Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches

MRS. LOVETT CAMERON

Nestling between Knightsbridge on the north, and Brompton Road on the south, lies a quiet, old-fashioned square, which the organ-grinder and brass band are no longer permitted to disturb. Everything is so still that it is difficult to realise that it is within a few minutes' walk from a busy, noisy thoroughfare. So near and yet so far from London's "madding crowd." In summer time when the ancient trees, which are said never to have been disturbed for generations, are in full leaf, the little square might indeed be a slice out of the country itself; and even now, with bare and leafless branches, it presents a peaceful, rural appearance, for the hoar frost has covered every bough and shrub with a million of glittering particles, which sparkle like diamonds in the wintry sunshine. In the centre of the north side of Montpelier Square is Mrs. Lovett Cameron's home, a cheerful-looking little house, gay with window boxes, and fleecy muslin curtains draped with bright coloured ribbons. An application at the brass horseshoe knocker is promptly responded to, and you are admitted into the hall and vociferously greeted by "Nancy," a handsome fox-terrier, the pet of the house, a treasure-trove from the Dogs' Home. The first object which attracts the eye, and, as it were, overshadows you, is the head of a gigantic Indian buffalo, so sleek and life-like in appearance, with its huge horns, that you involuntarily shudder to think what a formidable opponent the savage monster must have proved in the flesh ere he became the trophy of that gallant sportsman, the late Hector Cameron.

Ascending the staircase, the walls of which are hung with a series of Colonel Crealock's spirited hunting sketches, you are ushered into the drawing-room, which is divided midway by a carved white wood archway of Moorish design. Large palms, tall arum lilies, and graceful ferns, are grouped here and there about the room; no sound is heard save the song of caged birds. The Oriental bowls and jars are filled with great double chrysanthemums of golden brown, and other winter flowers; but a light step approaches; the door softly opens, and the author enters: seeing her framed in the doorway, clad in the soft folds of a simply-made violet velvet tea-gown, the first glance conveys to the mind an immediate impression that she is in thorough harmony with her surroundings.

Mrs. Lovett Cameron is a fair, slight woman, a little below the middle height; her large blue eyes have a very thoughtful, gentle expression; her broad low brow is crowned with bright chestnut coloured hair. Her habitually serious look changes, however, when having settled you into a corner of the couch, with a cup of steaming coffee, she enters into friendly conversation. Meanwhile you cast furtive glances around the room. A bright fire blazes cheerfully on the blue and brown tiled hearth. The carved white mantelpiece, with side recesses, is covered with delicate specimens of old Dresden china, and surmounted by a broad shelf, on which stand five exquisite antique Japanese jars, the bleu poudré and deep crimson being thrown into relief by the soft tints of the "buttercup" coloured wall paper.

Amongst the pictures which adorn the walls is a portrait, after Sir Godfrey Kneller, of Sir Edmund Verney, an ancestor of the family, bearing the inscription "Standard Bearer to Charles I., who lost his life in the Battle of Edghill." The original painting is at Liscombe, Buckinghamshire, a property which still belongs to the Lovett family. Further on is a lovely copy of the Madonna Caracci, in the Dresden Gallery. Several pieces of valuable old blue china, quaint bits of Oriental flat figures, together with a plate or two of old Dutch ware decorate the walls, and an ancient convex mirror of great antiquity. Two antique corner cupboards (Dutch) with flat glass doors disclose many little treasures of enamel, old Worcester and Nankin, which Mrs. Cameron says that she prizes as much from association as for their own intrinsic value. An Italian cabinet inlaid with ebony and ivory occupies one side of the wall, and, unlocking its doors, she takes out some priceless scraps of old lace of cobweb-looking fabric, which she inherited from a maternal ancestress, together with a few pieces of the Queen Anne silver which are scattered on the tiny marqueterie table yonder. Amongst these there is a richly-chased tankard, on which is the inscription, "Oration Prize adjudged to Verney Lovett, of Trinity College, Cambridge, in the year 1774." There is an amusing story told of another of Mrs. Cameron's ancestresses. She was a Huguenot, a Mademoiselle de Bosquet, and, at the time of the persecution of the French Protestants, when only a little girl, she was packed up in a basket, smuggled out of France and sent over to England to ensure her safety.

