About three miles north-west of St. Paul's lies a comparatively new
suburb of the great metropolis, which but forty years ago was described
as "a hamlet in the parish of Marylebone," and through which passes the
Grand Junction Canal, almost reaching to Kilburn. London, with her
ever-grasping clutch, has seized on the vast tract of ground, which
erstwhile grew potatoes and cabbages for the multitude, and, abolishing
the nursery and market-gardens, has transformed them into broad streets,
of which one of the longest is Portsdown-road.
Not altogether inartistic is the row of substantially built houses where
Mrs. Alexander Hector has been for some years located. It is far enough
away to enable the popular authoress to pursue her literary vocation in
peace and quiet, yet sufficiently near to keep her in touch with the
busy world of literature and art, wherein she is deservedly so great a
favourite. The blue fan, serving as a screen for the window, is a sort
of land-mark distinguishing the house from its fellows. You are shown
into the library, where Mrs. Alexander is seated at a handsome oak
writing-table, busily engaged in finishing the last words of a chapter
in her new story. She looks up with a smile of welcome, and is about
to discontinue her occupation; but you hastily beg her to go on with her
work, which will give you time to look around; and as she complies with
the request, she says pleasantly, "Well, then, just for three minutes
only."
Your glance lights again on the gentle author herself, and you watch the
pen gliding easily over the page, which rests on a diminutive shred of
well-worn blotting-paper. The face is fair and smooth, the hair,
slightly grey, is simply parted back from the forehead, and the
three-quarter profile, which presents itself to your gaze, is straight
and well-cut. She wears a little white cap, and a long black gown,
trimmed with jet, and close by her side lies an enormous Persian tabby
cat of great age.
The study is divided from the adjoining room by heavy curtains drawn
aside and a Japanese screen. It is all perfectly simple and
unpretending, but the rooms are thoroughly comfortable and home-like.
The chapter being finished, your hostess rises, declares herself
entirely at your service, and mentions that she is now engaged on a new
three volume novel, which is to come out early next year in America, and
is as yet unnamed.
Mrs. Alexander was born in Ireland, though no touch of accent can be
detected. She never left that country until after her nineteenth
birthday. Her father belonged to an old squirearchal family, the
Frenches of Roscommon. He was a keen sportsman, and a member of the
famous Kildare Hunt. The few old pictures which hang on the wall are all
family portraits. One represents a paternal ancestor, Lord Annaly,
painted in his peer's robes. He was one of the Gore family, of whom no
less than nine members sat at the same time in parliament shortly before
the Union. Another picture of a comfortable-looking old gentleman in a
powdered wig is the portrait of a high legal dignitary, well known in
his day as Theobald Wolfe, a great-uncle of Mrs. Alexander. A third is a
seventeenth-century portrait of Colonel Dominic French, who looks manly
and resolute, in spite of his yellow satin coat, flowing wig, and lace
cravat, drawn through his buttonhole. This gentleman was the first
Protestant of the family, and is credited with having given up his faith
for love of his wife, who simpers beside him in an alarmingly
_decolletee_ blue dress, suggestive of the courtly style in the time of
the Merry Monarch. Her husband, with the ardour of a convert--or a
pervert--raised a regiment of dragoons among his tenantry, and fought on
the winning side at the Battle of the Boyne.
Mrs. Alexander remarks that her "kinsfolk and acquaintance in early
life, were, if not illiterate, certainly unliterary." "I always loved
books," she adds, "and was fortunate, when a very young girl, barely out
of the schoolroom, in winning the favour of a dear old blind Scotchman,
whose wife was a family friend. He was a profound thinker, and an
earnest student before he lost his sight. My happiest and most
profitable hours were spent in reading aloud to him books, no doubt a
good deal beyond my grasp, but which, thanks to his kind and patient
explanations, proved the most valuable part of my very irregular
education. In reading the newspapers to him, I also gathered some idea
of politics, probably very vague ideas, but so liberal in their tendency
that my relatives, who were 'bitter Protestants' and the highest of high
Tories, looked on me, if not as a 'black sheep,' certainly as a 'lost
mutton.' The tendency has remained with me, though my consciousness of
the many-sided immensity of the subject, has kept me from forming any
decided opinions."
