetwynd, brother of Viscount Chetwynd, by whom she has a family of four sons and three daughters. Her first literary effort was a play, written at the early age of twelve, in which she acted with her brothers and sisters. It was really a wonderful production for so young a child, and a few years later she wrote several society verses, which were printed, and read with much amus.e.m.e.nt by her father, to whom, however, she had not the courage to disclose the secret of their authorship. For some years after her marriage Captain Chetwynd held some appointments enabling her to be constantly with him, but when the dreaded moment for separation came, and he was ordered on foreign service, first to the West Indies, and then to Mexico, Mrs.

Chetwynd felt the solitude of the long evenings to be so oppressive after the little ones were gone to bed, that for distraction she took to her pen and wrote her first novel, called "Three Hundred A Year." It had a good sale, though on looking back on it now the author p.r.o.nounces it to have been "excessively silly." Encouraged by this success, she wrote "Mademoiselle d'Estanville," which was translated into French, and had a good run. Then came "Janie" and "Life in a German Village," which pa.s.sed into several editions. "Bees and b.u.t.terflies" came out first in the _Pictorial World_ before being published in three volumes. This book the author considers to have been the most successful, financially, though "Sara" is her own favourite, and was the result of a long study. The story is founded on fact, and the incidents relating to the discovery of South End smugglers were drawn from the life, Mrs. Chetwynd having been a witness to the scene when the great cask, supposed to contain wine, was opened, and found full of white satin shoes, valuable lace, and other contraband articles. Scenes, too, in the Highlands are well depicted in this book, whilst the sketch of Sara is carefully worked out, from her first introduction as the "dethroned princess" in all her ignorance and absorption in her supposed "Gift of Poetry," to the final page when, after many vicissitudes of fortune, her soul is awakened by the love of a good man, and her really fine and n.o.ble character is fully developed. Other books written by Mrs. Chetwynd are ent.i.tled "A March Violet," "The Dutch Cousin," and "Lady Honoria's Nieces," but though want of s.p.a.ce prevents much comment on them, they can confidently be recommended as most pleasant reading, and all are characterized by the kindly nature, the refinement, and the n.o.ble spirit of this distinguished gentlewoman's mind. She modestly says of her works, "When I think of the great compet.i.tion nowadays, I am surprised that they have held their own at all, and directly a new book is out, I always feel that I should like to recall it. I have sold the copyright of most of my stories, but some are still in my own hands, and I have long since handed over all my literary business affairs to Mr. A. P. Watt, which I have found a perfectly satisfactory arrangement." The author was considerably amused a few days ago on hearing that a former old servant takes in _Bow Bells_ regularly in order to read her late mistress's novels, which have been reproduced and are now coming out weekly in that periodical. Her two last books are called "Criss-Cross Lovers" and "A Brilliant Woman."

On asking Mrs. Chetwynd about her plots and taste in literature, she says: "I generally build up characters from my own experiences, a bit here, and a trait there, but I do not deliberately set to work to take pictures of people. I think that most persons have some particular characteristic that comes out in everything they do, and to create is better than to copy. My favourite novels are written by the Gerards, and by Mrs. L. B. Walford--I find all hers charming. Besides these, I admire George Meredith's books more than any others, the one drawback being that when I have re-read one of his I cannot interest myself in anything else for a long time. I delight in history, too, history of all nations. Things which really happened absorb me intensely. I remember when a child I had curious punishments; for being untidy I had twenty lines of _Henriade_ to learn by heart, or a French fable. As I could repeat the _Henriade_ from beginning to end, I must have been untidy pretty often. The English governess for punishment used to make me read twenty pages of Alison's "History of Europe" aloud in the play-hours, a fact which I once told the learned historian, and it amused him greatly.

The historical punishment, however, has not deprived me of my love for history. My favourite poets are Wordsworth, Tennyson, Sh.e.l.ley, and Burns. I am a great needlewoman, too, and when I am ruffled by anything I take refuge in sewing a plain seam. This coverlet is from a Munich pattern, and I have finished it for my sister, Mrs. Carnegy of Lour, who began it; the tablecover is for my other sister, Mrs. Craigie-Halkett of Cramond."

