Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches

In this way the whole of "Nellie's Memories" was told verbally, when still in her teens, and was only written down seven years afterwards. "My mother was a strict disciplinarian and was very clever and practical," she continues. "As a girl I was singularly dreamy, and spent all my leisure time in reading and writing poetry; feeling the impossibility of combining my favourite pursuits with a useful, domestic life, and discouraged by my failures in this respect, I made a deliberate and, as it afterwards proved, a fruitless attempt to quench the longing to write, while at the same time I endeavoured to be more like other girls, but this unnatural repression of a strong instinct could not last, and after some years I gave it up. I am not aware that my mother knew of this strange conflict, but she was the first to rejoice at my literary success. My literary taste is not inherited, except in one solitary case, my father's cousin, Christopher Riethmüller, author of "Teuton," "Legends of the Early Church," "The Adventures of Neville Brooke," and "Aldersleigh."

Later on the family moved to South Hampstead, where Rosa Carey's schooldays began, and it was whilst at school that she formed an enthusiastic friendship with Mathilde Blind, afterwards the clever translator of Marie Bashkirtseff's Journal, and author of "The Descent of Man," and other works. This friendship, which was a source of great interest to both girls, was only interrupted by a divergence of their religious opinions. Mathilde Blind was brought up in the most advanced school of modern freethought, but Rosa Carey, adhering to the simple faith of her childhood, could not follow her there, and the friends drifted apart, sorrowfully, but with warm affection on each side.

The next change in her life was the death of her father, after which terrible bereavement the widowed mother and three daughters lived together, but the gradual breaking-up of the once large family had set in. After their mother's death, the youngest daughter's convictions led her to embrace a conventual life, and she entered the Anglican Sisterhood of St. Thomas of Canterbury. The death of their mother occurred on the same day which three years before had witnessed their father's end. After this sad event Miss Rosa Carey says her real vocation in life seemed to spring up, and she and her remaining home sister went to Croydon to superintend their widowed brother's household. Three years later the circle was again narrowed. Her sister married the Rev. Canon Simpson, vicar of Kirkby Stephen, Westmoreland, on the Valley of the Eden, a most lovely spot, where the author for eleven years regularly paid an annual visit, and where she laid the scenes depicted in vivid and eloquent words in her novel "Heriot's Choice." Rising, she points out four pictures, reminiscences of Westmoreland, which hang over her writing-table. One is a view of great beauty, a second the exterior of the church, a third is the handsome interior, which looks more like a cathedral with its massive pillars and groined roof, and the fourth represents the vicarage. Her brother's death soon left the orphan nieces and nephew to her sole care. "The charge somewhat tied my hands," said Miss Carey, "and prevented the pursuing of my literary labours as fully as I could have otherwise done. Interrupted by cares of house and family, the writing was but fitfully carried on. Six years after, however, circumstances tended to break up that home. Three of my charges are married, and one of my nephews is a master at Uppingham. These six years have been my first leisure for real work."

The launching of "Nellie's Memories" threatened at first to cause the young writer some disappointment. Quite unacquainted with any publishers, and without any previous introductions, she took the MSS. to Mr. Tinsley, who at first declined to read it. Some months later she consulted Mrs. Westerton, of Westerton's Library, who good-naturedly undertook to induce him to do so. "I am glad to name her," says Miss Carey. "I shall always remember her with gratitude, for, on hearing that the reader's opinion was highly favourable, she hurriedly drove from some wedding festivity to bring me the good news. I can even recall to mind the dress that she wore on the occasion."

Not to many girl-authors is it given that her first novel shall bring her name and fame, but this simple, domestic story of English home-life speedily became a great favourite. Though free from any mystery or dramatic incidents, the individuality of the characters, the pure wholesome tone, and the interest which is kept up to the end, caused this charming story to be widely known and to be re-issued in many editions up to the present date. The next venture was "Wee Wifie," which Miss Carey pronounces to have been a failure; but as that work has been quite lately demanded by the public, it is possible that she may have taken too modest a view of its merits. On being applied to for permission to bring it out again, she at first refused, thinking that it would not add to her literary reputation; but subsequently, however, she rewrote and lengthened it, though without altering the plot, and it has passed into a new edition.

Her next five novels – entitled respectively "Barbara Heathcote's Trial," "Robert Ord's Atonement," "Wooed and Married," "Heriot's Choice," and "Queenie's Whim" – came out at intervals of two years between each other, and were followed by "Mary St. John." Then came a delightful book called "Not Like Other Girls," which was a great success. This is a spirited and amusing story of a widowed mother and her three plucky girls, who, in the days of their prosperity, were sensibly brought up to make their own frocks, and who, when plunged into poverty, turned this excellent talent to such good account that they set up in business as dressmakers, being employed alike by the squiress at the Hall and by the village butcher's wife, and there is as much of quiet humour described in their interview with this worthy dame, and their attempts to tone down her somewhat florid taste, as there is in the discussions and opinions of the neighbours and friends of the family about the venture of these wise and practical girls. Since Miss Carey came to Putney she has brought out "Lover or Friend," "Only the Governess," "The Search for Basil Lyndhurst," and "Sir Godfrey's Grand-daughters." She is also on the staff of the Girl's Own Paper, and, whenever she has time, sends short stories, which run as serials for six months in that journal before being issued in single volume form. Four of these tales have already appeared.

