Marie Corelli is absolutely opposed to “cram.” That was what was killing little Lionel. At ten he was well advanced in mathematics, Latin and Greek, history, and even science. No wonder he was often “tired,” or that he felt as if, to use his own words, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to belong to the hybernating species and go to sleep all the winter. Miss Corelli detests cram—the regarding of the young human brain as a sort of expanding bag or hold-all, to be filled with various bulky articles of knowledge, useful or otherwise, till it shows signs of bursting. That was the plan of little Lionel’s new coach, who, after the operation of cramming a youngster’s brain, would then lock up the brain-bag and trust to its carrying the owner through life. If the lock broke and the whole bag gave way, so much the worse for the bag, that was all. That was what happened with poor little Lionel, who hanged himself, tired of the “cram,” and worried into insanity by the loss of his mother, the death of his playmate, and the trouble of considering whether, if there be no God, and death is mere negation, it was really worth while living at all.

Healthy physical exercise, reasonable study, and religion as the basis of that study: so Miss Corelli would train the children.

“Boy” teaches equally healthy lessons, though the story and the circumstances are totally different. “Boy” might have been a fine fellow. He had good qualities. That he became a thief and a forger was the fault of the home circumstances and example. The father of “Boy” was a drunkard and a blackguard, though a man of good family. The lad’s mother was a silly-minded slattern. There was too much discipline brought to bear upon Lionel Valliscourt; far too little was ever tried on “Boy.” The latter, in his early childhood left to himself, or to mix only with street lads, and with parents who, for a foolish “pride,” refused him better training at the hands of others, developed by neglect into a young ruffian, though he turned out well in the end.

Again, in conclusion, we commend these books to parents, and, indeed, to all interested in or engaged in the education and upbringing of children.

CHAPTER XVII

SOME PERSONAL ITEMS

Miss Corelli began her campaign with a letter to the Morning Post calling public attention to Sir Theodore’s plan, and the whole Press backed up her efforts with hearty unanimity. The late Sir Arthur Hodgson had taken the chief responsibility of supporting Sir Theodore Martin, but in his haste and zeal had forgotten to ascertain whether he could legally remove from the wall of the chancel two mural tablets which occupied the intended site of the proposed Helen Faucit effigy. The then Bishop of Worcester, Dr. Perowne, a great personal friend of Sir Arthur’s, was persuaded to grant a “faculty” for their removal, without due inquiry. Miss Corelli, however, discovered the descendants of the very family those mural tablets belonged to, and found that their permission had not been sought, or their existence considered. Whereupon the law promptly stepped in, and Sir Theodore Martin was compelled to withdraw. Otherwise the modern stone-mason would have gone to work in the hallowed precincts of Shakespeare’s grave, and a piece of wholly unecclesiastical sculpture would have overlooked the Poet’s place of family sepulture, a place which Shakespeare himself purchased for his own interment, and which all the world of literature rightly considers should be left to his remains, uninvaded.

The bas-relief of Lady Martin, had it been put up, would have shown her figure turned with its back to the altar, the medallion of Shakespeare lying at her feet! The whole thing was out of place, and out of tune with the national sentiment, as though Helen Faucit was an eminent actress in her day, she had no connection with Stratford-on-Avon; moreover, she was not British-born. Miss Corelli’s fight was a hard one, for though Mr. Sidney Lee, who was entirely on her side, wrote to Sir Theodore Martin himself to expostulate with him on the mistaken idea he had taken up, nothing would have had any effect had not Miss Corelli fortunately discovered the descendants of the family whose mural tablets were about to be displaced without their permission. When she at last won the day, the whole Press broke out unanimously in a chorus of praise and congratulation, which must have been a singular experience for her, so long inured to disparagement. She was bombarded by telegrams from almost every quarter of the globe, particularly from America, expressing the thanks of all lovers of Shakespeare.

It is a pity some one like Marie Corelli was not in Stratford-on-Avon at the time Shakespeare’s own house, “New Place,” was demolished. Had there been such an one, the chances are that the house would be still standing as one of the world’s priceless treasures. Many precious shrines are defaced, and many valuable mementoes lost for lack of some one to speak out who is not afraid to give an opinion. Shakespeare’s townspeople are grateful to the novelist who fought their Poet’s cause single-handed, and won it in the face of powerful opposition.