It is through one of her daughters that you learn of Mrs. Chetwynd's great musical gifts. She was a pupil of Garcia, had a beautiful voice, and used to sing at many amateur concerts. She still keeps up her pianoforte playing, for which she won a gold medal, and will improvise on the piano by the hour together. Her husband and children are very proud of her performances. She has lately invented a fire-escape, which is approved of by experts and engineers, and of which more will soon be heard.

After tea, at which the party is joined by a beautiful thoroughbred Dachshund called Freda, you are taken down into the dining-room, and, in pa.s.sing, just peep into a little room on the stairs, which your hostess calls her "girls' workshop," where all the wood-carving is carried on.

There is a little point of interest in the dining-room which must be noticed as betokening the versatile gifts of this accomplished family. A friend had sent them a roll of paper from j.a.pan, but, as it was found insufficient to cover the whole of the walls, Mrs. Chetwynd and her daughters put their heads together to consult as to how the balance required could be eked out. The result was, that they first distempered the uncovered part of the wall to the exact shade of the colour, and then painted it in such close imitation of the j.a.panese pattern, even to the native mark, that it is quite impossible to discover which is the original and which the imitation. Among the many books is a copy of "Freytag's Reminiscences," translated by Mrs. Chetwynd's second daughter, and considered by good judges to be one of the best translations from the German that has appeared for a long time. There is a picture of that grand old Highlander, Mr. Davidson of Tulloch, taken in the days when he, with your hostess's uncle, Cluny Macpherson, Fox Maule, afterwards Earl of Dalhousie, and the Duke of Abercorn, danced the first reel that the Queen ever saw in Scotland at Taymouth. By the way, Mrs. Chetwynd herself was a great performer in that line in her youth, and at some juvenile festivity she and another young Highland friend danced the reel before the late Prince Consort.

But you had forgotten thoroughly to inspect the picture of Tulloch Castle, so Mrs. Chetwynd sends for it. "I am sure," she says, "that my old home is the loveliest place in the world. Part of it is very old, and it has been (through the female line) in our family since 1300." It has an old keep, and what was once the dungeon is now a wine cellar. The house stands very high up, though almost at the foot of Ben Wyvis, and over the park you see the far-famed Strathpeffer, framed in the distance by the West Coast hills. On the other side, also over the well-wooded park, are the Cromarty Frith, and Dingwall nestling at its bend. The gardens are very large, and a good many acres are now not kept up. The approach to the front door is under a very old archway; and though a great part of the place was destroyed by fire some years ago, the walls, some of which are six feet thick, are intact. Facing the south, it catches all the sunshine, and as the hills rise behind it everything is sheltered from the colder winds, and flowers and shrubs grow most luxuriantly. Some scarlet rhododendrons of great height blossom in the winter out of doors. The place is now in the possession of Mrs.

Chetwynd's nephew.

Your hostess recalls one little incident which she says was "an event in our lives. My father and Cluny Macpherson received the Queen on the occasion of her visit to Badenoch. She went to Ardverikie, then rented from Cluny by the Duke of Abercorn. My father took forty gillies with him, Cluny had as many more, and they met her majesty on the edge of the property, and escorted her in true Highland fashion. Ardverikie was afterwards sold by Cluny to Sir John Ramsden. The Queen went to Cluny Castle, and examined the many relics of 'Prince Charlie' kept there with an interest which pleased all the family much. Some of the sisters were there with my father."

You are rising regretfully to leave, when the door opens, and Captain Chetwynd comes in. This fine old sailor greets you in the same genial manner which characterises the rest of the family. He is the chief inspector of the Royal National Life-Boat Inst.i.tution. He is a great organiser, is deeply interested in his work, and his wife delights to think that his talents are now turned to saving, not to destroying life.

She had previously confided to you, that not only is he one of the cleverest and best of men, but also one of the most straightforward and appreciative. The good, benevolent face carries its own testimony to the fact. A more happy, united family it would be impossible to find; mutual love and confidence reign supreme; when cares and anxieties come, as to whom do they not? they are shared by all, and thus is the burden lightened.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Jean Middlema.s.s]

JEAN MIDDLEMa.s.s.

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 a.s.sociated 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.