Among the younger American authors who have made their mark on the
literature of the day, Augusta de Grasse Stevens takes a high stand.
Highly educated and deeply read, as well versed in the political and
civil history of her own country as in that of the land of her adoption,
her mind expanded by much continental travel, and inheriting the talents
of her brilliantly gifted parents, it is no wonder that she should have
attained the depth of thought, the originality of idea, and the fluency
of expression which characterise her writings. The young author, who is
_petite_ in stature, and slight in figure, with grey-blue eyes and brown
hair, was born in Albany, on the Hudson River, the capital city of New
York, a quaint old Dutch town that bears to this day many marked
peculiarities of its rich founders, whose manor lands, granted by royal
patent, stretched far and wide along the river banks. Her father was the
Hon. Samuel Stevens, one of the most brilliant lawyers the American bar
has ever produced; his opinions are still quoted in legal matters on
both sides of the ocean. He was a man of the keenest intellect, and most
wonderful memory; a power wherever he appeared, and one who had the
reputation of never losing a case. The courtesy title was bestowed upon
him by the State Legislature in recognition of his great services to
that body. He was the life-long friend of such men as Chancellor
Walworth, Henry Clay the statesman, and Daniel Webster, who declared
that "in his opinion Mr. Stevens as a lawyer stood first in the United
States, and that as a colleague he welcomed him in every case, but as an
opponent he hoped each case would be the last." From Mr. Stevens'
conduct of so many cases, involving important inventions, he has been
called unanimously "The Founder of American Patent Law."
"Mr. Phelps, the late U.S. Minister, has often told me," says Miss
Stevens, "that he, as a young man, used to travel miles to hear my
father argue a case, such a lesson was it in eloquence and profound
legal knowledge, and he retained as one of his happiest memories the
remembrance of certain interviews he had had with him in which he
learned more from my father than in hours of study and private research.
My paternal grandmother was of French birth and lineage. She was Mdlle.
Marie de Grasse, the daughter of Pierre de Grasse, who was a brother of
the famous Admiral Comte de Grasse, the intimate friend of La Fayette,
whose patriotism, like his own, was devoted to the American cause. Her
parents left France in the seventeenth century, and established
themselves in a country home not far from Albany. My grandmother was
very beautiful, and retained her beauty to an advanced age, and it is
from her we take the name of De Grasse. My great-grandfather was an
ardent patriot, and I have often heard my aunt say, that stored away in
the attic of their house were trunks full of 'national paper bonds,' not
worth the paper on which they were printed, but which represented the
sums that he had advanced to the American Government during the War of
Independence, and which afterwards they were unable to redeem. My father
married rather late in life, my mother being only a girl of eighteen at
the time. She was very charming in manner and appearance and highly
educated." On the maternal side, Miss de Grasse Stevens can trace her
descent back without a break to that brave Simon de Warde who fought
with the Conqueror and who fell at Hastings, and whose name is engraved
on the Battle Abbey Roll, among those for whom "prayer perpetual is to
be offered up" within the Abbey walls. The Wards emigrated to America
some time in the year 1600, and settled in New England. They were
staunch Puritans and patriots, and begrudged neither life, nor money,
nor substance to the cause. General Artemas Ward, one of Washington's
chief generals, early distinguished himself in the service, and he was
but one in a long line of similar instances. It was while walking
through an old churchyard in Connecticut that the late Samuel Brown,
coming upon General Artemas Ward's tomb-stone, first saw the name that
he afterwards adopted and made world-famous in a far different fashion.
