Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, to give Mrs. Gaskell’s maiden name, first
saw the light on September 29th, 1810, in Chelsea, within sight of the
Thames, which she describes as a great solace to her in later days, when
she was “very, very unhappy.” The house in which she was born was in
picturesque Lindsey Row, nearly opposite the old wooden Battersea Bridge
beloved of artists and just at the bend of the river. The view from the
house, which is now known as 93 Cheyne Walk, is still very fine.
Thirteen months almost to the day after Elizabeth Stevenson’s birth,
her mother died at 3 Beaufort Row, Chelsea, at the age of forty, and
was buried on October 30, 1811. After the mother’s death, the baby was
taken care of by a neighbouring shopkeeper’s wife, until Mr. Stevenson
could make arrangements for his little daughter to be taken to Mrs.
Lumb—the beautiful Aunt Hannah—who lived on the heathside at Knutsford.
Within a few weeks of the mother’s death, a friend of the Hollands, Mrs.
Whittington, consented to take the baby back with her to Knutsford.
This statement concerning Mrs. Stevenson’s death and the age when Mrs.
Gaskell was left motherless, which is now made public for the first
time, is confirmed by Mrs. Gaskell herself, who, writing to Mary Howitt
on August 18, 1838, says: “Though a Londoner by birth, I was early
motherless, and taken when only a year old to my dear, adopted native
town Knutsford.”
The long journey by stage-coach from Chelsea to Knutsford is said to have
suggested “Babby’s” journey from London to Manchester in _Mary Barton_.
Now that we know that Elizabeth Stevenson was a little over a year old,
and not one month old as has been stated by every previous writer on the
subject, it is easy to understand that Mrs. Gaskell had for her prototype
of “Babby” a baby of about a year old. It has always puzzled me as a
mother, how a baby as young as “Babby” is represented to be in _Mary
Barton_ could have survived after being fed on “pobbies,” and it is quite
certain that a crust of bread, provided for the child according to the
story, could not have been suitable for so young a baby.
Henceforth Knutsford—“My dear, adopted native town”—as Mrs. Gaskell
affectionately termed it, became her home, until her marriage. The
bringing of this baby to the little Cheshire town has led to the
immortalising of the place as Cranford, for had Elizabeth Stevenson never
lived there, the Knutsford of the Early Victorian period would probably
have been buried in oblivion long ago, and whilst many have enjoyed the
solace and charm of the place, it needed an artist “with something of an
angel’s touch” to reveal the beauty of the little country town and its
quaint, kindly society of old maids.
Mrs. Lumb’s house at Knutsford, where Elizabeth Stevenson grew to be a
singularly beautiful girl, is still standing at the corner of the heath,
over which the future novelist used to ramble and day-dream. In this
neighbourhood she was surrounded by her mother’s people. At Church House
was her uncle, Dr. Holland, “who had his round of thirty miles and lived
at Cranford.” He was the father of the well-known Sir Henry Holland,
physician to Queen Victoria. He delighted to take his niece with him on
his country drives, just as Dr. Gibson of Hollingford, in _Wives and
Daughters_, drove round the district with Molly Gibson.
Elizabeth Stevenson was fortunate in her parentage. Her father, William
Stevenson, a remarkable and gifted man, was the son of Captain Stevenson
of Berwick-on-Tweed. Formerly the name was spelt Stevensen, which
betrayed its Scandinavian origin. Mrs. Gaskell was always fond of travel,
and when about to start on a journey, she would remark, “The blood of the
Vikings is stirring in my veins.”
If heredity is to count for anything, Elizabeth Stevenson derived much
of her literary talent from her father, who, according to the Annual
Register for 1830, “was a man remarkable for the stores of knowledge
which he possessed and for the simplicity and modesty by which his rare
attainments were concealed.” Mrs. Gaskell was very proud of her father’s
memory, as well she might be. One who knew him wrote, “No man had so
few personal enemies and so many sincere, steady friends. He was kind
and benevolent, and had little of the pride of authorship.” These words
might be written with all sincerity as equally applicable to his famous
daughter.
William Stevenson played many parts. After his education was finished
at the Daventry Academy, he became a tutor at Bruges, afterwards going
to Manchester as Classical lecturer at the Academy and preacher at
the Dob Lane Unitarian Chapel, Failsworth. Later he was a farmer in
East Lothian, and then he moved to Edinburgh, where he became editor
of the _Edinburgh Review_ and a contributor to many magazines, besides
writing a _Life of Caxton_. In 1807 he came to London as secretary to
Lord Lauderdale, and eventually settled as Keeper of the Records at the
Treasury Office, which position he held until his death in 1829. Mrs.
