A blue sky and a bright sun belie the typical foggy month of November,
and while entering the elevator which glides rapidly and smoothly to the
eighth floor of the gigantic pile of buildings once cynically termed
"Hankey's Folly"--now Queen Anne's Mansions--you feel justified in
anticipating a glorious view over the great city. You step out into a
corridor where are arranged a stand of grenades with a couple of
hydrants, backed by printed directions for their use, and are shown into
the library of the distinguished author; but ere there is time to look
around, the door opens, and Mrs. Lynn Linton enters.
Her personality may be described thus: tall, upright, and stately in
appearance, the keen, but kindly bright blue eyes smiling through the
gold-rimmed glasses which she always wears. She is clad in a suitable
black dress, trimmed with jet, a white lace cap partially covers the
thick grey hair, which escapes in a tiny natural curl or two on each
side of the smooth, intellectual forehead. The eyebrows--far apart--are
straight and level, but shaded off so delicately that they impart a look
of benignity and softness to the aristocratic nose, while the curves of
the well-cut lips indicate straightforwardness, sincerity of
disposition, and power. Can it be possible that you had felt a momentary
trepidation before meeting the gifted woman for whose genius you have
ever entertained the greatest reverence? But Mrs. Lynn Linton will have
none of it! Her kind and friendly greeting puts you at once at ease. She
says that she has an hour or two to spare, that her work is well on, and
that there is no immediate fear of her being disturbed by an emissary
from the printers, so you settle down to have a good talk, and to learn
from your hostess some particulars of her early life, and her subsequent
eventful career.
Mrs. Lynn Linton was born at Keswick; her father being the vicar of
Crosthwaite, Cumberland. When only five months old, her mother (a
daughter of Dr. Goodenough, Bishop of Carlisle) died, leaving a family
of twelve children. She was brought up plainly and frugally, with no
particular advantages of education; nevertheless, at an early age she
developed a strong taste for reading and a thirst for knowledge. Casting
aside her childish story books, she dived into such ancient literature
and chronicles as she found on her father's book-shelves, and at the age
of eleven determined to train herself to be a writer. About this time
she became keenly interested in Polish affairs, in which her favourite
brother took an active part. In those days there were not the same
facilities for procuring books as in later years, but the young
child-student managed to overcome all obstacles, and educated herself,
mastering French, German, and Italian. The one aim and end to which her
ambition was directed buoyed her up through early years of what were
somewhat rough times to the shy, nervous, short-sighted girl, who always
seemed in everyone's way.
To this repression and self-training may be attributed the independence
of thought, the thoroughness, the originality of idea, as well as the
deep sympathy with young and struggling authors which are Mrs. Lynn
Linton's prevailing characteristics. One of her earliest recollections
is of the poet Southey, and that to this day she can recall to mind his
peculiar face, his dark eyes, full of fire, his eagle nose, and thin
figure. She wrote her first novel, "Azeth, the Egyptian," when she came
to London, at the age of twenty-three, and from that day to this has
supported herself entirely by her pen; but she says that this "first
book" gave her a whole year's hard work to write, and she thinks it is
now probably "unreadable." For her second, "Amymone," she will ever have
the tenderest memories, and the blue eyes kindle when she remarks that
it was the means of bringing her into contact with Walter Savage Landor,
and securing for her his lasting sympathy and friendship. She says he
was her literary father, her guide, philosopher, and friend, and that
one of her dearest treasures is a large packet of letters from the poet,
beginning "My dear daughter," and signed "Father" only, or "Your
affectionate father," as well as those verses which he addressed to
her, ending with the line, "Pure heart, and lofty soul, Eliza Lynn."
Between the production of "Realities: a Tale," in 1851, and "Witch
Stories," there was a gap of ten years, which the young writer devoted
principally to journalism. She was, indeed, the first of women
journalists. She contributed to several of the daily papers and
magazines. Presently a series of pungent and clever essays began in the
_Saturday Review_, which increased its fame, and took the world by
storm. "The Girl of the Period," "The Shrieking Sisterhood," "Paying
One's Shot," "Mature Sirens," have now passed into proverbs. They made a
famous topic of conversation at dinner-tables, and proved a decided hit.