Miss Stevens can remember well her great-grandfather Ward, though she
was only a child when he died. He was a typical gentleman of the old
school, and wore to the day of his death his hair tied in a _queue_,
the knee breeches, silk stockings, low shoes with gold buckles, fine
cambric frill, and neckerchief of his time. Her childish recollections
are full of pictures of him, and she can shut her eyes and recall
without effort the long, sunny drawing-room, so still, and full of a
certain awe, the trees outside bending in the summer wind, the warm
crimson hangings at the wide windows, the fire on the open hearth,
burning there all the year round, and the great arm-chair drawn close
within its rays, in which was seated the dignified figure of her
great-grandfather, Dr. Levi Ward, his beautiful clean-shaven face,
slightly stern when in repose, breaking into a kindly smile at the first
sound of his daughter's voice. By his side on a little table lay the
great Bible, always open, which he knew literally by heart, and from
which, when the blindness of old age came upon him, he could repeat
chapter after chapter with unfailing accuracy. "My great-grandmother,
his wife, I cannot remember," says Miss Stevens, "but she, too, was a
remarkably handsome woman, and one who throughout her whole life held a
distinguished position in society as well as being a leader in all
philanthropic and charitable undertakings. Their beautiful home, Grove
Place, Rochester, New York, was the perfection of a country seat, and
about it cluster many tender memories and associations. Their daughter
married my grandfather, Mr. Silas Smith, whose daughter in turn became
my father's wife, and went with him to his home in Albany, where she
soon won for herself a position of much responsibility, and became, puny
as she was, a recognised power in all social matters. My father died
when I was very young, and my earliest recollections do not date beyond
his death. My mother, a young widow, returned with her little family to
her father's home, Woodside, just out of Rochester, and with that dear
and beautiful home all my happiest, fondest memories are knit up
indissolubly. Woodside was a typical home; a large and spacious mansion
set in the midst of acres of park land, gardens, and meadows. I think
there never was just such a home! Everything that refinement,
cultivation, and wealth could procure surrounded us, yet all was
distributed and governed with so just and wise a hand that luxurious
ostentation and wastefulness were never known amongst us. Here I grew
from babyhood to girlhood, and to the fond remembrance and recollection
of life there my thoughts turn always when I speak or think of--_home_."
The young American author describes her mother and her system of
education in touching and eloquent words. Her mother, she says, was
possessed of one of those rare, unselfish natures to whom personal grief
was unknown. Even in her early widowhood her first thought was for her
children, and to their care and education she devoted herself
unsparingly. Possessing a gifted mind and great personal attractions, a
voice of unusual sweetness and power, and a heart that literally did not
know the meaning of the word self, she called forth in everyone with
whom she came in contact the greatest admiration and affection. "Her
children loved her passionately," says Miss Stevens. "How well I can
remember when I was but a tiny mite of five, how she would gather us
all around her in the grey winter afternoons, and with me nestled close
at her knee, read to us by the hour together, but not fairy tales or
story books. She went straight to the big heart of Shakespeare, of
Longfellow, of Tennyson, of Thackeray, of Dickens, and opening the
treasure-houses of their genius, read them to us with only such
explanations and changes as necessity required to meet the status of her
youthful audience. I cannot remember the time when Shakespeare was
unknown to me, or when the Poet Laureate, and Campbell, and Dickens,
were not dear, familiar friends. Out of this galaxy of riches, _The
Tempest_, _Midsummer Night's Dream_, _Hiawatha_, and _Dombey and Son_,
stand out clearest in my mind. Then she would sing to us, play to us,
and so we became familiar with Mendelssohn, Mozart, Schubert, and with
all the plaintive, old English ballads and Scotch border songs; and in
the morning hours, while she was busy with a large correspondence and
literary work, my dear grandmother taught us, my sister and me, to sew,
cut out, and knit, inculcating meantime many a goodly lesson in charity,
kindliness, and thoughtfulness for others. To my dear mother, indeed, I
owe all that I am. She is gone from me now, but to her clear mind, wise
criticism, and sound judgment is due whatever literary reputation I may
have earned. I wrote for her, _she_ was my public!"
This beloved home was ever one of open hospitality, and to it came at
all times guests of every kind. Here, Miss Stevens tells you, her
grandfather had welcomed Talleyrand and Louis Napoleon, and here in
later days gathered many a company of literary giants whose names are
now household words. After six years of widowhood her mother married the
late Mr. John Fowler Butterworth, a man who was universally beloved and
respected, of high position, wealth, and great personal attractions. "We
all went with them to the new home in New York," adds Miss Stevens. "He
was the only father I have ever known, and I loved him most tenderly."