* * * * * *

Concerning the portraits of Miss Corelli, her experiences have not been particularly pleasing. It will be remembered that a large oil painting of the novelist was exhibited at Messrs. Graves’ Art Gallery, Pall Mall. This portrait was painted for two reasons: first, because Miss Corelli knew at the time of its execution that she was the victim of a serious malady which might, it was then feared, shortly end her life; and secondly, because she wished to leave some resemblance of herself to her dearest friend, Miss Vyver.

Miss Donald-Smith painted the picture and also executed two “pastel” portraits. Miss Corelli gave several sittings to the artist at a time when her illness was causing her the acutest agony, and when the hours thus spent in the studio were to her a perfect martyrdom. At Miss Donald-Smith’s request she permitted her to send the large picture to the Academy, where it was rejected. It was then exhibited by Messrs. Graves, and was at once made the subject of personal and abusive attacks, not on the artist, but on Marie Corelli herself for being painted at all! Some journalists went so far as to accuse her of “taking the gate-money” and “speculating in her own portrait.” As a matter of fact, Miss Corelli received none of the percentage allowed on the photogravures of the picture, and it may be added that she withdrew the picture altogether from public view before it had been long on exhibition.

Another portrait was painted by Mr. Ellis Roberts for himself. He asked Marie Corelli to sit for him, having always been one of her greatest admirers. He did not, of course, know that she consented to sit for the same primary reason as for the other—namely, that she did not then expect to live more than a few months—and that she wished to bequeathe some “presentment” of herself to those who might care for it. Mr. Roberts is probably not aware to this day that she was often almost fainting when she left his studio after a prolonged “sitting.” He has never seen her since she recovered her health and good spirits: if he had, it is probable he would wish to make another sketch of her.

We may add that Miss Corelli still declines to allow a portrait of herself to be published—a decision which we regret. For many are the “surprises” that have been given to those expectant of meeting in the novelist a severe literary woman with spectacles and a bilious complexion. It may be truly said that Marie Corelli is very light-hearted, always high-spirited, and full of fun; people who represent her as morbid, brooding on her own “sorrows,” or grumbling at the world in general, have never seen her, and can form no idea of her disposition.

She is really a most charming lady, a most hospitable hostess, a delightful raconteur, a brilliant musician, a woman of broad views and large sympathies, a true and staunch friend, always glad to do a kindly action.

* * * * * *

After the record-breaking success of “The Master Christian” and the world-wide discussions following the publication of that famous book, the editor of a magazine addressed the following communication to Miss Marie Corelli:

Vastly entertained by this proposition, and seeing very clearly through the evident “hole in a millstone,” the novelist replied promptly:

* * * * * *

When Sir Henry Drummond Wolff made Miss Corelli’s acquaintance he was rather struck by the somewhat lonely and incessantly hard-working life of the young novelist at the time of “Ardath"‘s publication. Her beloved stepfather was dying by inches—failing gradually every day, and her hours were consumed by anxiety, work, and watching. He asked her if he could introduce her to any one in London she would like to know. After a few moments’ reflection, of all people in the world she chose Henry Labouchere! “I don’t want anything from him,” she said; “I’m not after a notice in Truth. I want to know him, because I’m sure he is unlike anybody else.”

The introduction was given, and the result of it was that she became very intimate with the editor of Truth, with Mrs. Labouchere, and with Miss Dora Labouchere. They were among those good friends who, with Miss Vyver, helped to rouse her from the shock and nervous prostration following on the sudden death of her stepbrother, George Eric Mackay. Mr. Labouchere has never been known to try the satiric edge of his tongue against his “little friend,” as he calls her; and she is always a most welcome visitor to his house in Old Palace Yard.

