The ancient and historic village of Richmond is too well known to need
much description. It is thronged with kingly memories. Entering the old
park by Kew Bridge, you drive past the large and beautiful Royal
Gardens, extending along the banks of the Thames to Richmond, which were
cultivated under the immediate superintendence of King George III. The
old manor garden became Crown property in the reign of Edward I., when
it was known as Shene, and was converted into a palace by Edward III.;
but, being destroyed by fire in 1498, it was rebuilt with great
splendour by Henry VII., who changed the name to Richmond, after his
title of Earl of Richmond, ere he ascended the throne. Here was Philip
I. of Spain right regally entertained. Here was the Princess Elizabeth
shut up by her sister Mary, and here occasionally resided Charles I. On
the right stands the Observatory, built by Sir William Chambers two
centuries ago. When the road turns into the New Park south of Richmond,
the coachman points out the massive brick wall encompassing the eight
miles of its circumference, and remarks that in the reign of George II.
an attempt was made to exclude the public, which was frustrated however
by an enterprising inhabitant, who, pluckily going to law, recovered
the right of way, and thus secured the everlasting gratitude of later
generations.
It is for this picturesque and attractive place Miss Rhoda Broughton has
deserted her quiet little home at Oxford, where she had lived for twelve
years. On the high ground overlooking the Terrace Gardens, she and her
sister, Mrs. Newcome, have established themselves in the quiet and peace
they both love, in a comfortable house, standing back from the road,
which commands an extensive view of the river, winding serpent-like
through a forest of trees. Ushered upstairs into the drawing-room, where
the author receives you with much cordiality, the first thing which
strikes you is the sweet rich voice in which her welcome is uttered.
Standing facing the setting sun, with its golden light reflected on her,
you observe that she is above the middle height, and graceful in figure;
the hair, rolled back from the low broad strong-looking forehead, is
becomingly tinged with grey over the right temple, harmonizing well with
the darker shades on the neat, well-shaped head. The mouth and chin
indicate firmness and resolution. In repose, the expression might almost
be called sad, but as she speaks, the frankness in the grey eyes, set
well apart, at once dispels the idea, and the pleasant musical laugh
betrays the vein of fun and wit--entirely of an original kind--which
runs through her books. She is dressed in some fabric of dark green,
with velvet sleeves and bodice; the latter relieved at the upper part
with a paler shade of embroidered vest. The windows open on to a broad
trellised verandah, which runs the whole length of the house; and,
stepping out to it, Miss Broughton bids you look at the exquisite view.
It is a lovely day in latest autumn, the trees, turned to every shade of
gold, copper, and brown, are shedding their leaves profusely. The
sinking sun is leaving the sky deeply tinged with waves of pink and
purple, and the river looks like a silver stream, with here and there a
tinge of reflected colour, unbroken by a single boat. The air is pure
and still, with a faint suspicion of a coming frost. For a few moments
you both stand in rapt silence admiring the beautiful prospect, yet
sighing to think that the winter is so near at hand; then your hostess
leads the way back into the drawing-room, where tea is served, and as
you settle comfortably in a luxurious couch covered with tapestry of the
first Empire, and sip the fragrant beverage out of a cup of old Spode,
the eye travels round the quiet restful room, and notices the many
little knick-knacks that fill it.
On the right stands an antique writing table, with pigeon-hole drawers,
and old blue china grouped over the top. The two ancient oak cabinets
are covered with pretty "bits"; growing in a cunningly-concealed basket
is an immense pyramid of ferns and palms, which are Miss Broughton's
particular delight. On the little plush-covered table by the side of a
delicately wrought iron Italian stand--whereof the copper bowl is filled
with autumnal flowers--lies a business-like work-bag, filled to
overflowing, which gives a home-like look to the room and indicates that
it is useful as well as ornamental. On asking Miss Broughton for a peep
into her sanctuary, she smiles indulgently, and begs you to descend. The
white-painted fresh-looking staircase is partially covered with Persian
carpet of warm colour, and, throughout, the dado is composed of Indian
matting, above which hang many engravings and photographs. The large
black-and-white lozenge-shape tiles give the hall an indescribably
bright appearance, which here and there the long Indian rugs subdue, yet
throw up into relief. You enter the room sacred to the gifted authoress,
and look round. Where are the manuscripts, the "copy," the "proofs,"
which might reasonably have been expected? There is no indication of her
work on the old oak knee-hole writing-table beyond a single blank sheet
of paper reposing on a large wooden portfolio, exquisitely painted on
both sides by her friend Mrs. Andrew Spottiswoode at Dresden. A solitary
penholder lies on a china inkstand, flanked by a pair of large green
jars from Hyeres. She half guesses your look of interrogation, and
remarks that she is "resting" awhile, now that her latest book "Alas!"
is published, before launching another, entitled "Mrs. Bligh." _Elle
recule pour mieux sauter_, but at the present moment, as she kindly
causes it to be understood that no encroachment is being made on her
valuable time, you do not hesitate to ask for some details of her
literary life.
Rhoda Broughton was born at Segrwyd Hall, Denbighshire. Her father was a
clergyman, and held the family living in Cheshire, where her childish
days were passed, varied by visits to her grandfather, Sir Henry
Broughton, at Broughton Hall, Staffordshire. Her father was a student,
and himself grounded her in Shakespeare and the English classics, and
imparted also the rudiments of Latin and Greek. She was brought up
strictly, and the hours of study were long, but made interesting by her
scholarly instructor. Asking Miss Broughton if her father had been an
author, she replies, "only of his sermons, and I do not believe any of
my relations wrote a line in their lives." It is a surprise to hear that
her great gifts, her originality of style, her wonderful descriptions of
scenery, her subtle humour, are not hereditary. Keenly interested, you
ask her how then the idea of writing occurred to her.