It is quite obvious to the readers of Miss Carey's works that she is fond of young people – she has, indeed, at the present time a regularly established class for young girls and servants over fifteen years of age, which had already been formed in connection with the Fulham Sunday School, in which she takes a great interest – and that the distinctive characteristic throughout all her books is a tendency to elevate to lofty aspirations, to noble ideas, and to purity of thought. With great descriptive power, considerable and often quiet fun, there is a delicacy and tenderness, a knowledge and strength of purpose, combined with so much fertility of resource and originality that the interest never flags, and the sensation, on putting down any of her works, is that of having dwelt in a thoroughly healthy atmosphere. "Heriot's Choice" was originally written for Miss Charlotte Yonge, and was brought out as a serial in the Monthly Packet before being issued in three-volume form, but all Rosa Nouchette Carey's books are published by Messrs. Bentley.

"My ambition has ever been," says the gentle author, "to try to do good and not harm by my works, and to write books which any mother can give a girl to read. I do not exactly form plots, I think of one character and circle round that. Of course, I like to meditate well on my characters before beginning to write, and I live so entirely in and with them when writing that I feel restless, and experience a sense of loss and blank when a book is finished, and I have to wait until another grows in my mind. I have sometimes rather regretted a tone of sadness running through some of my earlier stories, but they were tinged with many years of sorrow. Now I can write more cheerfully. Like many authors, I only work from breakfast to luncheon, sometimes at the table, more often with my blotting-pad on my knee before the fire, and I cannot do without plenty of air and exercise, and often walk round Putney Heath. More than twenty years ago I was introduced to Mrs. Henry Wood, who used often to come down to the old Jacobin House, of which I spoke just now. Our acquaintance ripened into an intimacy which only ended with her life. She was very quiet, interesting, and unlike anyone else, but no one ever filled the niche left by her death. Some of my favourite books are 'Amiel's Journal,' Currer Bell's works, George Eliot's, and biographies; also psychological works, the study of mind and character, whilst in poetry I prefer Jean Ingelow and Mrs. Browning."

The long-standing friendship with Helen Marion Burnside – the well-known writer of many clever tales for children, booklets, verses, and songs – began when they were in their early womanhood. Eighteen years ago Miss Burnside became an inmate of Miss Carey's house, and ever since they have shared the same home, living in pleasant harmony and affection.

Presently comes an invitation to join the family five o'clock tea-table. Glass doors in the drawing-room lead into the conservatory, whence issues the soft cooing of ring-doves. The pretty marqueterie cabinets disclose a set of Indian carved ivory chessmen and many quaint bits of china, whilst on a sofa, in solitary state, sits a knowing-looking little tame squirrel with a blue ribbon round its neck. After tea, on the arrival of some visitors, you are so lucky as to get a few minutes' private conversation with Miss Burnside, and you learn a few facts concerning your hostess that could never have been gleaned from one of such reticence and modesty as she. "I do not think," says Helen Marion Burnside, "that I have known any author who has to make her writing – the real work of her life – so secondary a matter as has Rosa Carey. She has so consistently lived her religion, so to speak, that family duty and devotion to its many members have always come first. She never hesitates for a moment to give up the most important professional work if she can do anything in the way of nursing or comforting any of them, and she is the one to whom each of the family turns in any crisis of life. Having had so much of this, and rather weak health to struggle against, it is the greatest wonder to me that she has been able to write as many books as she has done, and in so bright a spirit as many are written. Of course, real womanly woman's work is the highest work, but I think few writers put it so entirely above the professional work as she does. I have often been surprised at her surprise when some little incident has brought her public value home to her. Even now she does not in the least realize that she has her place in the literary world as other contemporary authors have. It is really quite singular and amusing to come across such a simple-minded 'celebrity.' I wonder if you found it out for yourself," she adds quaintly.

Certainly no better words could be found to describe the sympathetic, gifted, and lofty-souled Rosa Nouchette Carey.

ADELINE SERGEANT

Despite the proverb that "comparisons are odious," there is a great fascination to those who love to explore the old quarters of London, and to hunt up the records of people who have lived and died there, leaving their mark whether for good or evil, and then to note the difference that a hundred or so of years have made in its buildings and inhabitants. Take old Bloomsbury for instance – by no means an uninteresting stroll – described by Evelyn in 1665 as "a little towne with good aire." Pope alludes to this once fashionable locality thus: —

"In Palace Yard at nine, you'll find me there,
At ten for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury Square."

