The chief
secret of her success as a novelist (setting aside her great genius) was
the great care and time she bestowed on the formation of each novel--an
interval of six years occurring between each, the result being
delineations of character that are unique.
Unfortunately there is little to relate regarding her childhood, that
most interesting period of human existence in the lives of (and which is
generally distinguished by some uncommon traits of character) people of
genius--save that she had for a school companion and playfellow the late
Lord Brougham, the distinguished statesman; she was remarkable also for
her power of mimicry. An amusing anecdote of this rather dangerous gift
is the following: Her brothers and sisters returned home from a ball,
very hungry, and entered her room, where they supposed she lay asleep,
and, while discussing the events of the evening and the repast they had
procured by stealth (unknown to their father), they were suddenly put to
flight by the sounds and voice, as they thought, of their dreaded parent
ascending the stairs, and in their confusion and exit from the room
overturned chairs and tables, much to the amusement of little Susan,
who, no doubt, enjoyed the fright and commotion she had caused, and who
mimicked under the cover of the bedclothes the accents of her
redoubtable parent--a fit punishment, as she thought, for their ruthless
invasion of her chamber, and their not offering her a share of their
supper.
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