* * * * * *

Quite lately there has been a singular journalistic incident which must be considered as particularly unfortunate, having regard to some of Miss Marie Corelli’s previous experiences of newspapers. A “private and confidential” letter, written by her to the editor of a ladies’ paper, was published by that editor in his journal with the appendage of a very discourteous reply. The incident arose out of the Highland gathering at Braemar, at which place Miss Corelli had been staying for some weeks. This gathering, which was honored by the presence of his Majesty, was attended by Miss Corelli and a party of friends. Miss Corelli, as her thousands of readers have no need to be told, did not require, or seek for, a “mention in the papers” in consequence of her attendance at the function. Had she done so she could easily have paid for it in the “fashionable announcements.” She attends many gatherings in connection with which her name is never mentioned, but she does not write complaints—confidential or otherwise—on that score. Some people like to suggest that Marie Corelli, whose circle of distinguished personal friends is remarkably large, is more or less friendless and without social surroundings, a suggestion that, pitiful as it is, is somewhat amusing to those who are favored with her close acquaintance.

On the occasion in question Miss Corelli wrote a note marked “private and confidential,” asking the editor of the ladies’ paper not “why her name was not mentioned,” but “why it was omitted”—a distinction with a difference in this case—for she happened to be the hostess of a party whose names were included in the newspaper notice, and who were surprised and indignant at the fact that, whilst their names were mentioned, that of their notable hostess was left out. It was at the suggestion of one of these that Miss Corelli wrote the “private and confidential” letter which the editor, without consulting her, rushed into print. The result of her harmless inquiry is well-known. The publication of the communication brought a shoal of letters to the famous author from men and women of “light and leading,” assuring her of their sympathy in this outrage. Amongst the writers of these letters were several very distinguished journalists, a fact which lends emphasis to Miss Corelli’s knowledge that, notwithstanding her tilts with the Press, the bulk of the journalists of the country do honor to their profession and totally disapprove of such an act as the publication of a “private and confidential” communication. We hear that printed slips containing her letter to the editor in question, and the latter’s reply, were sent by some one for circulation through the town of Stratford-on-Avon. Such a proceeding, whoever

was responsible, could have been followed with only the one object of endeavoring to make Miss Corelli appear in an unfavorable light before the neighbors and friends among whom she resides.

It is pleasant to learn that this precious campaign entirely failed. The editor of the local journal, the Stratford-on-Avon Herald, duly received his slips of this correspondence, the hope probably being that he would reproduce them in his journal. He however took no notice of these “hand-bills”; and the good citizens of Shakespeare’s town generally are far too conscious of Miss Corelli’s affection for them and unfailing sympathy in all their interests, to feel anything but unmeasured contempt for any effort to injure her in their esteem. People hastened to call at Mason Croft and express their indignation at the treatment she had received, and they found her, as usual, busily working, happy and unconcerned. To one friend, an M.P., who expressed his views on the subject with considerable expletive, she said quietly, “Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter! The editor has condemned himself by his own action. My letter, asking merely why my name was omitted, was quite a harmless epistle, surely? It scarcely merits an imprisonment in the Tower!”

The Daily Express acted somewhat curiously on this occasion. Having copied the whole of the “private correspondence,” it was suggested that this paper might possibly be laying itself open to penalties of the law for “breach of copyright.” Whereupon haste was made to send the following telegram to Miss Corelli: “Have asked our correspondent to call upon you. We will print with pleasure any statement. Sorry our article did not please you. Would like to make amends.—Daily Express.

The desire, however, to “make amends” does not appear to have been very hearty, because soon afterwards a second article on the subject appeared in The Daily Express, stating that there was “no law to prevent the publication of a private and confidential letter,” unless it bore a legal “confidential stamp.” And at the same time Mr. Pearson wrote to Miss Corelli to say that he thought the editor who had published her “private and confidential” note was “perfectly justified” in his action! But there can be no possible justification for publishing a letter of confidence. Business would be impossible under such circumstances. The mistake Miss Corelli has made in the past has been to condemn the Press and pressmen for the shortcomings of individuals who represent only themselves and not a profession. She has been misunderstood on the matter, but her hearty good-will to journalists is well-known to many of the craft who are proud to be within the pleasant circle of her intimate friends.

* * * * * *

A section of the Press finds pleasure in accusing Miss Corelli of “self-advertisement.” If it were at all true that she has any proclivities that way, she would surely accept the frequent and urgent offers made to her to lecture in the United States, on almost fabulous terms.