According to Timbs, in his interesting work on London, this "little towne" was the site of the grand old Domesbury Manor, where the kings of England in ancient days had their stables. Yonder great corner house was built by Isaac Ware, editor of Palladio, originally a chimney-sweep, of whom it was said, that "his skin was so ingrained with soot, that to his dying day he bore the marks of his early calling." By the way, that particular trade would appear to have been extremely lucrative in those days, as it is well known and authenticated that two great squares – not a hundred miles away – were entirely built by one David Porter, "who held the appointment of chimney-sweep to the village of Marylebone."

A few hundred yards further on to the north-west, and you reach the quiet thoroughfare of Chenies Street, which connects Gower Street and Tottenham Court Road, and here, indeed, a transformation has taken place. Where are the solid, but dull, old, grey houses which erstwhile stood on this spot? Within the last few years they have all been swept away, and the street is vastly improved by the imposing block of red-brick mansions which has been erected, and which bears outside a brass plate, inscribed "Ladies' Residential Chambers." A long-felt want is here supplied. In an age when hundreds of women of culture and of position are earning their living, and whose respective occupations require that they should dwell in the metropolis, a necessity has arisen for independent quarters, such as never can be procured in the ordinary lodgings or boarding-house, where, without being burdened with the cares of house-keeping, the maximum of comfort and privacy with the minimum of domestic worry can be obtained. All this is amply provided for within these walls. Touching an electric button without, the door is opened by the porter – the only man in the house – who wears on his breast the Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman, and Sebastopol medals, you enter a spacious hall, which opens on all sides into a number of self-contained flats. In the centre is a vast well staircase running up to the top of the building.

On the present occasion business takes you only to the first floor, where, rounding the great corridor, are separate little vestibules, each containing a complete suite of rooms, and Miss Adeline Sergeant's chambers are reached. They are so exquisitely arranged, and display so much artistic taste and refinement, that a few words must be said in description of them. The outer door is covered inside with a striped Moorish portière, and leads into a little hall faced by the study, and opening into the drawing-room on the right. The blue and white walls, on which hang half-a-dozen pictures, are of conventional floral design, relieved by cream-coloured mouldings, which throw up the rich Oriental draperies of the couch and Japanese screen near the door. The floor is laid down with peacock-blue felt and a few Persian rugs of subdued tints, whilst a white Siberian wolf, mounted on a fine black bearskin forms the rug. The broad bay windows are hung with soft cream-coloured muslin and guipure curtains, peeping out from the folds of oatmeal cloth hangings of the same shade of blue. Three dwarf bookcases are fitted into recesses, and are well filled with all the books necessary to a woman of letters. A clear fire blazes and sparkles in the tiled hearth, and throws out a ruddy glow over the bright brasses. The fireplace is draped with wine-coloured brocaded velvet curtains; the mantelshelf is high, and the long oblong mirror, in plain black narrow frame, is raised just sufficiently to show off the beautiful Oriental china, Benares brass vases, and Indian jars standing thereon. Over it hangs a single plaque, framed in dark oak, copied by Miss F. Robertson, in violet de fer on china, from the original engraving of "Enid, a Saxon Maiden." There are flowers everywhere – pots of lilies of the valley, ferns and palms, alike on the little hexagonal ebonised table in the windows and the small cabinet, whilst cut daffodils and anemones are grouped in vases in other parts of the room. The great Arabian brass salver, with its mystic scrolls and ebonised stand, forms a suitable tea-table alongside the comfortable American rocking-chair. The copper-coloured brocaded silk gown, with a tinge of red, which Adeline Sergeant wears, with leaves of darker and flowers of lighter pattern woven in, is in unison with the prevailing tints by which she is surrounded. A black fur boa is carelessly thrown round her shoulders, she is rather below the middle height, dark grey eyes, with a mischievous twinkle in them, can be discerned behind the pince-nez which she habitually wears, her good colouring betokens a healthy constitution her extremely thick hair, lightly touched with grey, is loosely rolled back from her forehead, she has a merry, bright smile, and laughs with silvery sweetness on being told you had nervously expected, from her pictures, to see a strong-minded, austere-looking woman; but until a sun-portrait can produce rich colouring, earnestness of purpose, combined with an ever-changing, laughing expression, she will appear to those who have only seen her photograph as being somewhat severe and stern.

Adeline Sergeant was born at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire. Her father belonged to an old Lincolnshire family who had lived since the sixteenth century, at least, on the same ground, and had inhabited for many years a long, low, rambling house, of which he used to delight to tell her stories. When yet but a child she went with her parents to Selby, Easingwold, Weston-super-Mare, Worcester, and Rochester, where, when she was nineteen years of age, her father died, and their wanderings practically ended.