Gaskell’s mother was Elizabeth Holland, fourth daughter of Samuel Holland
of the Sandlebridge Estate, near Knutsford. He also owned an estate known
as Dogholes, near Great Warford.
Grandfather Holland was a very lovable man, and doubtless he contributed
something to the beautiful character of the farmer preacher, Mr. Holman,
in _Cousin Phillis_, and in a less degree to Thomas Holbrook, Miss
Matty’s faithful lover. The ancestral home at Sandlebridge is beautifully
and accurately described as Hope Farm in _Cousin Phillis_, and as Woodley
in _Cranford_. The history of several members of the distinguished
Holland family was such that it could not escape wandering into the
novels of such a genius as Mrs. Gaskell, though she never meant to put
real people in her stories. If Leslie Stephen’s definition of a novel
is correct, “transfigured experience, not necessarily the author’s own
experience, but near enough to his everyday life to be within the range
of his sympathy,” then Mrs. Gaskell’s novels bear the test well.
Little is known of the paternal grandmother, but her grandmother
Holland is described as “A woman of extraordinary energy and will and
rather the opposite of her husband, who, though firm, was far quieter
and disposed to treat his servants with more leniency than his wife,
who was exceedingly particular with them.” Sir Henry Holland, in his
_Recollections_, says that his grandfather, Samuel Holland, was the most
practical optimist he ever knew, and although he farmed his own land, he
could never be got to complain of “the distemperature of the seasons,”
and one of Samuel Holland’s own sons states that his father’s life had
been “particularly smooth.”
Elizabeth Stevenson stayed in Knutsford until she was thirteen, the only
variation being an occasional visit to her father at Chelsea. Knutsford,
with its curious old customs, must have made a very vivid impression on
her mind, since afterwards she was able to portray the little country
town in no less than six of her stories depicting English village life
in the early part of the nineteenth century. These quaint stories are
perfect little miniatures set in the beautiful scenery which abounds in
that part of Cheshire, and they give us glimpses of the novelist at her
best.
How few could have found in bygone Knutsford, with its prim old maids,
a few aristocratic families, and the necessary doctor and lawyer, so
much excellent material with which to weave stories that have charmed
succeeding generations in many lands. It was Mrs. Gaskell’s clear
intuition which saw so much more than meets the eye of the ordinary
mortal and supplied her with an unlimited and inexhaustible store, from
which she could charm either by voice or pen. One who knew her before
she was recognised as a gifted writer said of her, “She was a born
story-teller,” and we can well believe it.
When nearly fourteen Elizabeth Stevenson was sent to an excellent
boarding-school at Stratford-on-Avon, kept by the Misses Byerley, who
were related to the Hollands, as well as to her stepmother. There she
stayed for two years, including holidays. The school was once known as
“The Old House of St. Mary,” and for a little while Shakespeare lived
there. To be educated in a house in which Shakespeare once dwelt was a
good augury for the future novelist.
Elizabeth’s schooldays were very happy. Writing to Mary Howitt in 1838,
she says, “I am unwilling to leave even in thought the haunts of such
happy days as my schooldays were.”
A book, presented to one of her schoolfellows, dated June 15th, 1824,
lies before me, with Elizabeth Stevenson’s signature. She was noted for
her kindness to her school friends, and, like Charlotte Brontë, when at
Roe Head it was said of her that she could often be found surrounded by a
group of eager listeners, and even as a schoolgirl she had, like her dear
Miss Matty, a leaning to ghost stories.
Her first separate literary effort was a letter describing an afternoon
spent at Clopton Hall, Stratford-on-Avon, in company with her school
friends, which she sent to William Howitt, who readily accepted it for
insertion in his “Visits to Remarkable Places.” It was written more than
ten years after she left school, but it proves how observant as a girl
she was, and how her love of research led her to explore the old house,
rather than wander in the park which surrounds the hall.