Again, a chance for “self-advertisement” offered itself to Miss Corelli in the invitation of Edinburgh, last year, to open the Home Industries Exhibition, in Waverley Market. People hoped for her coming, and urgent letters were sent to her assuring her that she would receive a splendid welcome. Miss Corelli, however, declined the tempting proposal, which, if the “advertising” accusations were in any way well-founded, seems a short-sighted waste of opportunity on her part. As a matter of fact, she seldom takes the chances of notoriety that are so frequently offered to her; but it would be easy to name a dozen or more periodicals which are glad to make advertisements for themselves out of some specially contrived attack upon her. The public, however, sees through this, and, understanding the motives of action, are all the more loyal to Marie Corelli and her work. Britishers are famed for their love of “fair play,” and the spectacle of several able-bodied men engaged in steadily “hounding” a woman who has made her way without their assistance by the fuel of her own brain and energy, does not appeal to the majority. They see no fun in it, but only an exhibition of cowardice.

While on this subject, it may be mentioned that as soon as certain sections of the Press discovered that Marie Corelli was among the favored few who had received an invitation from the King to be present in the Abbey at the Coronation on August 9th, she was bombarded with letters and telegrams from several newspapers entreating her to write for them her “impressions” of the great ceremony. To all these applications she gave no answer. Her silence on such an occasion rather discounts her supposed “love of notoriety”! Truth to tell, her presence at the Abbey, as a guest of the King, created in some quarters quite a riot of fury.

“We hear,” said one paper, “that Miss Marie Corelli was among the King’s guests in the Abbey! Marvelous! No doubt she wore a gown as gorgeous as her love of self-advertisement could make it!” Poor Miss Corelli! In the very simplest attire of white chiffon and lace, she was one of the most unobtrusively dressed ladies present, as she wore no jewels, and had nothing indeed about her costume that could attract the slightest attention, though she was the “observed of all observers” at the luncheon held in the House of Peers after the Abbey ceremonial, not for her dress, but for her fame.

Another incident may be aptly quoted here. When the King was attacked by his serious illness, the enterprising manager of a newspaper press agency made haste to write to Miss Corelli saying that it was necessary to “prepare for the worst,” and would she therefore write her “impressions” of the King,—which meant, of course, an obituary notice! To which the novelist replied with considerable warmth that she had too much immediate concern for the dangerous condition of her Sovereign, as well as too much honor for him, to “make trade” for the newspapers by writing “obituary notices” of his life before he was dead! By the grace of God, she said, he would be spared to the Throne for many good and happy years to come. Such is the real spirit of the woman whom her more than malicious enemies accuse of “disloyalty” and “desire for advertisement.” It is a satisfaction to give a few truths of her real disposition as opposed to the unfounded falsehoods that are circulated about her. As a single example of her womanliness and womanly sympathies, it may be mentioned that no one has yet written a tenderer tribute to the virtues of the Queen than Marie Corelli in “The Soul of Queen Alexandra,” published last year in her “Christmas Greeting.”

* * * * * *

Two letters which were addressed to Miss Corelli by eminent preachers who have since passed away are of interest. In explanation of their inclusion it should be mentioned that Dr. Campbell, the successor of Dr. Parker at the City Temple, was exceedingly anxious to persuade Miss Corelli to open a great Nonconformist bazaar in the Dome during the early part of last November. She would have been perfectly willing to do so had there not been a great agitation just then in the press concerning the Education Bill, for she judged that had she performed any special ceremony in any prominent way for the Nonconformist cause, she would again have been singled out for unfair attack.

For several days she hesitated, her whole inclination being to help the charity so urgently and eloquently pleaded for by the Rev. Dr. Campbell. During this time of indecision, however, she was made the subject of a violent discourse from the pulpit of a Nonconformist minister in another part of the country. This appears to have formulated her final resolve, for she wrote to Dr. Campbell, regretting her inability to comply with his request, and enclosing the “sermon” on herself from one of his own persuasion, concerning which she said that under such circumstances her opening of the Bazaar might do the cause more harm than good.