The long, dwarf bookcase on the right is filled with literary treasures, inherited from the "Oration Prize" winner. Mrs. Cameron takes out several, and mentions that they are valuable editions of "Montaigne," "Chesterfield's Letters," the "Tattler," the "Spectator," etc., but the gem of the collection, and one that she greatly values, is a complete set of the poems of Edmund Waller, dated 1729, in good preservation, each poem headed with engravings by Vertue, chiefly portraits of the Stuart family. The bookcase opposite contains several presentation copies from brother and sister writers. Amongst them you look in vain for the author's own works, but she says that they shall all be seen presently in her own study below, and as she leads the way thither, past the conservatory, you pause to admire the picturesque grouping of the flowers and palms, some so high that the cages of the feathered songsters are half concealed. Your hostess remarks that she "delights in flowers, and is always lucky with them."

Turning to the right, she opens the door of her cosy little writing-room. The dark red walls, with a frieze of large Japanese flowers, are hung with etchings, photographs, and pictures, all of which have their own story. Here is a complete series of Aitken's "First Point to Point Race"; there portraits of the "Prize Fox-terriers of England," presented to her by the late Sir John Reid. Also sundry winners of the Derby, and many a pet dog and horse. Mrs. Cameron points out her husband's favourite hunter, "Roscommon," and his wonderful pony, "Tommy Dod," who "jumped like a cat," and carried him for many seasons in Leicestershire, and who, with his master, was often mentioned with honour in Baily's Magazine. A few sketches of the Thames indicate her favourite resort for leisure hours, many summer days and autumn holidays being spent on the river, in quiet nooks and corners, where, under the able tuition of her barrister brother, Norman Pearson, late of Balliol, and coach of the "Kingston Eight," Mrs. Lovett Cameron has achieved considerable dexterity in sculling and canoeing.

Antlers and deers' heads, ranged high near the ceiling, testify further to the sporting proclivities of the family. Over a quaint little corner cupboard a big stuffed hawk looks down with an absurdly wise expression. A high, three-cornered, and somewhat ascetic-looking chair is pushed aside from a proportionately high and business-like writing table – a handsome old English piece of furniture, which is loaded with manuscript and books of reference, denoting the occupation in which Mrs. Cameron was probably engaged when summoned to receive you, and you hastily begin a word of apology; but she turns it aside and observes that she was "quite glad to be interrupted, as she had been working beyond her usual hour."

Over the table hangs a venerable canary, ætat. fourteen, who has learnt to be mute in business hours. Opposite the window stands a large antique Chippendale bookcase with glass doors, filled with hooks of history, travel, biography, English poets, and old dramatists. One shelf is reserved for another purpose, and here can be read the names of fourteen three-volume novels, well known to the world, written by Mrs. Lovett Cameron. Her husband has had them all bound alike in Russian leather, and looks on them as his own especial property. This shelf is now nearly full, and Mrs. Cameron remarks laughingly that "by rights she ought to die when it is full, as there will be no room for any more in the cupboard." Of these novels, the first, "Juliet's Guardian," made its bow to the public in 1876, having previously appeared in the pages of Belgravia, "Jack's Secret" ran as a serial through the same magazine, having been applied for, when Belgravia changed hands, by the present owner "to bring him luck." Taking out one after another of these daintily-bound volumes – "Deceivers Ever," "Vera Nevill," "Pure Gold," "A North Country Maid," "A Dead Past," "In a Grass Country," "A Devout Lover," "This Wicked World," "Worth Winning," "The Cost of a Lie," "Neck or Nothing," and other short stories – you see that most of them have passed through several editions, and in "In a Grass Country," "ninth edition," proving the special popularity of that particular book, which chiefly made Mrs. Lovett Cameron's literary reputation. Her latest additions to these entertaining works of fiction are "A Lost Wife," "Weak Woman," and "A Daughter's Heart."

