The times. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1890-1903, 1891-02-15
OUR LITERARY BUDGET.
CONTRIBUTIOysFR OMTHE FIELD OF
LITERATURE.

Thackeray at Home-A Glimpse Of Charlotte
Brontc-Reminisc by the Daughter of
the Author of Vanity Fair, Published In
pIacMilIan's Magazine.
II happily does not always follow that one
cares for an author in exact proportion 10 the
sale of his books. or even 10 the degree OF
their merit: otherwise some OF us might De
overpowered by friends. and Others remain
solitary. all our lives long. IL also does not
always follow that people who write books
are those who see most of one another. TN
the contrary, authors. as rule think, pre-
fer playmates of other professions than their
own. and don't keep together in the same
way that soldiers do. for instance. or dandles,
or lawyers. or members of Parliament, though
perhaps this last illustration Is scarcely
happv one in this particular year of grace.
LAWYERS, politicians, soldiers, and even doc
tors do a great deal of their work together IN
one anothers company; but the hours don't
suit for literary people, and one rarely hears
Of five or six authors sitting down IN a row
to write books. They are generally smut up
apart in different studies with strict orders
given that nobody is TO be shown in.
This was nv fathers rule. only 1t was con-
stantly broken aud many people used to pass
in and out during his working times, and OF
course one way and another we saw great
many people Of different sorts coming 20 con-
to call. others brought little poems and arti-
cles for the "Cornhill.'
remember n visit from another nero or
those times. We We're walking across Ken
singtOn Square early one morning with my
father when we heard some one hurIylng
after Us and calling him by his name. This
was also one of Byron's friends. A bright
eyed active old man, with long wavy white
hair and q picturesque cloak flung over one
shoulder. / can see him still, rs he crossed
the corner of the square and followed us
with a light. rapid step. My father, stopping
short. turned back to meet him. greeting
him kindly and bringing him home with us
10 the old brown house at the corner, where
we were then living. There was sort
of eagerness and yyidness of manner
about the stranger which was very impressive.
You could not help watching him and his
cloak. which kept slipping from It's place. and
which he caught al again and again. We Won
dered at his romantic. foreign looks, and his
caietv and bright. eager way. AtterWard we
were told that this was Leigh Hunt. We
knew his name very well. for on the drawing
room table. in company with various kusNms
and Punches. lay pretty. SHINING D9ok' can
ed "A Jar Of Honey from Mount Hybla." from
which in that dilettante. childish fashion,
which il half play half impotence, and search
for something else We had cOntrlved 10 extract
our own allowance of honey. II was still an
event TO see a real author IN those days,
n
over his shoulders: though for the matter OF
that IL i still and always Will be an event To
see the faces and hear the voices OF those
whose thoughts have added something de
lightful 10 our lives Not very long afterward
came u different visitor, still belonging To the
same company of people. had thrown open
the diuing-rOOm door and come IN huruedly
looking for something. and then stopped
short. startled, for the room vas not empty
4 striking and somewhat alarming looking
person stood alone 10y the fireplace with folded
arms: a dark mpressiye-lookng man, not
tall. but broad and brown and weather-beaten;
gazing with a sort Of sccwl at his own reiiec
ton in the glass. ne turned slowly and looked
az me over his shoulder. This time 1t was
Trelawny Bvron's biographer and cOmpan-
ion who had come to see my father lie
frowned, walked deliberately and slowly from
the room. and saw him no more. Sometimes
when listen to the talk Of my kind nelghDor.
John Murray. Byron himself, clothed and at
his best. seems 10 rise before ones imagna-
| ton once | saw in n crystal lOcket the lock
| of hair which he wore up on his forehead. once
| Mr. Browning showed me a picture OF HIM
| taken in his early days; more like that OF "a
young divinity than OF any mortal peer. Inc
| Shelleys too have lived in our midst or
| late. SO wildly alive and familiar to us,
that it seems scarcely possible to believe
| they have never known Of our existence. One
| dav not long ago Lady Taylor IN her bright;
| comprehensive way showed me the beautiful
portraits Of Goodwin and Mary Wollstonecratt
| hanging in Sir Percy Shelleys home. To
| Goodwin. Opie had given something Of ms
own nobility the mother OF Mary Shelley
| herself The more one knows Of these two
women the more one loves and pltles them.
| | think Of all the things | ever heard of Mary
| Shelley. Mrs Kemble's pathetic story haunts
one with saddest persistence ana seems To
SIGH back the curtain OF the past. BRING up
n bow 10 think for himself" agrl once sad
To Mrs Shelley (the girl was Fanny kemble
herself in her early YOUTH, and TO TINS came
the mothers passionate answer An no;
bring him up TO think Ike other people
one Of the most notable persons who ever
came into our old bow-windOw drawlng-room
in Young street is a guest never 70 be forgot
ten by me, a tiny, delicate. little person,
whose small hand nevertheless grasped
mighty lever which set all the literary world
of that day vibrating can still see the
scene quite piainly,-the hot summer even
inc the ODen windows, the carriage driving
TO the door as We all sat silent and eXpeciant;
my father, who rarely waited, waiting with
us: our gOyerncss and my sister and all IN a
row. and prepared for the great event. we
saw the carriage stop. and out OF u sprang the
active. well-knit figure OF yong, MI. ueorge
Smith. who was bringing Miss BrOnte 10 see
our father. Ny father. who had been walk
ing up and down the ROOM goes out INTO the
hall 10 meet his guests. and then after mo-
ment's delay the door opens WIDE, ana
the two gentlemen come IN: leading
tiny. delicate, serious. little lady,
pale. with fair. straight hair and steady
ewes. She may be little over thirty; she Is
dressed in little bareage dress with pat
tern Of faint green moss. She enters IN NIT
tens in silence in seriousness. our hearts are
beating with wild excitement. This then IS
the authoress. the unknown power, whose
books have set all London talking. reading.
Specializing: some people even say our father
wrote the books-the wonderful books. To
saw that we little girls had been given Jane
Eyre" to read scarcely represents the facts OF
the case. 70 say that we had taken II without
leave. read bits here and read bits there. been
carried away by an undreamed-of and hither-
10 unimagined whrlwind into things, times,
places. all utterly absorbing and at the same
time absolutely unintelligible TO US would
more accurately describe our states OF mind
on that summers evening as We look at
Jane Eyre-the great Jane Eyre-the. tiny lit
tie lady The moment is so breathless that
dinner comes as a relief w the solemnity OF
the occasion. and we all smile as my father
stoops 10 offer his arm. for, genius though she
NAV be-, Miss Bronte can barely reach his
elbow. Ny own personal impressions are
that she is somewhat grave and stern, spe-
cially 10 forward little girls who wish to chat
ter Mr.. George Smith has since told me how
| She efterward remarked upon my fathers