Dr. Campbell, disappointed, but not dismayed, renewed his persuasions and prevailed upon several of his distinguished personal friends to write to the novelist and urge her to alter her decision. Among those who did so were Dr. Joseph Parker and the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes, to both of whom the sermon against the novelist had been sent for perusal. Dr. Parker wrote to Miss Corelli as follows:—

The note from the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes ran thus:—

Miss Corelli, however, who was just at that time being made the subject of some particularly venomous attacks concerning her romance, “Temporal Power,” felt compelled to maintain her refusal, though much to her own great disinclination and regret—a regret that we share, for we should like to be able to record that she opened the bazaar after all.

* * * * * *

The following letter, which deals with a critique on “Temporal Power,” is most interesting from the point of view that it was written by one lady-novelist in defense of another; it possesses all the more weight seeing that Mrs. Rentoul Esler is an entire stranger to Miss Corelli.

Mrs. Rentoul Esler is herself a writer of distinction and power, and is thus able to express herself with the vigor and lucidity which carry conviction. Her letter is a clear call for that “Fair Play” which Marie Corelli has been demanding for so long.

* * * * * *

That the novelist is well able to retort upon unfriendly critics is shown by a few verses addressed by her to The Quarterly in her “Christmas Greeting” (1901). A lacerating article concerning Miss Corelli and her work had appeared in The Quarterly, and it drew from her the following little epigram:—

TO THE QUARTERLY

WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

CHAPTER XVIII

AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON

A review of Marie Corelli’s life from the time she left her convent-school to the present day, shapes as a record of intellectual activity rather than one of movement or incident of an anecdotal nature. But although the novelist has never actually gone out of her way to study local color, she has traveled all over Europe; as, during her stepfather’s long illness and the constant strain of anxiety entailed upon her by his condition, it was necessary for her to take at least one month’s rest and change of air in the course of each year. These annual holidays were spent in various parts of Europe—in France, Italy, Holland, Switzerland, and Germany—and during her travels she was never idle, but always at work recording notes of scenes, seasons, and events. The locale of Combmartin was carefully studied by her before she ever wrote “The Mighty Atom”; and, as the many tourists who have visited the neighborhood since on account of the story can testify, both that village and Clovelly have been faithfully represented. But some of the scenery in her other books, though correct in detail, has never been visited by the novelist at all. “Thelma,” which is a frequent companion-volume to travelers in Norway, has certain scenes depicted which are now shown by local guides as associated with the novel, but the writer herself has never visited Norway.

It may be remembered that in “Anne of Geirstein” Walter Scott gives an exact description of Switzerland; but at the time he wrote the novel he had never seen that country. We have already told how Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, a great authority on Persia, called on Miss Corelli shortly after the publication of “Ardath” to inquire personally where she had resided in the East, to be so familiar with Eastern color and surroundings; and he was very much surprised to learn that she had never visited the East at all, nor had any idea of going there. In the same way, though “Vendetta!” is an essentially Neapolitan story, she has never seen Naples. Nor does she “read up” for her local color. When asked to explain how she manages to convey herself in spirit to countries with which she is entirely unacquainted, she replies: “I imagine it must be so, and I find it generally is so.” As she stated in her lecture at Edinburgh on “The Vanishing Gift,” she thinks Imagination is a decaying faculty in the present day. “People seem unable to project themselves into either the past or the future,” she says, “and yet that is the only way to gauge the events of the present.”

Marie Corelli is a fair linguist, having a thorough knowledge of French and Italian. She can read Balzac and Dante as readily as she can read Walter Scott—these three, by the way, being particular favorites of hers.

Marlowe describes a library as containing “infinite riches in a little room.” Though no millionaire in her possession of this kind of wealth, Marie Corelli has gathered about her a set of volumes which is representative without being cumbersome. Her books are not stored in a stately room that is held sacred to them and them alone, but they are here, there, and everywhere, in drawing-room, working-den, and bedroom. She is not a bookish woman—in the reading sense—but she reads discreetly, and has many widely different friends between covers. Nor is she a miser in this respect, for she gives and lends as readily as she buys or borrows.