It is always deeply interesting to hear about the early days of such a well-known writer. Explaining to Mrs. Cameron that not only in Europe, but also in the Colonies where her books are as largely circulated, that she has many friends and admirers who will love to hear all about her first literary efforts, she kindly consents to gratify you, and says, that "to begin at the beginning," she was sent at the early age of six to Paris, to acquire the language; she was placed in the family of the late M. Nizard, an academician, and a man of some literary repute, who later on became a member of the Senate. She has a vivid recollection of the house – since demolished – surrounded by a large garden in the Rue de Conscelles, where her childish days were spent. Amongst such surroundings, it was natural that the girl should become imbued with a love of reading, which, though carefully guided, was stimulated to the utmost, and when, later on, after some further years at a school in England, she returned home, she found herself in constant disgrace, because she was always reading and hated needlework. As her mother and sister were enthusiastic in this feminine accomplishment, and were constantly engrossed in the embroidering of church altar-cloths and linen, they were inclined to look on books as an excuse for idleness.

It was at this time that the young girl-student secretly wrote several short stories, and, although very shy of these efforts, she one day confided to her elder sister that she "felt certain she could write a novel." With the honest candour of a family circle towards each other, she was promptly extinguished with the remark, "That is nonsense. If you had any talent for writing, it would have shown itself before this." Thus discouraged, she laid aside the idea, and never resumed it until after her marriage, when the talent which had lain dormant could no longer be hidden. The story of the launching of her first novel is most interesting, as showing the courage and perseverance of the young author.

She had no acquaintance with a single member of the literary profession – no interest with any editor or publisher; nevertheless, on the completion of "Juliet's Guardian," she took up, by chance, the nearest book at hand; reading therein the names of Chatto and Windus, she then and there packed up her MS., and without any introduction, but with many qualms, made her way to their office. She was courteously received, and informed that she might leave it, and after a brief period of anxious waiting, the good news came that it was accepted. Shortly after, it was brought out, and the young author's first step to fame was accomplished.

Rising to replace this volume, you inadvertently press against a panel in the lower cupboard, which falling open, dislodges a large and somewhat discoloured roll of newspapers, and hastening to gather them up with a murmured word of regret for the accident, Mrs. Cameron remarks with a laugh that they are copies of a paper, the City Advertiser, which she and her two brothers started, and actually kept going for six months, the three meeting once a week to carry it on. It was a source of endless amusement to them, until the scattering of the family caused it to die a natural death.

The easel yonder holds a large framed photograph of the head of an Apollo, discovered when digging under the streets of Athens; and opposite stands a portfolio full of sketches and maps, descriptive of the route taken by her brother-in-law, Commander Lovett Cameron, the well-known African traveller, who nearly seventeen years ago went on foot across Africa with a small party of friends, but, alas! came back alone. He was the only survivor of the intrepid band, the rest all succumbed to the perils of the expedition. He it was who surveyed the southern portion of Lake Tanganyika, proving it to be a lake, and discovered the river Lukuga, which is the outlet thereof. Pursuing his travels further, he also proved Lualaba and Congo to be one river, and later discovered Lake Kassali and the sources of the Zambesi.

But whilst following out the route on a well-worn map, and listening to these interesting details, youthful voices are heard outside, which recall the fact that it is the first day of the holidays, and a tap at the door is followed by the entrance of Mrs. Cameron's two fine, bright boys, accompanied by their father.

The elder lad, "Verney" is at Winchester, the "school for scholars," and he has already evinced a distinct talent for composition, combined with a fund of humour, which has found vent in one or two clever, though childish stories, which betoken the probability that he has inherited his mother's gift of writing, but the younger boy, "Hector," bravely tells you he "likes play better than lessons, and he means to go abroad and shoot elephants." As he is, however, only twelve years old his parents feel no immediate anxiety on that score.

Mrs. Lovett Cameron seldom writes after two o'clock. She uses a pen placed in a funny little stump of a broken mother-of-pearl holder, and, handing it to you, she says, "I have a superstition about it. Every one of my novels has been mainly written with it, and I often say that if I use another penholder, I write badly. I have told my husband to put it into my coffin."

She is a capital woman of business, and remarks that she "bought all her experience for herself."

Those who do not know Mrs. Cameron well, think that she is cold and proud. Truly, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve; but not to all is revealed the true nature of the woman. Do you go to consult her on a tiresome bit of business, to take a tale of deserving charity, to confide a personal grief? Though in the midst of writing a sentence, the busy pen is thrown aside, as she straightens the tangled web, opens her purse to the pitiful story, or, with tender sympathy, enters into the sorrow.