Two years ago I was allowed by the courtesy of the owner to wander
through Clopton Hall, which was once the Manor House. It has been partly
rebuilt, but the recess parlour, in which the merry schoolgirls had tea,
is still there with its beautiful painted windows, and the priest’s room,
in which our future novelist crept on her hands and knees, is to be seen
with its barred windows and texts painted on the walls, and on the old
oak staircase are oil paintings of Charlotte and Margaret Clopton, which
Mrs. Gaskell mentions. Lovers of Mrs. Gaskell’s works should not fail to
read her graphic account of “A Visit to Clopton Hall.”
About the year 1827 Elizabeth Stevenson returned to her good Aunt Lumb at
Knutsford, but shortly afterwards her only brother, a naval lieutenant,
left his ship when in port at Calcutta and was never heard of again. He
it was, doubtless, who suggested “Poor Peter” in _Cranford_ and “Dear
Frederick” in _North and South_, though both these characters were
allowed to return to their homes again. It is said that the posting of
the letter to “Poor Peter” in India is founded on actual fact.
The disappearance of her brother was followed by her father’s serious
illness, which took her to Chelsea, where she devotedly nursed him
until his death in 1829. Afterwards we find her leaving her stepmother
and half-brother William and her half-sister Catherine, and returning
once more to Knutsford, where she did not remain long, as at this time
she paid a long visit to Newcastle-on-Tyne, to the home of the Rev.
William Turner, so beautifully described in her second novel, _Ruth_,
in “A Dissenting Minister’s Household.” In the quiet atmosphere of this
religious home, she found her prototype for Thurstan Benson. Thurstan,
as she explains, was an old family name, and it is still retained in the
family. There was a Thurstan Holland of Denton, in the early part of the
fifteenth century, who was one of her ancestors.
From Newcastle-on-Tyne Elizabeth Stevenson went to spend the last winter
of her maidenhood in Edinburgh. There her remarkable beauty attracted
painters and sculptors, and fortunately she was persuaded to sit to David
Dunbar, a former pupil of Chantrey. He sculptured the beautiful marble
bust of the fair debutante, which, enclosed in a glass case, is one
of the most cherished possessions in her old home at Manchester. About
this time she also had an exquisite miniature painted, the pose of which
reminds us of the description of _Ruth_ by Bellingham: “Such a superb
turn of the head, she might be a Percy or a Howard.”
In August, 1832, before she had attained her twenty-second birthday,
Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson was married to the Rev. William Gaskell,
M.A., minister of Cross Street Unitarian Chapel, Manchester. The ceremony
was performed in the old Parish Church of Knutsford, as Dissenters
were not allowed to be married in their own chapels in those days.
The Hollands and the Gaskells were already connected by marriage, Mr.
Gaskell’s sister having married Charles Holland, a cousin of Elizabeth
Stevenson.
In one of her letters, Mrs. Gaskell tells us that the streets of
Knutsford were sanded in accordance with the custom at weddings, and that
there were general rejoicings. The honeymoon was spent in North Wales, in
the neighbourhood of Festiniog, where Mr. Charles Holland had extensive
slate quarries.
The marriage was an ideal one. The young wife at once threw herself into
her husband’s work, helping in the Sunday School and visiting the sick
and needy. Her beauty and winning personality endeared her to the members
of her husband’s congregation, which was said to be the most intellectual
and wealthy in Manchester in those days, more than thirty private
carriages often being found waiting after the conclusion of the morning
service. _Mary Barton_ gives the readers the other side of the society in
which Mrs. Gaskell moved, and where she became “a very angel of light” in
the poverty-stricken districts of Ancoats and Hulme.
Their home was always a centre of light and learning first for ten years
at 14 Dover Street, afterwards at 121 Upper Rumford Street, and finally,
from 1849, the present family residence in Plymouth Grove, which has
always been noted for its sunny hospitality and genial intellectual
atmosphere. Lord Houghton said of this home that such was its beneficent
influence in the great cotton city, “It made Manchester a possible centre
for literary people.” Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell gathered around them a warm
circle of friends, who joined in trying to ameliorate the impoverished
districts of that part of Lancashire. When the Chartist riots had reduced
many of the cotton operatives to starvation, Mrs. Gaskell’s home was a
rendezvous from which she distributed through her windows in the early
morning loaves and other necessities.
Thomas Wright, a working-man of Manchester, who gave up all his spare
time in visiting the prisons and helping the fallen, found good friends
in the Gaskells. Mrs. Gaskell has written an appreciative note about him
in _Mary Barton_. Mr. G. F. Watts painted “The Good Samaritan” in 1850,
and presented it to the city of Manchester as a tribute of admiration to
the noble philanthropy of Thomas Wright. Mrs. Gaskell was instrumental in
getting Mr. Watts to paint the beautiful water-colour portrait of Thomas
Wright, which now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.