Many of those interested in the novelist’s movements have wondered what attraction drew Miss Marie Corelli to Stratford-on-Avon so greatly as to persuade her to settle there. The cause is a very simple one. From her earliest childhood she had been encouraged by her adopted father, Dr. Charles Mackay, to entertain a great adoration for the name and the works of Shakespeare, and before she was nine years old she used to recite, at his request, whole passages from the plays of the great Master. When she returned from school, he promised to take her for a “pilgrimage,” as he termed it, to all the places made notable by Shakespeare’s association with them, and to this pilgrimage she had looked forward with the greatest expectation. But it was never to be, for Dr. Mackay’s illness came on and prevented all such plans of pleasure from being fulfilled.

When the aged poet died, and his adopted child, broken-hearted at his loss, and feeling herself utterly alone in the world, knew not how to endure the weary days following immediately on his death, she suddenly bethought herself of the “pilgrimage” she and the dear one she had loved so well had arranged to make together. She determined to carry out the plan, and her friend Miss Vyver (who lost her mother in the same year as that of Dr. Mackay’s death) accompanied her, as did her stepbrother, Mr. Eric Mackay. With sorrow as well as interest, she went over every scene her early teaching had made her familiar with, and was so charmed with Warwickshire, and Stratford in particular, that she was anxious to leave London then at once, and take up her residence in Shakespeare’s town. This was in 1890, when only four of her books had been published.

Her wishes in this respect, however, she subordinated to those of her stepbrother, who preferred London; but from that time she always cherished the memory of Stratford-on-Avon, and hoped she would be able to return thither. Finally, in 1898, when Eric Mackay’s death deprived her of her last remaining link with her childhood, save her ever-faithful friend Miss Vyver, and when she was extremely ill from the effects of long sickness, followed by the nervous shock of Eric’s sudden end, she turned her thoughts to the old town again, and decided to take a furnished house there, to see if the place agreed with her health. She rented “Hall’s Croft” for a few months, then “Avon Croft” (where the “Master-Christian” and “Boy” were finished), and, finding that the soft, mild air did wonders for her, and gradually reestablished her strength, she decided to remain.

The only house available in the town for a permanency was “Mason Croft,” a very old place

in a sad state of disrepair, its last “restoration” bearing the date of 1745, but, as it was all there was to be had, she risked taking it on trial. Gradually improving and restoring it, she has now brought it back to look something like it must have been in the fifteenth century, when it was quite an important house, requiring a “watch-tower,” wherein a watchman was set to guard the property, and which still stands in the garden, having been transformed into a cozy summer “study” for the novelist. Every month sees some new addition to the charming oak-panelled rooms, which are essentially home-like, and Miss Corelli’s love of flowers, which amounts to a passion, shows itself in the mass of blossom which in winter, equally as in the summer, adorns her “winter-garden,” leading out from the drawing-room.

She is very fond of the home she has made, and fond of the town in which it stands, and her reason for living in Stratford arises simply out of the old cherished sentiment of her childhood’s days when she was taught to consider the little town as the real “Heart of England,” where the greatest of poets had birth, and where her idolized stepfather had promised to “pass many happy days with her.” She takes the keenest interest in all the joys and sorrows of Stratford’s townspeople, and grudges neither trouble nor expense in anything that may bring them pleasure or good.

It is well-known that she thinks it regrettable that the Memorial Theatre should be so little used, owing to the high fees asked for it, and that good actors should find it impossible to risk going down to perform there, unless their expenses are guaranteed, particularly as it is the only “self-endowed” theatre in England! She possesses an interesting letter from the late Charles Flower, who gave the largest share of the money required to build the place, in which it is plainly set forth that his idea of the theatre was to let it at a merely “nominal fee,” in order that the best actors might go to Stratford and play Shakespeare’s works, in the best manner, to the Stratford townspeople, who were only to be asked “popular” prices for admission. But, since that estimable benefactor’s death, things have not been exactly on the footing he thus suggested, and for more than half the year the theatre is empty and useless, which seems a pity. “How much better,” says Miss Corelli, “it would be to see the theatre full, and the public-houses empty!” In which most people will agree with her. But though her opinions are very strong on these and other points concerning some matters at Stratford, she never interferes or puts forward any suggestions that she considers might be resented. The only time she did put her foot down was when Sir Theodore Martin wanted to break into the antique sanctity of Shakespeare’s resting-place in the Church of the Holy Trinity, and in that campaign all the world was with her, as well as Stratford itself. She does all the good she can in the neighborhood; she has quite revivified the Choral Society; she gives short, simple addresses to workmen and schoolchildren; she opens bazaars and sales of work, and by her presence at such functions brings much-needed pecuniary help to institutions which always feel, to a greater or less extent, the pinch of poverty.