The only bits of ancestry she values, Mrs. Alexander says, are her
descent from Jeremy Taylor, the celebrated Bishop of Down and Connor,
and the near cousinship of her grandmother to Lord Kilwarden, who was
the first victim in Emmet's rising; that high-minded judge, whose last
words, as he yielded up his life to the cruel pikes of his assailants,
were, "Let them have a fair trial."
The above-mentioned Jeremy Taylor, and the Rev. Charles Wolfe--whose
well-known poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," was so greatly
appreciated by Lord Byron--were the only literary members of the family
on her father's side; on her mother's, she can claim kindred with Edmund
Malone, the well-known annotator of Shakespeare.
On leaving Ireland, Mrs. Alexander, with her parents, travelled a good
deal, both at home and abroad, occasionally sojourning in London, where,
while still young, she began to write. Her first attempts were made in
the _Family Herald_ and _Household Words_, beginning with a sketch
called "Billeted in Boulogne." This is an account of their own personal
experience, when they endured the inconvenience of having French
soldiers quartered on them.
It was about this time that she was introduced to Mrs. Lynn Linton, by
the late Adelaide Proctor, with whose family she was on terms of some
intimacy, and with whose charming grandmother, the once well-known and
admired Mrs. Basil Montague, she was a prime favourite. From this
introduction arose the long, close friendship with the brilliant author
of "Joshua Davidson," which Mrs. Alexander values so highly, and of
which she is so justly proud.
In 1858 she married Mr. Hector, and wrote no more until she became a
widow.
Mr. Hector was a great explorer and traveller. He had been a member of
Landor's expedition to seek the sources of the Niger, and immediately
after his return to England he joined General Chesney in his attempt to
steam down the Euphrates to the Persian Gulf. He was also with Layard
during his discoveries in Nineveh, and spent many years in Turkish
Arabia. A man of great enterprise and ability, he was the pioneer of
commerce, and was the first who sent from London a ship and cargo direct
to the Persian Gulf, thereby opening up the trade between the two
countries.
It was after her husband's long illness, which terminated fatally, that
Mrs. Alexander again turned her thoughts to literature, to seek
distraction from her bereavement. It was then she wrote "The Wooing
o't." The book was a great success; it ran first through the pages of
_Temple Bar_; it was then published in three volumes, passed through
many editions, and has a world-wide reputation.
"I always write leisurely," says Mrs. Alexander; "I never will hurry, or
write against time. No, I have not much method," she answers, in reply
to your question, "nor am I quite without it. My stories are generally
suggested to me by some trait of character or disposition, which I have
adapted rather than produced. My people are rarely portraits, they are
rather mosaics; and, I _must_ say, I am exceedingly shy of dealing with
my men. Women I _do_ understand. Character to me is all-important. If I
can but place the workings of heart and mind before my readers, the
incidents which put them in motion are of small importance
comparatively. Of course, a strong, clear, logical plot is a treasure
not to be found every day! I am not a rapid writer; I like to live with
my characters, to get thoroughly acquainted with them; and I am always
sorry to part with the companions who have brought me many a pleasant
hour of oblivion--oblivion from the carking cares that crowd outside my
study door."
There is one point on which you would fain differ from the author. An
intimate knowledge of her books convinces you that her power of dealing
with her "men" is very great, and that her habits of observation have
stood her in good stead, whilst depicting with ready wit and
considerable skill the characters of her heroes. As you follow step by
step the career of the fascinating Trafford, in "The Wooing o't," and
watch the workings of his mind, the struggles between his natural
cynicism and pride, and his love for the humbly-born but high-souled
little heroine Maggie; his graceful rejection of the hand and fortune of
the proud heiress, and the final triumph of love over pedigree, you can
with truth echo the author's words, and feel that you too are "sorry to
part" with him and his wife, and would gladly welcome a sequel to their
histories.
Mrs. Alexander observes that there _is_ one character in that book drawn
from life, but adds, with a laugh, she "will not tell you which it is."