The Rev. Travers Madge was another who worked with the Gaskells, giving
up his salary as a minister and devoting his life to the poor. The Misses
Winkworth were also willing helpers, as also was John Bamford, whose
poem, “God help the poor,” found a place in _Mary Barton_. In addition to
the practical help which the Gaskells gave, they both cherished a wish
to wield the pen in the interests of the poor, and in 1837 they jointly
published in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ a poem, marked No. 1, _Sketches
among the Poor_. It is really a poetical rendering of the homely life
of “Old Alice,” who figures so pathetically in _Mary Barton_. No other
poem succeeded this, though it is well known that Mrs. Gaskell frequently
expressed herself in verse, and Mr. Gaskell wrote a number of beautiful
hymns, some of which are still to be found in various collections. He
also translated hymns from the German, and was an expert in writing in
the Lancashire dialect. In addition to his other duties, he was for a
time a lecturer in English Literature and Logic at Owens College, now
known as the Victoria University, Manchester.
The quiet life in Knutsford and Stratford-on-Avon inspired Mrs. Gaskell
with those beautiful thoughts of the country which she has so well
expressed in her pastoral stories, but it was the busy city of Manchester
that roused her latent talent and winged her pen in writing of “the
silent sorrows of the poor.”
The death of her only boy from scarlet fever in September, 1842,
at Festiniog, where she had gone for a holiday, was succeeded by a
lingering illness, and it was whilst lying on her couch that she found
the necessary time to write her first novel. It has been said that _Mary
Barton_ contained too many death-bed scenes, but it is well to remember
that it was from a death-bed that Mrs. Gaskell drew the inspiration which
enabled her to depict in such realistic colours common scenes in the
lives of the poor. The complaint that _Mary Barton_ and _Lizzie Leigh_
were much too sad—“stories with a sob in them”—probably prompted Mrs.
Gaskell to prove that she could write in a humorous vein, hence her
delightful sketches of _Cranford Society_. _Mary Barton_ had attracted
to her many literary friends, amongst the most enthusiastic being Charles
Dickens, at whose request she became a regular contributor to _Household
Words_, which he had just started. When Mrs. Gaskell sent him her first
short paper entitled _Our Society in Cranford_, which included chapters
one and two, she meant it for a complete sketch, but Dickens asked for
more and still more, and so the history of the Cranfordian Society was
chronicled bit by bit and afterwards compiled to form the book which is
certainly the most popular of all Mrs. Gaskell’s works. “If my name is
ever immortalised, it will be through _Cranford_, for so many people
have mentioned it to me,” said Mrs. Gaskell, and she has proved a true
prophet. Wherever the English tongue is spoken, _Cranford_ is treasured,
for its quiet, sunny humour is irresistible, and it has become a classic,
which stands alone for its delightful winsomeness and tender pathos.
With splendid fidelity Mrs. Gaskell kept to her inimitable style, and
the sketches are, as compared with those of Dickens and Thackeray, like
carefully finished water-colour paintings beside the strong, bold canvas
of a Rubens or a Vandyke. Instead of uproarious mirth _Cranford_ provokes
the kindly smile, which seldom broadens into a loud laugh, but it always
leaves the reader the better for its kindly influence. _Cranford_ gives
the best reflection of Mrs. Gaskell’s beautiful character. She loved to
tell stories of bygone days and to whet the appetite for amusing tales,
which, while perfectly true to life, bordered on the ridiculous and
dealt gently with the foibles and weaknesses of some phases of society.
Of these stories she had a goodly store, which with gentle satire she
could tell in her own sweet way. She was fond of making a pun or asking a
riddle, which would at once arrest the attention, and, like Miss Galindo
in _My Lady Ludlow_, she believed—“When everything goes wrong, one would
give up breathing if one could not lighten one’s heart by a joke.”
In 1850, a short time before Mrs. Gaskell commenced _Cranford_, she met
her great contemporary, Charlotte Brontë, at Briery Close, Windermere.