The desire to do good to one’s fellow-creatures must animate every writer whose work is not solely the product of intellect. When there is “heart” in a book, there must be a heart that can throb for others in the author of it. Pass the lives of eminent authors before you in rapid mental review, and you will find that most of these authors were constantly performing kindly actions. The great souls of Dickens and Thackeray—of the latter especially—prompted them to do many generous things. It is said that when, as an editor, Thackeray found a letter with a manuscript telling a tale of pathetic circumstances, he would sometimes (when obliged to return the manuscript) scribble out a check on his own account and send it back with the rejected story. Turning to women writers, has not Mrs. Gaskell, in her touching life of Charlotte Brontë, told us how she and the poor Yorkshire clergyman’s daughter paid sundry afternoon calls in the Haworth district, and how welcome was the novelist’s “quiet presence” in many humble homes? Ruskin’s kindness and open-handed charity, as one who visited him has told us, were proverbial in the Brantwood neighborhood. The history of Dr. Johnson’s home life proves amply the tenderness which lay behind his pompous and dictatorial manner. Poor Goldsmith’s generosity amounted almost to a vice, for he would borrow a guinea to give to a friend in need and empty his pockets for a whining mendicant. His philanthropy was wholesale, and quite lacked any sense of proportion. Scott worked himself to death to pay off the debts of the publishing firm in which he was concerned;—turn where you will, you find that the men and women whose work in life has been the making of songs and dramas and novels, have ever been keenly alive to the distress prevalent among their fellow-creatures, and have seldom been guilty of anything approaching selfishness.

It would not be meet in the present work to touch in any but the most passing way on Miss Corelli’s practical philanthropy. But it is only due to her, in a biographical work published mainly to explain what she is—as opposed to what so many malicious paragraphists have declared her to be—to pay a tribute to her consideration for others, and her desire to make the best use of such worldly possessions as the extensive sale of her works has naturally brought her.

Those, however, who accuse her of “self-advertisement” will do well to remember that by such an absolutely false clamor they are depriving many in need from assistance which they might obtain were the novelist certain that her actions would not be misrepresented and misconstrued. For nothing makes her happier than to see others happy. She has helped many strugglers in the literary profession, too, and literary men and women who disparage her may be surprised to hear that she has herself never been known to say an injurious word with regard to any one of her fellow-authors.

It may be asked—what is Marie Corelli’s life-programme? Most writers have a definite object in view—this one to achieve immortality; that one to make money. What is Marie Corelli’s?

Briefly, she writes,—has always written,—to reach the hearts and minds of those thinking people of to-day who are striving to combat the subtleties of the Agnostic and Atheist; to strengthen their faith in the truth, the reality, the goodness of God and Christianity; the people who have hearts that throb with tenderness, hope, love and sincerity. She would purify society. She would exalt everything that is noble and good. She would destroy the rule of unbelief and insincerity, and raise in its place ideal characters and conditions strongly built upon a foundation of faith and truth. Such is Marie Corelli’s programme.

The interest taken by the novelist in social questions has led her to correspond with workingmen’s clubs in America and the colonies, and not a few papers have been written by her to serve as subjects for discussion in such institutions.

But what of that self of which so much has been heard? It is a personality striking in its simplicity and in its power. Marie Corelli is a woman of women, simple in her tastes, strong in her faiths and her aims, with a heart full of sympathy for others, living a busy life that from its productiveness in the world of literature is a constant influence for good in the hearts and homes of thousands the world over, and, in its private relationships, a source of help, inspiration, and benefit to those with whom she comes in contact.