She says she remembers a certain wet Sunday afternoon when she was about
twenty-two; she was distinctly bored by a stupid book which she was
trying to read, when "the spirit moved her to write." It was on the
leaves of an old copy-book lying at hand that she delivered her soul of
the ideas which poured in on her brain. Day after day, night after
night, she wrote swiftly and in secret, until at the end of six weeks
she found a vast heap of manuscript accumulated, to which she gave the
title of "Not Wisely, but Too Well." Miss Broughton kept it by her until
January, 1865, when she crossed over to Ireland on a visit to her
uncle-in-law, Mr. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, then editor of the _Dublin
University Magazine_; she selected two chapters at random and read them
aloud to him. He at once prognosticated the success of the book;
accepted it as a serial, and later on, suggested to Mr. Bentley that he
should bring it out in three volume form. Here, however, a check
occurred. The reader pronounced so unfavourably of its merits, that Mr.
Bentley held off. But the inspiration, once set in motion, could not be
stopped, and soon found vent in a new work, "Cometh up as a Flower."
This was well received. A couple of columns of favourable criticism in
the _Times_, and various eulogistic notices in other papers, soon caused
it to become such a marked success that Mr. Bentley reconsidered the
matter. His deliberation happily ended in the purchase of "Not Wisely,
but Too Well" from Tinsley, so that the two books were actually brought
out in the same year. The home of Miss Broughton's ancestors, Broughton
Hall, built in the reign of one of the old Tudors, is so well depicted
in "Cometh up as a Flower," that none who have read the book and seen
the place can fail to observe the absolute truthfulness of the
description.
_A propos_ of this novel, Miss Broughton tells an amusing anecdote:--"It
was claimed by other people," she says; "a lady told an acquaintance of
mine that her son had written it, which diverted me much."
The fame of these books went far afield. Some years ago a graceful
tribute was paid to the author. Captain Markham, of H.M. ship _Alert_,
begged to be introduced, and told her that in a remote Arctic region
they had by common consent christened an icebound mountain, "Mount
Rhoda," in grateful acknowledgment of the pleasure which her books had
given the officers of the ship on their perilous voyage.
"Temple Bar" secured her next two novels, "Red as a Rose is she" and
"Goodbye, Sweetheart." About once in two years Miss Broughton delights
the world with a new book. "Nancy," "Twilight Stories," "Joan," "Second
Thoughts," "Dr. Cupid," "Belinda," followed at about these intervals,
but her latest work, "Alas!" must take a high stand, if only for her
faithful delineation of life in Florence, her intimate knowledge of all
things artistic, her scenes laid in Algeria, which place she visited
last year, and her vivid and graphic descriptions of those lovely
countries, which are an education in themselves. And the humorous
touches! How much everyone sympathises with the meek, but excellent
"Amelia," whom no one thoroughly appreciates until after her death.
Uneducated in art, she appeals pitifully in the following words to her
lover, who finds out her worth too late.
"And now, where shall we go? that is the next thing--not to any gallery
or church, I think, if you don't mind. I say such stupid things about
art, and the more I try the stupider they are; let us go somewhere into
the country. I can understand the country, I am not afraid of saying
stupid things about it."
You tell her later of an observation made to you quite lately by her
sister author, Miss Braddon, ever keenly appreciative of the gifts of
another, on reading a striking description in "Alas" of the sea after a
storm, which runs thus:--"A sea even more wonderful than radiant; no
servile copy of the sky and clouds to-day, but with astonishing colours
of its own; a faint yet glorious green for a part of its watery
breadth; then what our poverty compels us to call blue; and then a great
tablecloth of inky purple, which looks so solid, that the tiny white
boats which are crossing it seem to be sailing on dry land." Miss
Braddon remarked, "Rhoda Broughton is a genius and a prose poet." Your
hostess is charmed with the kindly speech.
No solitary copy can be seen, in the well-filled book-cases, of the
author's works. She says that she sells them out and out at once, and
then has "done with them"; but, "Come," she adds, "we have talked long
enough about my books; let me show you a few of my treasures," and she
points out a small sketch by Hamilton Aide, two busts of Lord Wolseley
and Mr. Carlyle, presented to her by Sir Edgar Boehm; presentation
copies from Matthew Arnold, Lord Lytton, Henry James, Andrew Lang, etc.,
etc., and an ornamental plate rack, by which she sets great store, from
Adelaide Kemble (Mrs. Sartoris); a very ancient engraving of Titian's
"Danae" hangs over the mantelpiece opposite three lovely photographs of
"Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy." The floor of this delightful room
is covered with peacock-blue felt and a few rugs of Eastern manufacture;
a small aviary of birds stands by the window, which is open, for your
hostess is a "great believer in plenty of fresh air and a good fire."
Ere taking leave, you ask if the two fine pugs basking on the rugs are
especial pets. "Yes," says Miss Broughton, "but," mournfully, "they are
a degenerate race; and not the dear dog heroes of my books. _They_ are
all dead and gone!"
[Illustration: H. E. V. Stannard]