The good old "grandfather" clock in the corner is a very ancient and much-treasured relic; its hands, however, mark that it is time to go; but Mrs. Lovett Cameron asks you to "stay a moment." She runs lightly upstairs and returns with a bunch of the gold and brown chrysanthemums, which she puts into your hands; then, casting a last look at the fierce buffalo, you pass out into the quiet little square, and in less than five minutes find yourself again in the noisy region of cabs and omnibuses.

MRS. HUNGERFORD

It is well worth encountering the perils of the sea, even in the middle of winter, and in the teeth of a north-east wind, if only to experience the absolute comfort and ease with which, in these space-annihilating days, the once-dreaded journey from England to the Emerald Isle can be made. You have resolved to accept a hospitable invitation from Mrs. Hungerford, the well-known author of "Molly Bawn," etc., to visit her at her lovely home, St. Brenda's, Bandon, co. Cork, where a "hearty Irish welcome" is promised, and though circumstances prevent your availing yourself of the "month's holiday" so kindly offered, and limit an absence from home to but four days, it is delightful to find that, travelling by the best of all possible routes – the Irish Mail – it is to be accomplished easily and without any fatiguing haste.

Having given due notice of your intentions, you arrive at Euston just in time for the 7.15 a.m. express, and find that by the kindness of the station-master a compartment is reserved, and every arrangement, including an excellent meal, is made for your comfort. The carriages are lighted by electricity, and run so smoothly that it is possible to get a couple of hours' good sleep, which the very early start has made so desirable. On reaching Holyhead at 1.30 p.m. to the minute, you are met by the courteous and attentive marine superintendent, Captain Cay, R.N., who takes you straight on board the Ireland, the newest addition to the fleet of fine ships, owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. She is a magnificent vessel, 380 feet long, 38 feet in beam, 2,589 tons, and 6,000 horse-power; her fine, broad bridge, handsome deck-houses, and brass work glisten in the bright sunlight. She carries electric light; and the many airy private cabins indicate that, though built for speed, the comfort of her passengers has been a matter of much consideration. She is well captained, well officered, well manned, and well navigated. The good-looking, weather-beaten Captain Kendall is indeed the commodore of the company, and has made the passage for nearly thirty years. There is an unusually large number of passengers to-day, for it is the first week of the accelerated speed, and it is amusing to notice the rapidity with which the mails are shipped, on men's backs, which plan is found quicker than any appliance. Captain Cay remarks that it is no uncommon thing to ship seven hundred sacks on foreign mail days; he says, too, that never since these vessels were started has there been a single accident to life or limb. But the last bag is on board, steam is up, and away goes the ship past the South Stack lighthouse, built on an island under precipitous cliffs, from which a gun is fired when foggy, and in about an hour the Irish coast becomes visible, Howth and Bray Head. The sea gets pretty rough, but luckily does not interfere with your excellent appetite for the first-class refreshments supplied. The swift-revolving paddles churn the big waves into a thick foam as the good ship Ireland ploughs her way through at the rate of twenty knots an hour, "making good weather of it," and actually accomplishes the voyage in three hours and fifteen minutes – one of the shortest runs on record. The punctuality with which these mail packets make the passage in all weathers is indeed truly wonderful – a fact which is experienced a few days later on the return journey. Kingstown is reached at 6.10 p.m. (Irish time), where the mail train is waiting to convey passengers by the new loop line that runs in a curve right through "dear dirty Dublin," as it is popularly called, to Kingsbridge, and so on to Cork, where you put up for the night at the Imperial Hotel.

Another bright sunshiny morning opens, and shows old Cork at her best. Cork! the old city of Father Prout's poem, "The Bells of Shandon," which begins thus: —

 
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood
Fling round my cradle their magic spells,
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on, etc., etc.
 

The river Lee runs through the handsome little city, and has often been favourably compared with the Rhine. But Bandon must be reached, which is easily managed in an hour by rail, and there you are met by your host with a neat dog-cart, and good grey mare; being in light marching order, your kit is quickly stowed away by a smart-looking groom, and soon you find yourself tearing along at a spanking pace through the "most Protestant" town of Bandon, where Mr. Hungerford pulls up for a moment to point out the spot where once the old gates stood, whereon was written the legend, "Let no Papist enter here." Years after, a priest in the dead of night added to it. He wrote: —

 
Whoever wrote this, wrote it well,
The same is written on the gates of Hell.
 