"My mother was a quiet, delicate, refined, sensitive woman," says Miss Sergeant, while a look of sadness comes over her face. "She spent most of her spare time in writing, and from her, I suppose, I inherit some of my taste for writing, though it comes from my father's side too, for a cousin of mine is a literary man, and several of my relations dabbled a little in literature. My mother wrote verses and religious stories chiefly; she had a very high ideal of style, and one of my earliest and latest recollections of her is seeing her covering scraps of paper with her peculiarly beautiful handwriting in pencil, and afterwards copying them most carefully in ink at her desk. She had a long illness; she died of consumption, after eight years of confirmed invalidism and gradually wasting away. I remember it now as a remarkable fact that I never knew her to complain or to have anything but the sweetest, brightest smile. Her sense of the ridiculous was acute to the very last, and she was always ready to enjoy a good story. Her appreciation of literature was very great, and it was from her that I learned to enjoy Browning as well as the older masters of verse. After my father's death we removed to the suburbs of London, and my mother died fifteen months later. We were united heart and soul, and her death was the greatest sorrow of my life, especially as I had been much separated from her by school and college life, and had been promised that I should live at home and care for her when my elder sister married, but my mother died four months before the wedding, and that dream – hers as well as mine, I think – was never realized."

Adeline Sergeant began to write at the very youthful age of eight. Her first published verses appeared when she was but thirteen, and a volume of verse when she was sixteen years of age. "It always seems to me," she continues, "that I owe a great deal to the influences of the free country life of my early childhood when we lived at Eastington, near Stonehouse, for two years. I believe that modern teachers would say that I wasted my time, for I went to no school then, but 'did lessons' with my mother in a desultory fashion." Rambling for hours in the fields and lanes by herself, sometimes with a book and sometimes without, the young author used conscientiously to set herself her own tasks; she wrote innumerable stories, had no playfellows, and no children's books, but she had the run of her father's library. Here she read Shakespeare until she knew him by heart; next to Shakespeare her favourite book was Addison's "Spectator"; after these came Byron, Mrs. Hemans, and many earlier poets, Prior, Gay, Dryden, etc. Here, from the age of eleven to fifteen, she also studied theological writers like Chalmers, Butler, and Jeremy Taylor; whilst a set of Encyclopædias, in twenty-two volumes, gave her many happy hours. It is no wonder that Adeline Sergeant declares this to have been one of the most fructifying periods of her life, and that her impressions of landscape, cloud scenery, effects of light, shade, sound, etc., are still coloured by her remembrances of that time.

"I think," she observes, smiling, "that this was better bracing for the mind than the indiscriminate devouring of story-books, which is characteristic of young folks nowadays. But I must also add that at Weston, our next place of residence, I simply gorged myself on novels of all sorts, as I had the command of every circulating library in the place, and no control was ever exercised over my reading."

At sixteen Miss Sergeant went to Laleham, Miss Pipe's well-known school at Clapham; and at eighteen to Queen's College, Harley Street, where she held a scholarship for some time. The death of her sister two years after her marriage left the young girl very much alone in the world. For some years she lived with very dear and kind friends, whose two daughters she had some share in teaching. Having much time free, she went on with her literary work, which had been suspended for a long while after her bereavements, when she had no heart to write anything. After leaving college, Adeline Sergeant devoted herself entirely to study for the Cambridge and other examinations. After taking her First Class Honours Certificate in the women's examination, she gave up her time to teaching, writing, and parochial work of all sorts; she played the organ in church, held Sunday and week-day classes for village children, trained the choir, and so on. A temporary failure in health made a winter in Egypt a real boon to her about that time, and it was on her return that she gave herself up more to literary work.

"I was not at all successful at first," says Miss Sergeant in a cheerful tone of voice. "My first novel has never seen the light to this day. My second was also refused, but has since been re-written and re-issued, under the name of 'Seventy Times Seven.' I wrote little stories for little magazines, and a child's book or two. But I had no success for many years. In 1880 I competed for a prize of £100 offered by the Dundee People's Friend for a story, and gained it, to my great delight. I have kept up my connection with this paper ever since, and am always grateful to the editor for the help he gave me at a critical time. This story was 'Jacobi's Wife.' When I heard the good news I was in Egypt, where I was spending a winter at the invitation of my friends, Professor and Mrs. Sheldon Amos. On my return I wrote 'Beyond Recall,' which embodies my impressions of Egyptian life. I went on writing for the next two years, and doing other work as well, but in 1883 I made up my mind to throw myself entirely into literature."

Miss Sergeant's next step was to write and consult the kindly Dundee editor on this subject, and in return she received a proposition from the proprietors that she should go to live in Dundee and do certain specified literary work for them. She did so, and counts it as one of the most fortunate occurrences of her life, as she made many friends and led a pleasant and healthful life, first at Newport, in Fife, and then in Dundee. Two years later, however, it seemed better to her to return to London, though without severing her connection with Dundee. Since 1887 Adeline Sergeant has lived more or less in London, although she spends a good deal of time at the seaside, in the country, and in Scotland, or in visiting at friends' country houses in different parts of England.