Sixty years afterwards, almost to the day, I was invited by the kind
courtesy of the owner to visit this interesting house on the shores of
Lake Windermere. The cosy drawing-room in which those two novelists met
and their respective bedrooms, next to each other, from which there is a
magnificent view of the lake and the hills beyond, are still held sacred
to the associations of that August holiday in 1850, when the shy, elusive
Charlotte Brontë first met her future biographer.
One of the party who met the two novelists during that visit once told
me of the marked difference in these two women. Charlotte Brontë, in
her black silk dress, sat on the couch nervous and shy, “looking as
if she would be glad if the floor would open and swallow her, whilst
Mrs. Gaskell, bright and vivacious, looked quite at home and equal to
anything.” The two great novelists became attached to each other, and
Charlotte Brontë visited Mrs. Gaskell’s home in Manchester on three
separate occasions, and in return Mrs. Gaskell once spent a week in the
old vicarage at Haworth. This friendship bore fruit in years to come,
when Mrs. Gaskell was asked by old Patrick Brontë to write his daughter’s
life, to which she willingly consented and at which she worked heartily
and sometimes even passionately with so difficult a task.
This admirable biography has become a classic, and is a fitting memorial
to the author of _Jane Eyre_ both as a tribute of affection from one
novelist to another, and a faithful record of a noble life. “I did so
try to tell the truth,” wrote the biographer, and we know how well she
succeeded, though on the publication of the third edition she found
herself in a veritable “hornet’s nest,” and the worry and trouble from
one source and another caused a temporary distaste for writing. After a
time, however, the desire for wielding the pen came back to her, and she
wrote _My Lady Ludlow_ and _Round the Sofa Stories_, which undoubtedly
owe something to her Stratford-on-Avon days in 1824-27 and her life in
Edinburgh in 1829-31.
After a holiday in the Isle of Man in 1856, Mrs. Gaskell took a new
departure and decided to write a maritime story. A visit to Whitby in
1858 resulted in the truly pathetic tale of _Sylvia’s Lovers_, which
has the quaint fisher town of Whitby for its background. Descriptions
of the old seaport are beautifully and accurately rendered, and a visit
to Whitby is not complete unless _Sylvia’s Lovers_ has been read within
sight and sound of the sea around that rugged coast. The farms and
homesteads mentioned can be localised, and they answer minutely to the
descriptions given. Haytersbank Farm, Sylvia’s old home, Moss Brow, where
the Corneys lived, old Foster’s shop in the Market-place, are all still
there.
Mrs. Gaskell confessed to having taken greater pains with _Sylvia’s
Lovers_ than with any other of her novels, and this historical story
is one of her best and marks a second stage in her work. It is a story
founded on fact in the cruel press-gang days, and Mrs. Gaskell has been
wonderfully successful in her delineation of the characters. She does
not try to make them perfect, but describes them with their flaws, and
there is no exaggeration but just the unvarnished conversation natural
to the people of the period with which the story deals. The descriptive
parts are most perfectly rendered, and it was a high tribute to Mrs.
Gaskell’s faithful word-painting when Du Maurier was led to use actual
sketches of Whitby to help him in illustrating _Sylvia’s Lovers_ before
he knew that Monkshaven and Whitby were one and the same place. Some of
the scenes are exquisitely drawn, and Mrs. Gaskell rose to her highest in
word portraiture in _Sylvia’s Lovers_. The sailor’s funeral in the old
God’s Acre around the ancient Parish Church is a masterpiece. The New
Year’s Party at Moss Brow and Philip Hepburn going out into the darkness
on that memorable night show a wonderful insight into human nature. The
last scene, where Philip and Sylvia meet only to part again when it is
too late, is a pathetic picture that few could have painted with such
soul-stirring emotion.
_Cousin Phillis_ is a prose idyll, which for beauty of language and
wealth of original incidents is unique—“A gem without a flaw”—and one of
the most perfect stories of old-world romance, fitted in the rich setting
of her grandfather Holland’s picturesque farm at Sandlebridge, near
Knutsford. It is a story to be read over and over again. The heroine,
Phillis Holman, is one of the most perfectly sketched characters in any
English novel, and yet there is nothing overdrawn, all is simple, quiet,
and dignified, and withal so real and faithful to life. Though not as
well-known as _Cranford_, _Cousin Phillis_ richly deserves to hang side
by side with it as a miniature of great beauty, in soft subdued colours.
The story is surrounded by the atmosphere of the practical, religious
home-life of the godly family at Hope Farm, which surely owes something
to Mrs. Gaskell’s own kinsfolk.