That she is not merely a lover of Shakespeare, but a Shakespeare enthusiast, is known to all her friends; she would see the day come, if possible, and help to speed its coming, when the whole town of Stratford-on-Avon shall be a Shakespeare memorial. She would exclude steam-launches and all similar misplaced modernities from the peaceful Avon; she would have every new building that is erected in the birthplace of Shakespeare constructed in accordance with the architecture of the Master’s day; she would sacredly and lovingly guard every old building and the form of all Stratford’s old streets; she would have the storehouse, that exists there, of never explored sixteenth-century records, thoroughly ransacked and reported upon, as it should be, by competent and national authorities, and given an adequate place and publicity. We should hear little more then, we venture to assert, of Baconian theories. Miss Corelli would have, moreover (and perhaps the statement may help to further the object), a great development of the Shakespeare Festival at Stratford. She would like it to be the Bayreuth of Literature. She would establish a central Shakespearean Society, with branches all over the world, which would circulate notes of interest among all Shakespeare lovers, and hold annual conferences in connection with the April Shakespearean celebrations.

Now, as to Marie Corelli’s “public.” The great sale of her works proves it to be a vast one, and the fact that her publishers have not found it advisable to issue her in sixpenny form is clear proof that she commands the purses of those who are able to afford six shillings. And although the possession of money is no guarantee of literary taste, yet it stands to reason that the upper and middle classes, taken in the mass, are the chief supporters of literature, and afford the best criterion of worth in their selection of books owing to the fact that their education is superior to that of people who are commonly designated as “poor.” But for the latter there are the free libraries, and the Corelli novels are in as constant demand wherever books are to be obtained for nothing, as at railway bookstalls, where there is not a halfpenny abatement of the full published price. Miss Corelli, then, being read by people of all classes, may certainly be said to have won over a considerable majority of the bookreading portion of the British race.

And it must not be forgotten that she is perhaps the most extensively read of living novelists in Holland, Russia, Germany and Austria, where translations of her books are always to be obtained, or that her “Barabbas” and “A Romance of Two Worlds,” in their Hindustani renderings, command a wide following among the native peoples of India. She is extremely popular in Norway and Sweden, and “Vendetta!” in its Italian translation is always the vogue in Italy, as is the French version of “Absinthe” (“Wormwood”) in France. There is no country where her name is unknown, and no European city, where, if she chances to pass through, she is not besieged with visitors and waylaid with offerings of flowers. Were she to visit Australia or New Zealand she would receive an almost “royal” welcome, so great is the enthusiasm in the “New World” for anything that comes from her pen.

Marie Corelli’s acquaintances are many in number, but her circle of friends is a small and carefully selected one. Shakespeare’s “He that is thy friend indeed” can be applied, even in the case of a popular novelist, to but few persons. Where Miss Corelli is, there always is her devoted friend Miss Vyver. Between these two there is perfect understanding and absolute sympathy. It goes without saying that, until the day of his death, Dr. Mackay held chief place in his adopted daughter’s heart, and, though dead, holds it still. The kind old publisher, George Bentley, was, perhaps, owing to his unceasing sympathy and delicate appreciation of her nature, the best friend Marie Corelli ever had outside her own family circle.

But many of the social and artistic world’s great personages are among her most frequent guests and correspondents. The numerous letters she has from famous men and women would almost make a journal of contemporary history. Many eminent persons appear to set considerable value on her opinions, judging from the questions they ask of her, and the urgency with which they press for an answer.

During the South African War, representatives of all ranks at the front kept her informed of all that was going on, batches of letters reaching her from “fighting men” who were personally utter strangers to her, and whose names she had never heard. The gallant Lord Dundonald, who has long been a friend of hers, found time to write her one of the first letters that left his pen after he entered Ladysmith. And this kind of general confidence in her friendship runs all along the line. No one who has known her once seems inclined to forget her, while those who have really read her books become her friends without any personal knowledge of her.

At Stratford this celebrated novelist lives a very quiet life. Of course she cannot escape the attentions of the curious, for Fame has its penalties; the Stratford cabmen, taking visitors round the old town, often pull up opposite Mason Croft to allow