Besides the works already named, Adeline Sergeant has produced several highly interesting novels, notably, "An Open Foe," "No Saint," "Esther Denison," and "Name and Fame" – this last was written in collaboration with A. S. Ewing Lester – "Little Miss Colwyn," "A Life Sentence," "Roy's Repentance," "Under False Pretences." Her later works are "Caspar Brooke's Daughter," "An East London Mystery," and "Sir Anthony." "Esther Denison" and "No Saint" are, perhaps, the author's own favourites, although she frankly says that she thinks that they have not found as much favour with the public as some of her more "sensational" stories, though the critics generally liked them better, and, indeed, compared them with George Eliot and some of Mrs. Oliphant's works. Both these books contain many transcripts from her own personal experiences. "Esther Denison" is, indeed, largely autobiographical. It is evident that Miss Sergeant has put her whole heart in this story. A somewhat caustic wit is pleasantly relieved by the earnest tone which runs through it. Without being a theological novel, the description of the struggles of the high-souled but sympathetic heroine is powerfully and faithfully drawn. Many of these books contain strong dramatic incidents; they are all full of interest, and are characterized by the exceeding good taste and the excellent English in which they are written. They are all popular in America, where they are published by Messrs. Lowell & Son.

"I have sometimes been misunderstood by critics," Miss Sergeant observes, "on account of the absence of any data to my books. Having disposed some years ago of many of the copyrights, I see them issued as if they were freshly written, which is not always the case. A weekly reviewer expressed great surprise at the publication of 'Jacobi's Wife' after 'No Saint.' As a matter of fact it had been written and sold some years earlier. My own works seem to me to fall into two classes: the one, of incident, when I simply try to tell an interesting story – a perfectly legitimate aim in art, I believe – and the other, of character, with the minimum of story. I like to analyze a character 'to death,' so to speak, and I look on my stories of this sort as the best I have written."

Of one of Adeline Sergeant's late novels, "An East London Mystery," no single word of the plot shall be hinted at, nor shall the intending reader's interest be discounted beforehand. Suffice it to say that from the first page to the last it is full of deeply-absorbing matter. Each character is drawn with a masterly touch, and is admirably sustained throughout; it may be safely predicted that when taken up it will scarcely be laid down until the last leaf be turned.

A peculiar interest is attached to a book which has lately come prominently before the public, and which has created much sensation, called "The Story of a Penitent Soul" (Bentley & Son), to which Adeline Sergeant's name was not affixed, but of which she now acknowledges herself to be the author. It deals with a sad subject handled in a powerful but most delicate manner, and is quite a new departure from her former works. For some time the critics, whilst mostly praising it warmly and at once recognizing that it was written by no ''prentice hand,' were somewhat puzzled as to the authorship. Gradually the secret leaked out, and Miss Sergeant relates in a few eloquent words her reasons for the concealment of her identity with the story. "Every now and then," she says, "I feel the necessity of escaping from the trammels imposed by publishers, editors, and the supposed taste of the public. I want to say my own say, to express what I really mean and feel, to deliver my soul. Then I like to go away 'into the wilderness' and write for myself, not for the public, without caring whether anybody reads and understands what I write, or whether it is published or not. That is how and why I wrote 'The Story of a Penitent Soul.' It was written because it had to be written; it wrote itself, so to speak. Work done in this way is the only work that seems worth doing and is in itself a joy, but it cannot be done at will, or every day."

Novel-making, however, does not absorb all this industrious author's time. She is an ardent novel reader in three languages. Her favourite writers in English are Thackeray, George Eliot, and Meredith. As she reads French authors more for style than for subject she is not afraid to avow that she greatly admires Daudet, Pierre Loti, Flaubert, and Georges Sand; the Russian novelists Tolstoi, Dostorievski, and Tourguénieff are also much to her liking, and she reads American modern writers such as Howell, Henry James, and Egbert Craddock, with pleasure. "But I read other things besides novels," she says. "Even as a child I was always of a metaphysical turn, and my delight in books of that sort is so great that I hardly dare touch them when I am trying to write fiction. They fascinate and paralyse me. Economics and some kinds of theological speculation are also a favourite study."

Her love for economics and the discussion of social problems has led Adeline Sergeant to join the Fabian Society, in which she takes great interest. Her religious tendencies are all in the direction of what is called "Broad Church," and she is an ardent believer in Women's Suffrage. She is a member of the committee of the Somerville Club for women, and is on two sub-committees. She is the co-secretary for the Recreative Evening Schools Association in St. Pancras District, and an Evening School Manager for north and south St. Pancras. "I must say that I have a great deal too much to do," she adds, "and I cannot get through half as much business as I ought. I have a rather large circle of friends, and I find it difficult to keep up with my social duties. I generally write all the morning, but I like to write and can write all day. At St. Andrews, for instance, where I have just spent two months, I wrote and read for quite nine or ten hours every day. One cannot do that in London." As a recreation Miss Sergeant prefers music to any other, and, indeed, used to play a good deal once, but has now no time to keep up any pretence at technique. The same reason has caused her to discard her old pastime of pen-and-ink drawing, of which she is passionately fond, but which she found to be rather too trying to the eyes to be pursued with advantage. "I have done some elaborate embroidery in my time," she says, "but now I never use my needle for amusement; only for necessity. Any sort of philanthropic work that I undertake is purely secular. I love foreign travel, though I have not gone abroad very lately. I have been in Holland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, and France, besides in Egypt. Switzerland I reserve for a future occasion. It may interest you to hear my unknown American readers every now and then send me kind letters, with requests for autographs or photographs, and that this last likeness, which misled you to think me 'severe and stern,' was taken chiefly in order to be reproduced for the benefit of American as well as English readers. I wonder if it will have the same effect on them," she adds, laughing.