For many years a certain lady of rank had the credit of the series,
until at last, after many futile efforts, Mrs. Lynn Linton was allowed
to collect her own papers and publish them under her own name.
"I never mind how much I slash," says Mrs. Lynn Linton, "because I
always feel I am not slashing at a personality, but at a type. Thackeray
never drew Becky Sharp from one individual; we all know a Becky Sharp."
In 1858 the young writer married Mr. Linton, the well-known wood
engraver, and in 1861 began again the interrupted series of fifteen
novels, amongst which were "Under which Lord?" "Patricia Kemball," "The
True Story of Joshua Davidson," "Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg," "Sowing the
Wind," "The Atonement of Leam Dundas," "The World Well Lost," "The Rebel
of the Family," "My Love," "Paston Carew, Miser and Millionaire," "Jane
Stewart," "Through the Long Night," and "Christopher Kirkland." This
last is deeply interesting, as a history of the author herself, her
theories, philosophy, and religious opinions.
The writing table in the cosy library--or as Mrs. Lynn Linton often
calls it, "the workroom"--is placed slantways to catch the best light,
and commands a beautiful view from the windows, full south over the
Surrey hills.
The cut-glass inkstand has been in constant use for over fifty years.
Papers, reviews, and books of reference are tidily heaped up; the table
is full, but in perfect order; commenting on this to your hostess, she
says it is "part of her nature, she could find anything in the dark."
She is altogether a believer in method, regularity, and punctuality,
which last quality gained for her from Charles Dickens the remark that
she was "good for anything, and thoroughly reliable."
Opening a well-worn "Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities" lying on
a side-table close at hand, Mrs. Lynn Linton remarks it was bought with
nearly her first earnings, and that she has by degrees purchased nearly
all the books, which seem to occupy every available recess. The two deep
cases opposite are filled with treasures of literature, and the tall
revolving bookstand contains chiefly her collection of favourite
poets--Landor, Arnold, Swinburne.
A Persian carpet of subdued tints covers the floor; on a large round
table, over which hangs a lamp of graceful design, is heaped, with
extreme precision, a mass of journals, magazines, and periodicals; not a
paper is awry. The great accumulation of literature has indeed
necessitated the fitting up of two tall, narrow recesses at the other
end of the room, each neatly hidden by a long tapestry curtain. A tender
light comes into Mrs. Lynn Linton's face as she points out three
photographs hanging on the wall. The first is of her beloved brother,
"without fear or favour," who died of a broken heart after the death of
an adored wife; the second is of her "father" Landor; and the third is
of Mr. Linton--"brother, father, husband," she says, with infinite
tenderness for the memory of all three.
Asking to be allowed to see the famous view from the drawing-room, which
it is said "looks over St. James's Park and Carlton Terrace, and
embraces the whole of the park from Buckingham Palace to the Horse
Guards," "_Did_ embrace it," amends Mrs. Linton, mournfully, "but come
and see." She leads the way to the opposite side of the flat, into a
rather long drawing-room, the windows of which look due south over the
uninterrupted view one might reasonably have expected to see. Alas! a
tall and ugly erection of bricks and mortar has sprang up to the left,
obscuring a portion of the prospect. "They have given me only a vista,"
says Mrs. Lynn Linton, "where I once had a view." What is left, however,
is very fine, and from the great height above ground the people look
like pigmies dotted about. Queen Caroline once talked of shutting up
this lovely park, and converting it into a noble garden for the palace.
She consulted Walpole as to the probable cost; the witty minister
replied, "Only three crowns, your Majesty," and the idea was abandoned.
There is a peculiarly long, narrow frame hanging on the opposite side of
the wall, and as Mrs. Lynn Linton permits an inspection of everything,
you examine it carefully, while she explains the subject. It is nearly
four yards long, and represents the Parthenon frieze--the Panathenaic
procession--and the fight of the Amazons and Athenians, reduced and
restored by John Herring. As the slate matrix was broken, it is now
extremely valuable. It is in plaster of Paris, mounted on red, and is
the property of Mr. Linton, who has bequeathed it to the National
Gallery in America. The small statuette of "Margaret," modelled by
Geefs, is another and very rare gem. Mrs. Lynn Linton is also the
possessor of a quaint grey vase, a relic of the Great Exhibition of
1851. On one little table, covered with an Oriental cloth, crowded with
favourite photographs, the portrait of a graceful, pretty girl occupies
a prominent place. "That is my Beatrice, my Bee, my dear adopted
daughter," she says, "dear as if she were my own; and these," pointing
to two large framed pictures, "are both likenesses of my friend Mr.
