University of Virginia Library

Harraden, Beatrice. "Mrs. Lynn Linton." Bookman 8 (Sept. 1898): 16-17.

With the passing away of Mrs. Lynn Linton, another of those precious links is broken which bind the literary life of the present with that of the previous generation. Mrs. Linton was in her seventy-seventh year, and although she took her part up to the very last in literary gatherings, was as brilliant and incisive [illustration omitted] as ever in conversation, and deeply interested in all new scientific discoveries, all matters political and social and international, yet one never forgot when in her presence that the aroma of the past was around her too — the aroma of her own achievements and of her own friendships and experiences stretching far back to the very time fifty years ago when she left her quiet home to plunge into the activities of a London life. It was not her age which made one conscious of this long and full career, for she did not give one the impression of being old. It was that she was essentially a woman of letters and in the best sense of the word; of a type fast dying out and very sorely to be missed; flooded with the true literary feeling and instinct; not like so many of us young people nowadays, a mere writer of an occasional novel called forth by the soul's passing necessity to express itself — and publish.

But it is not of the woman of letters that I am wishing to write this day; and elsewhere also can be found the epitome of her career and her successes: the history of her books, her essays, her controversies. But with the memory of that quiet form, lying so peacefully, like an old Viking at rest, I would fain speak of the dear kind friend with the big and generous heart, who stretched out her hand to give a young writer a warm greeting. And here I must be excused for bringing myself on the scene, since my only object in so doing is to accentuate a very sweet and lovely side of her character, which I learnt to know from personal experience. Mrs. Linton was my literary godmother. And Mr. William Blackwood was the other godparent. She always spoke of herself as such to me, and indeed my introduction to her by her relative Mrs. Thomas Hill proved, as it were, the turning-point of my life. It is more than ten years ago now since Mrs. Hill kindly took me down to Queen Anne's Mansions to see the first working author with whom I had ever come in contact. Mrs. Linton was not well, and she was lying down on her couch when we entered her room. She scanned me closely, and frightened me a good deal as she read into my heart and brain, and told me forthwith that almost everything I had done was a mistake; and indeed

then and there she poured forth her well-known criticisms against the higher education of women and so forth. She was deeply interested, but at the same time *deeply interested, but at the same time taken my London B.A. degree. Nevertheless, from the moment she first saw me, she never called me anything else but "little B.A." She also tried to impress on me that it was an immense mistake for a woman to enter on a literary career. She evidently disapproved of me theoretically from head to foot — for of course she recognised that I was a modern product — and I stood by her side and looked sad and grave. Then she glanced at me, and said in her singularly sweet and caressing voice: "And now, as usual, I've said too much. Come to me on Saturday, and bring some of your manuscripts. So I went on Saturday, armed with one or two little sketches which had appeared in magazines. I can see her now, reading them. Then she put them down, and bent over and kissed me. "Little B.A.," she said very tenderly, "you must go on writing, and there must be no half measures." When I left her that day I knew that we were to be friends and comrades to the end. I pressed forward with my work, and was always buoyed up by her kind and vigorous interest. She grieved for me over interruptions from ill-health, and rejoiced with me over accepted manuscripts and fresh possibilities. She sent innumerable letters — all love letters — like her letters to all those whom she loved — to brace me up to fresh strength and endeavour. Her loving congratulations over any success were the most delightful that any one could possibly receive or conceive. She was always most generous and broad in her appreciation of other people's work, and very humble about her own. And even when she did not especially admire, she was always ready to help and advise. I know she waded through endless manuscripts, often correcting most minutely. She spoke so little of what she did for others, that it is not generally known how kind she was and how healthy in her manner of helping. Her influence also was entirely a healthy and virile one. She had a horror of anything that approached weak morbidness and unwholesome introspection or self-centredness. But the least sign of vigorous pluck to contend with difficulties physical, mental, and moral, called forth her unmitigated admiration, respect, and support. She was, in fact, a Viking: I christened her with that name at the beginning of our friendship, and she was proud of the title. And it is only a few weeks ago since I saw her again after a lapse of two or three years, and she said: "I am still a Viking — and shall die one!" She seemed in the best of health and spirits, and had come up to London for a round of gaiety and pleasure. Only a few days afterwards she was stricken down with the illness to which she succumbed, and during which she was tended and helped as ever by her devoted daughter-by-adoption — Mrs. Beatrice Hertz-Hartley, whom she loved with every fibre of her being, and on whom she had set her very heart's seal.

Before closing this hurried account, I am anxious to record that I have always thought she cared more for a liberal education for women than she herself realised. Her own heart's inclination came out in divers unmistakable ways, but she had so saturated herself with her stereo-typed opposition to the higher education of women and their ways, that her mind could not travel freely on that trail. It was quite useless to discuss or remonstrate. The only thing to do was to leave the whole thing, and with gentle reverence and remembrance to call to mind that she herself in the long days past, when pioneering was a much more invidious task than now, came to London to cast in her lot with the great working world, and show how a brave and gifted and self-respecting woman, even in those times, was able to win her way to the front, and yet keep all her dignity and fine womanly courtesy intact.

Beatrice Harraden.