The little study beyond must be visited, and here are Miss Adeline Sergeant's secretaire and library. It contains a fairly good collection of English authors, and much French literature; but she has moved about so constantly from place to place, that she has been unable to collect as many books as she would have liked. The great broad couch by the window is a comfortable lounge for a weary writer, and the rest of the furniture is all snug and suitable. Miss Sergeant imparts some interesting information about this unique establishment, which was founded for gentlewomen only, of different occupations. The number of rooms in each flat varies from two to four or five, according to requirements. The whole concern is conducted entirely upon the principles of a gentleman's club, with the great advantage that the tenants can be as much at home and enjoy as absolute a privacy as they desire. The cuisine and all domestic details are under the management of an experienced housekeeper. Breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners are served in the great club-room below during stated hours, each allowing a good margin for the convenience of the members, whilst an adjoining room is reserved for their private parties. This is a gala day at the "Ladies' Residential Chambers." There is a large afternoon "At Home," which is an annual entertainment. Each lady has sent cards to her friends and the guests are beginning to flock in. The coloured-tiled corridors and window-ledges are gaily decorated with palms, ferns, and flowers. A hospitable custom prevails. Wherever a hall-door is found open it is a signal that visitors to the other residents are permitted to enter and look round the rooms. Should any lady be unable to receive she "sports her oak." Ample refreshments are provided in the club-room, and as many doors are invitingly thrown open, you take advantage of the implied permission, and are kindly received by each hostess. There are members of many professions within these walls. Two sets of chambers are occupied by practising medical women, a third by a busy journalist, a fourth by an artist, a fifth by a young musician, a sixth by a fair and gentle girl, who modestly tells you that she is a high-school mistress, and, with kindling eyes, adds, "there is a glorious independence in earning one's own bread." There is a happy camaraderie prevailing in this big hive of scholarly, industrious women. Such things as quarrels or petty jealousies are unknown, and when it is stated that these mansions have only been built for four years, and that all the twenty-two sets of chambers which they contain are inhabited, it will be readily understood how much the comfort and freedom of this cheerful club life is appreciated. But the three or four hundred guests are dispersing, and you take leave of Miss Adeline Sergeant, with a sense of gratitude for an entirely novel and interesting entertainment.

MRS. EDWARD KENNARD

There is great wailing and lamentation at Market Harboro'. King Frost holds the ground in an iron grip. Fresh snow falling almost daily spreads yet another and another layer, and all is encrusted hard and fast, but far around it sparkles like a sea of diamonds, emitting the colours of a rainbow in the radiant sunshine. Horses are eating their heads off and are ready to jump out of their skins; hounds are getting fat and lazy; the majority of the sportsmen have long ago taken themselves off to London, Monte Carlo, and elsewhere, and the few who remain spend their days in skating, toboganning, and curling.

While the barometer averages nightly ten to twenty degrees of frost, perhaps the most favourable moment has arrived to find one's hunting friends freed from the daily labour they so cheerfully undergo for the sake of sport. As in ordinary weather a protracted hunt with Mr. Fernie's hounds, or a long day with the Pytchley, would at this season have kept Mrs. Edward Kennard to a late hour in the saddle, you gladly seize the opportunity afforded, and accept a kind invitation to visit her at "The Barn." A two-hours' run from St. Pancras to Leicestershire, with a change at Kettering, lands you at Market Harboro' station, where a neat brougham, drawn by a pair of handsome brown horses (with no bearing reins), waits to convey you to Mr. Edward Kennard's hunting box, which stands back between two fields of ridge and furrow in the main road from Kettering to Market Harboro'. A straight avenue, bordered on either side by lime and fir trees, breaks into a circular grass front, where the drive divides, the right road leading to a substantial, comfortable-looking red-brick house, with sloping roof, tall gable over the entrance-hall, and sides picturesquely covered with ivy, whilst the left turns to the stables (that essential part of a sporting establishment), which, with the kitchen gardens and paddocks, are in the rear. In usual circumstances a fine vista of undulating pasture, and extensive views of the happy hunting-fields of Northamptonshire and Leicestershire, can be seen, in which are several historical fox-coverts; but now, in the snow-bound condition of the earth, everything is white, save for the line of dark intersecting hedgerows, and the delicate tracery of leafless trees standing in black silhouette against the sky. As the afternoon advances, a grey haze creeps over the far-famed Harboro' Vale, shrouding alike "bullfinches" and "double-oxers," into which sinks a golden sun behind a bank of crimson and purple clouds.