This story was quickly succeeded by what, alas, became Mrs. Gaskell’s
last and notably her best work, _Wives and Daughters_. She calls it an
everyday story, and yet it grips the reader from the beginning to the
end. The heroine is a typical well-bred English girl, who endears herself
to her readers by her natural simplicity and common sense. The story
is of Knutsford once more, and it takes us to the well-wooded parks
and lordly mansions on the outskirts of the village. Those who knew
the Knutsford of the fifties were wont to say how true to life it was.
The characters are drawn with a master hand. Molly Gibson and Cynthia
Kirkpatrick are a splendid study in contrasts, and Mrs. Gaskell’s powers
were never more fully taxed, nor does she ever succeed so well, except
perhaps when she draws Cynthia’s mother, the stepmother of Molly and the
second Mrs. Gibson.
The book is nearly related to _Cranford_, for this story of _Wives and
Daughters_ is of the near kinsfolk of the Cranford dames. Though the
novelist touches lightly the foibles and failings of Mrs. Gibson, she
shows her clear insight and reads character with shrewdness, albeit so
kindly.
Mrs. Gibson and Cynthia Kirkpatrick are worthy of Thackeray himself, and
possibly owe something to his influence. Both characters are difficult
to delineate, and in the hands of a less capable writer we should have
despised and disliked them, but with the kindly benevolent spirit
which shines through all Mrs. Gaskell’s works, we are driven to make
allowances and pity their shallowness whilst smiling at the worldly
wisdom displayed. How different would they have been revealed by George
Eliot, and with what merciless scorn would Charlotte Brontë have treated
them. “Molly Gibson is the best heroine you have had yet,” wrote Madame
Mohl. She is certainly a cousin to Margaret Hale in _North and South_
and a sister to Phillis Holman in _Cousin Phillis_. This type of English
girlhood suited Mrs. Gaskell’s pen. Her heroines are generally better
drawn than her heroes, which may be accounted for to some extent by the
fact that she viewed everything from a woman’s standpoint, and that
during the whole of her literary life she had the companionship of her
own devoted daughters, well educated, happy, and like their mother,
always anxious to do the right. Molly Gibson’s character has always
been associated with Mrs. Gaskell’s own girlhood, but quite recently
I received a letter from the grandson of one of Mrs. Gaskell’s school
friends at Stratford-on-Avon, and he tells me that he was always given to
understand that his grandmother was the prototype of Molly Gibson. Truly
Mrs. Gaskell’s characters in many of her stories fit many originals,
hence her determination to class them as “everyday stories,” though, as a
matter of fact, they are probably not drawn from any one individual.
Mrs. Gaskell has suffered more than most writers from being accused
of putting real people into her stories, but though imagination is a
great quality, it is not more essential than the power to recognise and
handle the simple facts of life; for while there are many who can create
a character, few can faithfully delineate it, and the same is true of
locality.
Before the concluding chapter of _Wives and Daughters_ was finished
the pen dropped from the novelist’s hand, just when she was at the
zenith of her power as a writer. This novel was written as a serial for
the _Cornhill Magazine_ when Mr. Frederick Greenwood was editor. The
latter part was written at Pontresina during the summer of 1865, when
Mrs. Gaskell was travelling with her son-in-law, Mr. Charles Compton,
Q.C., and her three daughters. She returned to Manchester in June, and
was far from well. During the whole of her literary life she had been
longing for a _pied-à-terre_ in the country, where she could get the
necessary quiet for her work. The North of England was too cold in the
winter, though in the summer she found a delightful spot on Morecambe
Bay—a little old-world village which is known by the euphonious name of
Silverdale. There for a part of many summers she went with her daughters
and her faithful nurse to a farm which is accurately described in _Ruth_.
Silverdale lives as Abermouth in that noble story.
The country home which Mrs. Gaskell chose was known as The Lawn,
Holybourne, near Alton, in Hampshire. She purchased it with the two
thousand pounds which she received for _Wives and Daughters_, and she
kept the secret from her husband, meaning to present it to him when it
was altered and renovated to her own artistic taste. But alas! before
it was completed she suddenly passed away on Sunday afternoon, November
14th, 1865. She had been feeling really better, and on that very Sunday
attended service at the quaint old church at Holybourne in company with
her daughters, when, during tea, without a moment’s warning her head
lowered and she was gone. Writing of this sad time, one of her daughters
wrote: “Mama’s last days had been full of loving thought and tender help
for others. She was so sweet and dear and noble beyond words.”