Then up the hill past Ballymoden Church, in through the gates of Castle Bernard, past Lord Bandon's beautiful old castle covered with exquisite ivy, out through a second gate, over the railway, a drive of twenty minutes in all, and so up to the gates of St. Brenda's. A private road of about half a mile long, hedged on either side by privet and hawthorn and golden furze, leads to the avenue proper, the entrance gate of which is flanked by two handsome deodars. It takes a few minutes more to arrive at a large, square, ivy-clad house, and ere there is time to take in an idea of its gardens and surroundings, the great hall door is flung open, a little form trips down the stone steps, and almost before the horse has come to a standstill, Mrs. Hungerford gives you indeed the "hearty Irish welcome" she promised.

It is now about four o'clock, and the day is growing dark. Your hostess draws you in hastily out of the cold, into a spacious hall lighted by a hanging Eastern lamp, and by two other lamps let into the wide circular staircase at the lower end of it. The drawing-room door is open, and a stream of ruddy light from half-a-dozen crimson shaded lamps, rushing out, seems to welcome you too. It is a large, handsome room, very lofty, and charmingly furnished, with a Persian carpet, tiny tables, low lounging chairs, innumerable knick-knacks of all kinds, ferns, winter flowers of every sort, screens and palms. A great fire of pine-logs is roaring up the chimney. The piano is draped with Bokhara plush, and everywhere the latest magazines, novels, and papers are scattered.

Mrs. Hungerford is a very tiny woman, but slight and well-proportioned. Her large hazel eyes, sparkling with fun and merriment, are shaded by thick, curly lashes. She has a small, determined mouth, and the chin slightly upturned, gives a piquante expression to the intelligent face – so bright and vivacious. Her hair is of a fair-brown colour, a little lighter than her eyelashes, and is piled up high on the top of her head, breaking away into natural curls over her brow. She is clad in an exquisite tea-gown of dark blue plush, with a soft, hanging, loose front of a lighter shade of silk. Some old lace ruffles finish off the wrists and throat, and she wears a pair of little high-heeled Louis quinze shoes, which display her small and pretty feet. She looks the embodiment of good temper, merry wit, and espièglerie.

It is difficult to realize that she is the mother of the six children who are grouped in the background. One lovely little fairy, "Vera," aged three and a half, runs clinging up to her skirts, and peeps out shyly. Her delicate colouring suggests a bit of dainty Dresden china. Later on, you discover that this is actually the pet name by which she is known, being indeed quite famous here as a small beauty. "Master Tom," a splendid roly-poly fellow, aged sixteen months, is playing with a heap of toys on the rug near the fire and is carefully watched over by a young brother of five. The three other girls are charming little maidens. The eldest, though but in her early teens, is intellectual and studious; the second has a decided talent for painting, whilst the third, says her mother, laughing, "is a consummate idler, but witty and clever."

By and bye your hostess takes you into what she calls her "den," for a long, undisturbed chat, and this room also bears the stamp of her taste and love of study. A big log fire burns merrily here, too, in the huge grate, and lights up a splendid old oak cabinet, reaching from floor to ceiling, which, with four more bookcases, seems literally crammed with dictionaries, books of reference, novels, and other light literature; but the picturesque is not wanting, and there are plenty of other decorations, such as paintings, flowers, and valuable old china to be seen. Here the clever little author passes three hours every morning. She is, as usual, over-full of work, sells as fast as she can write, and has at the present time more commissions than she can get through during the next few years. Everything is very orderly – each big or little bundle of MSS. is neatly tied together and duly labelled. She opens one drawer of a great knee-hole writing table, which discloses hundreds of half sheets of paper. "Yes," she says, with a laugh; "I scribble my notes on these: they are the backs of my friends' letters; how astonished many of them would be if they knew that the last half sheet they write me becomes on the spot a medium for the latest full-blown accounts of a murder, or a laugh, or a swindle, perhaps, more frequently, a flirtation! I am a bad sleeper," she adds, "I think my brain is too active, for I always plan out my best scenes at night, and write them out in the morning without any trouble." She finds, too, that driving has a curious effect upon her; the action of the air seems to stimulate her. She dislikes talking, or being talked to, when driving, but loves to think, and to watch the lovely variations of the world around her, and often comes home filled with fresh ideas, scenes, and conversations, which she scribbles down without even waiting to throw off her furs. Asking her how she goes to work about her plot, she answers with a reproachful little laugh – "That is unkind! You know I never have a plot really, not the bonâ fide plot one looks for in a novel. An idea comes to me, or I to it," she says, airily, "a scene – a situation – a young man, a young woman, and on that mental hint I begin to build," but the question naturally arises, she must make a beginning? "Indeed, no," she replies; "it has frequently happened to me that I have written the last chapter first, and so, as it were, worked backwards."