But the carriage stops. The broad stone steps lead into the entrance hall, where, facing you, stands a black, long-haired, stuffed sloth bear, hugging the sticks and umbrellas, and an oak case, full of English game-birds. Glass doors open into the broad, lofty, central hall, giving outlet to numerous rooms, which are all draped with heavy portières on each side. The first to the right opens, and Mrs. Edward Kennard comes out to bid you welcome to "The Barn," and leads the way into the drawing-room, which is bright with a huge, blazing fire and tall lamps. She is above the middle height, and her slight, well-built figure shows to as much advantage in the neatly-fitting brown homespun costume as it does in her well-cut "Busvine" habit. She has a small head, well set on, with dark hair curling over her brow, and dark eyes which, owing to her being short-sighted, have somewhat of a searching expression as she looks at you, and the kindest of smiles. A woman of peculiar grace, gentleness, and refinement, her pluck and skill which are so prominent in the chase and lead her to delight in all field sports, in no way detract from her womanly characteristics in the home circle and other relations in life.

Mrs. Edward Kennard is the second daughter and fourth child of a well-known public man, Mr. Samuel Laing, late member for the counties of Orkney and Shetland, and formerly Finance Minister of India.

"I believe," says your hostess, as you sit at tea, "that I took to scribbling principally through finding time hang heavy on my hands and seeking occupation. I fancy that any small love of literature which I may possess is hereditary, since my father, who is now chairman of the Brighton Railway, has written several important works, notably, "Modern Science and Modern Thoughts," "Problems of the Future," etc., whilst my grandfather, Mr. S. Laing, was also well known as an author in his day, and wrote a famous book of Norwegian travel, still considered one of the best extant. In the schoolroom (we lived at Hordle, Hants, then) I was regarded as the dunce, and my childish recollections are always embittered by thoughts of scoldings, punishments, and admonitions from our various governesses.

At the age of fifteen the young girl was sent to a private establishment at St. Germains, when, under a different system of tuition, she began to take an interest in her studies, and to work in earnest. Two or three years later she returned to England, and shortly after married Mr. Edward Kennard, Deputy-Lieutenant and Magistrate for the counties of Monmouthshire and Northamptonshire, son of the late Mr. R. W. Kennard, M.P. He, too, has literary as well as sporting tastes, and is the author of "Fishing in Strange Waters" and "Sixty Days in America," besides being a contributor to the Illustrated London News, Graphic, and The Chase. He is also an artist, and every part of the house is decorated with his clever, spirited sketches in oils and water-colours.

Mrs. Edward Kennard's first literary efforts were a series of short stories, which she wrote for her two boys. These were afterwards collected and published in one volume called "Twilight Tales." Subsequently, when the little fellows had to be sent to school, and she describes herself as "having felt lost without them," during a long period of indifferent health, she turned her attention to authorship. Her first novel, "The Right Sort," was produced in 1888, and was followed by "Straight as a Die," "Twilight Tales," and "Killed in the Open." Next came "The Girl in the Brown Habit," "A Real Good Thing," "A Glorious Gallop," "A Crack County," "Our Friends in the Hunting Field," "Matron or Maid," etc., etc. These are all sporting novels, as most of their names indicate, and contain the graphic account of many a stirring and exciting run depicted with the vividness and fidelity born of accurate knowledge of hounds, horses, and huntsmen, and long experience in the field. All these works are very popular at home and in the colonies, and most of them have passed into many editions. "Landing a Prize" is the result of several seasons spent in Norway on the Sandem, Stryn, Etne, Aurland, Gule, Förde, and Aäro rivers. This book relates to quite another kind of sport, for the author who can so successfully negotiate a real Leicestershire flyer – a high blackthorn fence with a ditch on either side of it – with such ease and grace, and has ridden first flight in this county and in Northamptonshire since her marriage, is equally at home in salmon-fishing, and last year, with considerable dexterity and skill, wielded her seventeen-foot rod of split cane to such good purpose that she landed a thirty-six pounder, a feat of which her husband and sons are justly proud; but you must go to Mr. Kennard to get details of his wife's prowess, for she says, modestly, "It is so very difficult to say anything much of oneself. I like hunting, of course, but look upon it purely as an agreeable physical amusement, and not the one business of life, as it is considered in this neighbourhood, a thing to which all other interests must be sacrificed. Marrying very young, it has since been my fate to reside in a hunting county, and therefore I have had few opportunities for gratifying my love for travel and seeing fresh scenes. For the last few years, however, we have spent our summers in Norway, and I have become almost as fond of salmon-fishing as of riding."

The scene of the author's late work is laid in Germany, and in "A Homburg Beauty" she gives a vigorous narrative of a steeplechase which she witnessed in that place. The last two novels she produced are entitled "That Pretty Little Horse-Breaker," and "Wedded to Sport."

Mrs. Edward Kennard is as clever with her needle as is her husband with his paint-brush, and many are the evidences of her capacity in this feminine accomplishment in the room. The curtains, cornices, mantel-cloths, together with several screens and cushions – even the window blinds – are all exquisitely embroidered by her industrious fingers. There are many priceless pieces of very old Japanese bronze, china, and ancient lacquer work scattered about the room. On one table is a perfect model in soapstone of an Indian burying-ground, and above the dado is a narrow terry velvet ledge on which are strewn lovely bits of Japanese ivories and other ornaments. The walls are hung with water-colour paintings of scenes in Egypt, by Mr. Kennard, and the whole room looks cosy and comfortable in the slow of warm firelight and coloured lamp-shades.