You have, however, a suspicion of your own.
"Her Dearest Foe" was the author's next work. It is constructed on
entirely different lines, but it is equally absorbing. The varied
fortunes of the brave heroine of the "Berlin Bazaar," of the masterful
Sir Hugh Galbraith, and the faithful cousin Tom, keep up an engrossing
interest from the first line to the last.
Her husband's Christian name being Alexander, she elected to write under
that appellation, fearing that her first book might be a failure. Having
begun with it, she has ever since kept the same _nom de plume_, and she
remarks, "It does just as well as any other."
The great success which attended these two books justified Mrs.
Alexander's further efforts. "Maid, Wife, or Widow," a clever little
story, is an "Episode of the '66 War in Germany"; "Which Shall it Be?"
"Look Before You Leap," and "Ralph Wilton's Weird" were brought out
during the next few years. They were all favourably reviewed, and many
of them passed into several editions. These were followed at intervals
by "Second Life," "At Bay," "A Life Interest," "The Admiral's Ward," "By
Woman's Wit." Mrs. Alexander wrote "The Freres" during a long residence
in Germany, whither she went for the education of her children. The
fact that she was on intimate terms with many of the good old German
families enabled her to write graphically from her personal knowledge of
the country.
In "The Executors" Mrs. Alexander broke new ground. The life-like
delineation of Karapet is drawn from her own observation and experience
of Syrian Christians, but the incidents are, of course, imaginary.
"Blind Fate," "A Woman's Heart," "Mammon," "The Snare of the Fowler,"
followed in due course, also some clever little shilling stories. The
author's latest published work in three volumes is called "For His
Sake," a pleasant and interesting novel, well worthy of the writer of
"The Wooing o't."
Mrs. Alexander's great ambition originally was to write a play; indeed,
her first few stories were planned with that object in view, but she
soon abandoned the idea, and says she "turned them into novels instead."
That there was some dramatic power in a few of her earlier efforts is
evident, as she was applied to for permission to dramatise "Her Dearest
Foe" and "By Woman's Wit." "Though," she adds, "it seems to me that the
latter is not suited to the stage."
Mrs. Alexander writes best in England. She says that London "inspires
her." She holds strong views upon education, and maintains that girls,
as well as boys, should be trained to follow some definite line in life.
She would have any special talent, whereby its possessor could, if
necessary, earn her own living cultivated to the utmost; and,
consistently following out her principles, she has sent her youngest
daughter, who has a decided genius for painting, to work in one of the
best-known studios in Paris, where she takes a fairly good place, and by
her diligence and ardour for her art at least deserves success. Another
daughter fulfils the onerous task of being "mother's right hand." But
she has yet a third, who has found a happy career in the bonds of
wedlock, and has made her home at Versailles. She is now on a visit to
her mother, and whilst you are conversing, the door opens, the young
wife comes in with a lovely infant in her arms, and the "first
grandchild" is introduced with pride. He is a perfect cherub, and makes
friends instantly.
Asking Mrs. Alexander about her early friends in literature, she
mentions with grateful warmth the name of Mrs. S. C. Hall, "whose ready
kindness never failed." "To her," she says, "I owe the most valuable
introduction I ever had. It was to the late Mr. W. H. Wills, editor of
_Household Words_. To his advice and encouragement I am deeply indebted.
His skill and discrimination as an editor were most remarkable, whilst
his knowledge and wide experience were always placed generously at the
service of the young and earnest wanderer in the paths of literature,
numbers of whom have had reason to bless the day when they first knew
Harry Wills."
Mrs. Alexander is pre-eminently a lovable woman. In the large society
where she is so well known, and so much respected, to mention her name
is to draw forth affectionate encomiums on all sides. You venture to
make some allusion to this fact; a faint smile comes over the placid
countenance, as she says inquiringly, "Yes? I believe I have made many
friends. You see, I never rub people the wrong way if I can help it, and
I think I have some correct ideas respecting the true value of trifles.
Yet I believe I have a backbone; at least I hope so, for mere softness
and compliance will not bear the friction of life."
[Illustration: Helen Reeves]