"Phyllis" was the young author's first work. It was written before she was nineteen, and was read by Mr. James Payn, who accepted it for Messrs. Smith and Elder.

Mrs. Hungerford is the daughter of the late Rev. Canon Hamilton, rector and vicar choral of St. Faughnan's cathedral in Ross Carberry, co. Cork, one of the oldest churches in Ireland. Her grandfather was John Hamilton, of Vesington, Dunboyne, a property thirteen miles out of Dublin. The family is very old, very distinguished, and came over from Scotland to Ireland in the reign of James I.

Most of her family are in the army; but of literary talent, she remarks, it has but little to boast. Her principal works are "Phyllis," "Molly Bawn," "Mrs. Geoffrey," "Portia," "Rossmoyne," "Undercurrents," "A Life's Remorse," "A Born Coquette," "A Conquering Heroine." She has written up to this time thirty-two novels, besides uncountable articles for home and American papers. In the latter country she enjoys an enormous popularity, and everything she writes is rapidly printed off. First sheets of the novels in hand are bought from her for American publications, months before there is any chance of their being completed. In Australia, too, her books are eagerly looked for, whilst every story she has ever written can be found in the Tauchnitz series.

She began to write when very young, at school taking always the prize in composition. As a mere child she could always keep other children spellbound whilst telling them fairy stories of her own invention. "I remember," she says, turning round with a laugh, "when I was about ten years old, writing a ghost story which so frightened myself, that when I went to bed that night, I couldn't sleep till I had tucked my head under the bedclothes. This," she adds, "I have always considered my chef d'[oe]uvre, as I don't believe I have ever succeeded in frightening anyone ever since." At eighteen she gave herself up seriously, or rather, gaily, to literary work. All her books teem with wit and humour. One of her last creations, the delightful old butler, Murphy, in "A Born Coquette," is equal to anything ever written by her compatriot, Charles Lever. Not that she has devoted herself entirely to mirth-moving situations. The delicacy of her love scenes, the lightness of touch that distinguishes her numerous flirtations can only be equalled by the pathos she has thrown into her work every now and then, as if to temper her brightness with a little shade. Her descriptions of scenery are specially vivid and delightful, and very often full of poetry. She is never didactic or goody-goody, neither does she revel in risky situations, nor give the world stories which, to quote the well-known saying of a popular playwright, "no nice girl would allow her mother to read."

Mrs. Hungerford married first when very young, but her husband died in less than six years, leaving her with three little girls. In 1883 she married Mr. Henry Hungerford. He also is Irish, and his father's place, Cahirmore, of about eleven thousand acres, lies nearly twenty miles to the west of Bandon. "It may interest you," she says, "to hear that my husband was at the same school as Mr. Rider Haggard. I remember when we were all much younger than we are now, the two boys came over for their holidays to Cahirmore, and one day in my old home 'Milleen' we all went down to the kitchen to cast bullets. We little thought then that the quiet, shy schoolboy, was destined to be the author of 'King Solomon's Mines.'"

Nothing less than a genius is Mrs. Hungerford at gardening. Her dress protected by a pretty holland apron, her hands encased in brown leather gloves, she digs and delves. Followed by many children, each armed with one of "mother's own" implements – for she has her own little spade and hoe, and rake, and trowel, and fork – she plants her own seeds, and pricks her own seedlings, prunes, grafts, and watches with the deepest eagerness to see them grow. In springtime, her interest is alike divided between the opening buds of her daffodils, and the breaking of the eggs of the first little chickens, for she has a fine poultry yard too, and is very successful in her management of it. She is full of vitality, and is the pivot on which every member of the house turns. Blessed with an adoring husband, and healthy, handsome, obedient children, who come to her for everything and tell her anything, her life seems idyllic.