_Wives and Daughters_ was all but finished. She was waiting for some
special information with regard to one of the characters, Roger Hamley,
who, along with his brother Osborne, made an admirable pair to match
Molly Gibson and Cynthia Kirkpatrick, before she concluded the story. The
very last words that Mrs. Gaskell wrote are: “And now cover me up close,
and let me go to sleep and dream about my dear Cynthia and my new shawl.”
One who loved Mrs. Gaskell dearly said it would not be inappropriate to
alter the words _Cynthia_ to husband and _new shawl_ to new house, for
during her stay at Holybourne her thoughts were often with her husband,
the busy Unitarian minister in Manchester, and she was looking forward
“with the glee of a child” to giving him a country home in the South of
England, to which she hoped he would retire with her, though she looked
forward to many years of usefulness both for herself and her husband.
The brief stay at Holybourne, with its tragic ending, was a sad memory
for the husband and daughters. The house is still in the possession of
the family. The intended gift which the mother bought so cheerfully has
been kept as a last token of love, though the family never resided there
after Mrs. Gaskell’s death.
Mr. Frederick Greenwood added a tenderly written eulogium at the end of
_Wives and Daughters_ which has been published along with the novel, and
it formed a beautiful and fitting close to the story. “What promised to
be the crowning work of a life is a memorial of death. A few days longer
and it would have been a triumphal column, crowned with a capital of
festal leaves and flowers, now it is another sort of column—one of those
sad white pillars which stand broken in the churchyard.”
_Wives and Daughters_ was issued in book form in 1866 by Messrs. Smith,
Elder and Co., and was extremely popular, partly because of the tragic
death of the author, but more so for the beauty of the story. To those
who know the little Cheshire town of Knutsford, it is interesting to
locate the Cumnor Tower and the Park gates through which Molly Gibson
drove when attending her first garden party from Church House, formerly
her uncle Holland’s home, now known by the picture postcards as Molly
Gibson’s House. The home of the Hamleys is to be identified with one
of the old halls in the district, but the charm of the story is its
naturalness and the characters are so well balanced. When putting down
the book one involuntarily says, as Mrs. Gaskell wrote of Charlotte
Brontë, “If she had but lived.” This novel displays her as a writer grown
to maturity, and as one who had advanced from simple, didactic, domestic
stories for the Parish Magazine, to novels which charm a very much wider
circle and are acceptable to all classes of society.
Mrs. Gaskell is buried in her beloved Knutsford, in the old Unitarian
burial ground around the church, where a simple granite cross marks the
resting-place. On her grave is often to be found a wreath or bouquet
as a tribute of grateful homage from one of her many admirers. Her
writing was done in the spirit of true helpfulness, and it is impossible
to read her stories without feeling the better for their perusal. She
brought a well-trained mind to her work, and whatever she did was done
conscientiously. Her life was not an eventful one, but it was crowded
with good deeds.
The revival of the Gaskell cult is helping to familiarise the present
generation with her beautiful stories of the mid-Victorian period. It is
noticeable that although she spent many of her holidays on the Continent,
France, Germany, and Italy being her favourite holiday resorts, all her
novels tell of English life, for she was careful never to get out of her
depths. She wrote of what she had experienced and of what she saw in
the daily life of those around her. Future generations will read Mrs.
Gaskell’s novels and feel that she was a keen observer of humanity, and
she had not only the desire but the capacity to comprehend it.
The outstanding qualities of her novels are individuality, truthfulness,
and purity. The power of entering into the feelings of her characters is
almost unique, as _Mary Barton_, _Ruth_, _Sylvia’s Lovers_ and _Wives
and Daughters_ prove abundantly. Those of a past generation could best
testify to the truthfulness of her stories. They were real word-pictures
beautifully conceived and true to life, and there was an absence of
exaggeration—one of Mrs. Gaskell’s pet aversions.
The purity of her writing is proverbial. There is no author who has
excelled her in that quality, and her novels are all free from dross and
censoriousness. Hers was a spirit that made for the morning and heralded
a purer day, and the immortality of her name rests on the Pauline
injunction, “Whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever
things are of good report, if there be any virtue and if there be any
praise, think on these things.”