Fuller, a nephew of Sir Arthur Helps. We first became friends through
correspondence. He sent me his book, 'Culmshire Folk.' His wife invited
me to Ireland last year, and the result was my first and last political
work about that country."
You ask Mrs. Lynn Linton to tell you about some of the celebrated people
whom she has met. After musing awhile, she mentions Captain Maconochie
(the convicts' friend), Sir Charles Babbage, Kinglake, Miss Jane Porter,
Mrs. Milner Gibson--"she was my social godmother; but these all belonged
to a past generation. In later years I was more or less on intimate
terms with Harrison Ainsworth, George Eliot, Sir Henry Layard, Sir Henry
Rawlinson, Tom Taylor, Thackeray, Dickens, Yates, Wilkie Collins,
Swinburne, Sir Roderick Murchison, Rider Haggard, Dr. Elliotson, and
William Spottiswoode, late President of the Royal Society. _He_ was a
prince among men, and I loved and reverenced his noble character."
Unlike many literary women, Mrs. Lynn Linton is a great adept with her
needle. The beautiful silk embroideries--of which she is very
proud--cushions, chair seats, and the handsome fire-screen are all the
work of her skilful fingers, and made from her own designs. The big
green frog and the swallows hanging on the left are a present from Mr.
Oswald Crawfurd, the famous consul at Oporto. The Tunis plates and
various photographs indicate that your hostess has made sundry journeys
abroad, and travelled in many foreign lands where she has picked up a
few picturesque "bits" as mementos of the places which she visited; but
she says her most cherished possession is the gold cinquecento basket
standing yonder, the gift of Walter Savage Landor.
Yet more books! Each recess in the opposite wall is well filled, also
the low dwarf bookcase under the large mirror, and another under the
Herring "slate."
You are curious to know if Mrs. Lynn Linton reads and is influenced by
criticisms on her works? She says she has never striven for popularity,
and has boldly put forth her opinions, without caring for the
consequences. She was once called "selfish." _Selfish!_ Have you not
known, and been told by a score of young authors, that they owe their
success and a deep debt of gratitude to her! In despair, one after
another has taken to her an article, a story, a three-volume novel, a
play; what not? With patience she would pore over a crabbed manuscript,
word by word, suggesting, correcting, improving, advising. She has a
large number of young friends, who confide all their troubles, hopes,
and wishes to her, with the certainty of absolute sympathy and wise
counsel. Far from being stern or severe, as some of her books might lead
one to think, she is bubbling over with the milk of human kindness, and
her chief desire is to be of use or help to some one. The tender,
motherly manner casts its spell over you too, and you find yourself
presently pouring out confidences as if she were an old acquaintance.
Mrs. Lynn Linton generally enjoys the best of health. She keeps early
hours, works in the morning, takes plenty of exercise, and "plain
living" keeps the _mens sana in corpore sano_ for "high thinking."
Although in her sixth decade, she possesses a splendid physique, of
which she is pardonably proud. She says she finds residing in her
exalted flat far preferable to a house. There she is out of the reach of
burglars and beggars; she lives at less expense, combined with
incomparably more comfort; whilst the servants of the gigantic
establishment all respect her, and "Ellen," who has been there for
eleven years, she calls her "child," and looks upon her as a personal
friend.
But the clock strikes. You have been unconscionable. The time has sped
so rapidly that the promised hour has doubled itself. You say good-bye,
and as Mrs. Lynn Linton kindly asks you to come again on her "Saturdays,
to one, or to all," you look down on the small white hand which holds
yours, and notice the long slender fingers. The memory of its hearty
clasp remains on your mind as you are conveyed down the eight stories of
Queen Anne's Mansions, and so, into the street, where you become one of
the aforenamed "pigmies."
[Illustration: Charlotte Eliza Riddell]