From this time the family spent much of their time on the Continent of
Europe. Miss Stevens and her sister were educated in Paris, having for
their instructress a very charming and capable woman, who had been
_gouvernante_ to the Orleans Princesses. It was their habit to spend at
least three months of every year abroad, and in this way the young girl
saw much more of foreign countries than her own. Italy, Switzerland,
France, Germany, the Tyrol, each were visited in turn, and such was the
method of their travelling that every country and town were indelibly
and individually impressed upon her memory. Rome, Florence, Geneva,
Verona, Turin, Munich, Innspruck, each one and all are to her bright
with particular associations. After her stepfather's death Miss Stevens
and her mother settled permanently in London, where they had many
friends and many family ties, her sister having married and made her
home in England.
The young author's first literary efforts were begun at a very early
age. "I can scarcely," she says, "remember a time when I did not
scribble. My first attempt was a sermon on the text 'God is Love,' and I
distinctly recollect how and where I wrote it, crouched behind a long
swinging glass in my mother's bed-room, printing it off in capital
letters--writing being then far beyond my attainments--and getting very
hot and flushed in the effort." Her next attempt was a decided advance.
Her sister and two cousins had established a small home newspaper,
called the _Dorcas Gazette_, price one halfpenny, circulation strictly
private and confidential, its end and aim being the helping of the
"Dorcas Society," a body formed to make clothes for the poor. The
circulation amounted to six copies a week, each of which had to be
written out in fair round hand on two sheets of foolscap paper. To this
ambitious venture she was invited to contribute, and for two years was
writer in chief, furnishing serials, short stories, and anecdotes, her
sister doing the political and poetical parts. "I have still," says Miss
Stevens, smiling, "one or two of those old 'gazettes,' time-stained and
yellow; I look on them with the utmost respect, and feel that for
harrowing plot and thrilling adventure, my 'serial' in five chapters,
called 'Blonde and Brunette,' beats the record of any of my subsequent
work!" Her first book, written when she was seventeen, was a small
novelette called "Distance." It was published by Appleton, of New York,
and was well received and reviewed. On coming to London, Miss de Grasse
Stevens was asked by the proprietor of the principal American journal,
the _New York Times_, to prepare for them a series of articles upon
English art and artists, and for ten years she filled the position of
special art critic to that paper, her letters upon London artists and
their studios being the first of the kind ever written, while her
account--a two-column article--of the private view and pictures at the
Royal Academy, which appeared in the morning edition in New York the
next day, was the first "art-cable" sent across the wires. Her first
short story, written long ago, appeared in _Harper's Magazine_. She
wrote it secretly, and sent it off furtively. It was called "Auf
Wiedersehn," and was subsequently translated into German, and reprinted
in many English papers. "After sending it off," she relates, "I waited
in sickening suspense for ten long days, and when at last a letter came
bearing the well-known Franklin-square stamp, I dared not open it. When
I did I fell upon the floor and cried bitterly from bewildering joy! It
contained a satisfactory cheque, and a request for 'more matter of the
same sort.' From that moment the spell of literature held me as in a
vice. I have never known a moment of purer, more unalloyed joy than
that, and to it I owe my perseverance in the 'thorny path.'"
Miss De Grasse Stevens's first three-volume novel was called "Old
Boston." It was originally published by Sampson Low & Co., and has since
been brought out in one volume edition. Its reception was more than
flattering, and the reviews upon it were such as a much older and more
experienced writer might be pleased to win. The story is partly
historical, and is founded on the events just preceding the siege of
Boston and the declaration of American Independence. Keenly attracted
beyond aught else by history, especially by the history of her own
country, in which there is stored away such treasures of romance, of
reality, of poetry, and of pathetic prose--the young American writer
has, in this delightful romance of a hundred years ago, given clear
evidence of her thorough knowledge of her subject; each character is
strongly individualised; true pathos and purity of style mark every
page; you are carried back a century, yet can feel with unflagging
interest that the persons described are living fellow-creatures. The
descriptive writing is artistically fine, the love story is tenderly and
pathetically told, whilst the whole betokens careful study and research.
