Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches

Carylls is a very old place; a part of it, indeed, was built in 1640, but so well have all the additions and improvements of later years been carried out that the two form a truly artistic whole. Originally belonging to the well-known Roman Catholic family of Caryll, it is mentioned in Pope's poems, several of which he wrote under the old oak trees, and it is considered quite one of the show-places of this part of Sussex. Mrs. Fraser says that it suits her in every way. The air is splendid, the society is good, and she is not far enough away from town to feel out of the world. The conservatory glass door opens into a very large and lofty drawing-room with oak ceilings and great bay windows. It looks more like a foreign than an English room. An immense Indian carpet is spread over the floor, the sea-green walls are hung with many mirrors in black and gold frames, several lovely old cabinets, and plenty of Dresden, Sèvres, Chelsea, and Capo de Monti, are to be seen everywhere. Two superb silver repoussé-work Lucknow bowls are especially attractive; one, containing a many-leafed palm, stands on the grand piano, and in its fellow is a large fern, the delicate fronds drooping over a beautiful alabaster "Magdalen" close by.

"I admire these more than anything else in the room," says Mrs. Fraser, pointing to some photographs on an inlaid iron table. "These two are my sons, both of them very good-looking, as you see," she continues, smiling with very pardonable pride as she places the pictures in your hand. And truly she has a good right to feel proud of these handsome, noble-looking young men, one of whom is in the uniform of the Gordon Highlanders. Here, too, is a portrait of the Prince of Wales, with his autograph below, presented by his Royal Highness to General Fraser, which is a much-valued gift, and the others are pictures of different Indian viceroys and their wives, all given by themselves, Lord and Lady Dufferin, Lord and Lady Lytton, the latter in a frame designed by himself, which is quite a work of art, with a coronet in blue-and-white enamel. An hour is passed very pleasantly amongst the many curiosities which Mrs. Fraser has brought chiefly from foreign lands. The room is, in fact, quite a small museum. Going back through the conservatory into the other wing of the house, an open door gives a peep of the dining-room in passing. It is a good-sized room, with oak ceiling, crimson walls, and a quantity of carved oak furniture.

But Mrs. Fraser's own particular favourite is just beyond – she calls it her tea-room, not her study. "Not very large," she says, "but always bright and cheerful, and the view is so lovely from this window. That wood was gorgeous in its autumnal tints, and on a very clear morning Leith Hill looks as if it were close to us. My rose garden is just to the right here. I wish it was summer, that you might see it in all its glory." And the view is lovely now, as the sun peeps in and out amongst the great trees, which stand in clumps, with rustic seats beneath them.

After admiring it for a while, you turn round to have a survey of the room, and certainly endorse Mrs. Fraser's opinion. It has an oak ceiling, like the other reception rooms, and pale-green walls, that show off to advantage a number of oil paintings framed in dark crimson velvet and gold. Two are especially fine, "The Golden Horn," and "Morning on the Dutch Rivers," by an artist of some note, Fryar; and you fall in love with two exquisite little bits of Brittany, by Gregory. A large mirror in an elaborately carved frame surmounts the mantel-piece, which is laden with Satsuma ware and other Japanese, Chinese, and Indian curios. An old French marqueterie cabinet full of books stand in a recess vis-à-vis to a handsomely inlaid writing bureau with a silver basket of hothouse flowers on it.

Mrs. Fraser here calls attention to a number of silver vases, loving cups, hunting flasks, gongs, etc., all of which are prizes won by her sons' ponies and fox-terriers. These lie so perilously near the window as to suggest a remark to the effect that they might be stolen, but Mrs. Fraser declares that the people are wonderfully honest down in these parts of the country, and that no burglary has been heard of for thirty years or more.

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 'Man[oe]uvring' 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 Passion' 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 Duchess,' 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." Passing 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 daïs, 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 Sussex tiles, and has an ivy-clad gable and long window in stained cathedral glass. Turning to the right, your hostess takes you round a tastefully-laid-out rosery, at the extremity of which is a glasshouse 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 masses 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 grassy 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, passing 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 passion 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 idéal 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."

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 brass 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 Japan" are flowering beautifully yonder, a big Japanese 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 Japanese 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 constitution 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 Molière, 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."