This book gained for Miss de Grasse Stevens countless kind and
flattering letters from old and, as yet, unknown friends. "Some of my
dearest and most trusty friendships," she says, "I owe to it; first and
foremost in which was that of the late Mr. Kinglake. I had known his
family in Taunton for some time, but to 'Old Boston' I owed the
friendship of the author, which ended not with his death, for I am
certain such friendships are eternal." She contemplates some day writing
a sequel to this book, bringing the history part of it down to the
famous battle of Valley Forge and the bombardment and surrender of New
York.
The author's next work, "Weighed in the Balance," was a short story
written for Mr. W. Stevens's _Magazine of Fiction_, and was of the
sensational school. Over a hundred thousand copies were sold, and for
this, too, she received so much praise and so many letters that she
declares herself to have been "greatly surprised"; among them were two
which she prized highly, one from the late Earl Granville and the other
from the late Earl Spencer, who both wrote that the scenes being laid
at Deal, the book was particularly interesting to them, especially the
parts relating to the Goodwin Sands, and the historic, but decayed old
town of Sandwich. This book was followed by one that caused a good deal
of stir--a historical monograph called "The Lost Dauphin," in which the
writer took up the mysterious fate of little Louis XVII., and advanced
the theory that he did not die in the Temple but was stolen from there
and carried to America, where he was deposited with the Indian tribe of
the Iroquois and was eventually taken East, educated and trained as a
missionary under the name of Ealeazer Williams. The book is illustrated
by three portrait engravings. It called forth a storm of controversy and
a great number of reviews amongst all the leading journals, the majority
of which frankly accepted her hypothesis. Innumerable letters poured in
from all sorts and conditions of people, mostly scholars and men
interested in out-of-the-way questions. The late Mr. Kinglake was
particularly keen on it, and Miss Stevens has a large packet of highly
prized letters from him, devoted to the discussion of the theory that
she had advanced and in which he thoroughly believed. This, from so
great a scholar as the author of "Eoethen" and "The Crimea," was praise
worth having. The late Robert Browning was another _litterateur_ who
wrote in commendation of the book, as did Mrs. Gladstone, Henry James,
Mr. Russell Lowell, Miss Sewell, Mr. Phelps, and many others.
"Miss Hildreth" is the name of Miss de Grasse Stevens's next
three-volume novel, which, following as it did closely after the
sensation made by "The Lost Dauphin," attracted great attention both in
France and England. The scenes are laid in St. Petersburg and New York,
amidst the society with which she was most familiar. The plot is
original, the story is conspicuous by the ability with which it is
written, and proves how thoroughly and conscientiously she studies the
subject that she has on hand. Very powerfully drawn is the account of
the fortress prison of Petropavosk, the descriptions of scenery show how
entirely the author is in touch with nature in her every aspect, while
the scene of the trial betrays the logical mind and power of argument
which she has inherited from her distinguished father. "Miss Hildreth"
is moreover from "start to finish" deeply interesting and exciting, and
displays the same experienced pen and graceful language, free from any
exaggeration or straining after effect that is so conspicuous in "Old
Boston." Mr. Gladstone, in his letter to her about "Miss Hildreth,"
after expressing his deep interest in its _motif_, writes, "I thank you
very much for the work you have been so good as to send me. Both your
kindness and the subjects to which it refers, make me very desirous to
lose no time in beginning it." The young author has just finished a new
novel in one volume, called "The Sensation of a Season," which will
shortly be published, and is completing another to be called "A Romantic
Inheritance." The former work is absolutely different in style, and
deals chiefly with American society in London. Besides fiction, Miss
Stevens writes several weekly articles for American syndicates, and is
a contributor to a South African magazine on more abstruse subjects. She
has written, on and off, special articles, by request, for the _Saturday
Review_ since 1885, notably among these, papers on "Old American
Customs," and on "The position of needlewomen in London," bearing upon
the work depot established in Cartwright Street, Westminster, by the
Hon. Mrs. William Lowther and Miss Burke; also an amusing account of
"Christmas in America fifty years ago," in the Christmas number of a
weekly paper, and she has for a long time been a regular writer on the
_Argosy_ staff. Mention must not be omitted of a particular article
called "The Beautiful Madame Grand, Princesse de Talleyrand," for which
Mr. Cassell sent specially to Versailles to copy the portrait in the
Grand Gallery for the frontispiece of the magazine. This was followed by
a series of illustrated biographical sketches in the _Lady's
Pictorial_--"American Ladies at Home in London."
When engaged on a novel Miss Stevens puts no pen to paper. "I think it
all out in my head," she says, "before writing a word, chiefly when
travelling; the movement of the train has a peculiar fascination for me.
I make no notes. When it is all complete in my brain, I write straight
away with no effort of memory." But with all her increasing literary
work, Miss de Grasse Stevens finds time for a little recreation in
exercising her talents for modelling and painting. In both of these arts
she is no mean proficient. The gift is inherited from her lamented
mother, who painted much for the Royal Family, and who counted among her
personal friends H.R.H. Princess Louise, Marchioness of Lorne. Sir
Frederick Leighton, another valued friend, used to say that her power of
colouring was especially wonderful. The young author is a very early
riser, and is up and out of doors every morning before seven. She writes
from ten till three, and divides her time between her sister's beautiful
country home in Kent and the pretty little house at West Kensington,
where she stays with a dear aunt and uncle, Dr. Hand Smith, well known
in the scientific world of London for his discovery of the endolithic
process, about which the late Sir Edgar Boehm was so enthusiastic an
admirer. This little abode may be briefly described as distinctly
artistic. The rooms are olive-green in colour, and contain several
cherished reminiscences of her mother. The great "Alexandre" American
walnut-wood organ--both reed and wind--reaching to the ceiling, is quite
unique. On a draped easel stands a large mounted plaque of gorgeous
Florida poinsettias, painted by her mother in a method discovered by
herself, a _replica_ of the design she furnished to the Queen. Another,
almost as beautiful, of different-coloured pansies, by the same beloved
hand, adorns the mantelshelf. Many well-used volumes of Tennyson,
Browning, Whittier, Thackeray, and of Mrs. Lynn Linton fill the
bookshelves. "I delight in Mrs. Lynn Linton's books and papers," says
your hostess; "I call her the Modern Crusader, and read everything that
she writes with much pleasure." Among these works you notice an "In
Memoriam" monograph by Miss Stevens of William Kinglake, illustrated
with his portrait, and a picture of his home, Wilton House, Taunton,
both of which he gave to her. There are a few good pictures on the
walls: two of Morland's are especially attractive, _lunette_ in shape,
first proofs before letters engraved by Nutter. Yonder hang a couple of
paintings of her sister's Kentish home, an old red-brick Elizabethan
building, with the peculiar white facings and low white door belonging
especially to the Tudor days, surrounded by park lands, lawns, and very
old fruit orchards, which are at this season bright with yellow
daffodils. Tradition assigns to it a veritable ghost, whose uneasy
spirit walks every All Saints' Eve! A packet of letters from great men
lies on a little table near. From them Miss Stevens selects some from
Gladstone, Kinglake, and Irving. This last was written on the appearance
of her papers in the leading Boston and New York journals on the subject
of "Macbeth." She has new and pleasant work now on hand as art editor of
the _Novel Review_, in which her late biographical monograph upon "John
Oliver Hobbes" elicited more than ordinary comment from the general
press; also a fresh and important post in connection with a smart New
York society journal. "I particularly like the prospect opened out in
this new field of journalism," remarks Miss de Grasse Stevens quietly,
"as it gives me greater freedom of subject as well as of treatment. I am
delighted, too," she adds, smiling, "with the mere thought of grappling
with any little difficulties that may arise on the subject."
And to these "little difficulties" you leave the bright young American
writer, feeling sure that her clever brain will guide her able pen to
solve them aright.
[Illustration: Bertha Leith-Adams]