An hour or so later you are all sitting at a large round dinner-table, which is artistically decorated with quaint dried sea-weeds and shells of delicate tints and shades, grouped on an arrangement of "Liberty" silks, and the effect is as original as it is pretty. There are only the family party present: your kind, genial hosts and their two sons – Lionel, a handsome young Militia officer reading for a cavalry commission; and Malcolm, a naval cadet, who has just passed out of the Britannia with eight months' sea time. Both are promising youngsters, the pride and joy of their parents, and either can hold his own against the "grown-ups" in the hunting field. The silver bowl yonder is a prize gained by "Rainbow" and "Ransom," two fox-hound puppies walked by Mr. Kennard; and a large painting hanging opposite attracting your attention, Mrs. Kennard explains that it was executed by Bassieti, and was exhibited amongst the Old Masters at Burlington House, and that the original study was purchased out of the Hamilton collection by the National Gallery, where it now hangs. Dinner over, an adjournment to the billiard-room is proposed. The walls are hung with trophies of sport, a forest of stags' horns, including wild fallow, wapiti, red-deer, chamois, and roebuck. Your eye is first caught by the monster salmon, painted on canvas and stretched over the model of the great fish on the spot where Mrs. Kennard landed it, and above it hangs a picture of the scene at Tower Sloholen where the feat was accomplished. The principal painting in this room is of the author on "Rhoda," long since defunct, a celebrated mare by Zouave, who carried her several seasons without a fall. Near this is Lionel when a child, on his first pony, "Judy," who is still alive, and spending a happy old age in the paddock. This pony and the handsome fox-terrier following his mistress round the room, both figure in "Twilight Tales." But old "Skylark" must not be forgotten, and here hangs his portrait, representing his wonderful jump – owner up – over water, a distance of twenty-eight feet from take-off to land. A curious object lies on the side table, a British officer's sword, with crest, monogram, Queen's crown, and V.R. on it, which has been turned into a barbaric weapon, and is encased in a rude leather scabbard with silk tassels. On the mantelpiece stands a great bronze six-armed monster, with open mouth, and on a lighted match being secretly applied behind its back to a tiny gas tube within, you turn round to find a long thin flame issuing therefrom, at which the gentlemen light their cigars. Below this is a border, beautifully embroidered in silks by Mrs. Kennard, representing hounds in full chase after a fox. A pleasant game of billiards finishes the evening.

On the morrow Mr. Kennard suggests a further inspection of other interesting parts of the house, and promises that at noon, when the horses are dressed, his wife shall act as cicerone, and do the honours of the stables. Accordingly, first Mrs. Edward Kennard's summer study is visited. It lies between the dining and drawing rooms, and looks bright and cheerful, with its amply-filled bookcases, comfortable lounging-chairs, and little tables. The writing-table stands in front of the window, from whence there is a fine view, which in summer inspires the author to write some of her happy bits of scenery; but the peculiarity of this room is the extraordinarily large collection of china ranged in tiers round the walls. It is, indeed, a complete dinner service of fifteen dozen plates, designed and painted by Mr. Kennard, and brought out by Mortlock, and is quite unique.

On the other side of the hall is a glass case containing a splendid silver-grey fox, stuffed, and carrying a dead pheasant in its mouth. This was a tame fox, reared from a cub. Just at the foot of the great open staircase is the weighing chair and book recording the weights of all the hunting people in these parts. The broad, lofty staircase walls are laden with an olla podrida of curiosities, notably some barbaric necklaces and armlets studded with uncut gems, and several full-dress suits of Arab and Nubian ladies, made of grasses and strips of leather, which on breezy days might be considered somewhat too scanty to please the British matron. There are fine old paintings here by Albert Bierstadt, Maes, and Van der Helst, and higher up hangs a more modern one of a hunt in the early days of the author's married life, when dogs supplied the place of children. Amongst a museum of stuffed crocodiles, catamarans, a parrot fish from the Dead Sea, sundry Egyptian warlike implements, musical instruments, and mediæval deities painted on glass, there hangs a solitary broken stirrup leather which has a story. It is the one by which the famous horsewoman was dragged at a gallop over a ridge-and-furrow field, breaking her arm in two places, the horse she rode failing to jump a stiff stile out of a wood. This, and another bad fall – when she was lost to sight in a ditch beneath the heavy body of a fifteen-stone weight-carrier – Mr. Kennard declares to be the two worst accidents he ever witnessed in the hunting-field, "but," he adds, "they have in no way shaken her nerve."

There is just time before keeping tryst with your hostess to peep into her second writing room, formerly the nursery, but now devoted to literature and fine art. From the window, which looks out to the south-east, can be seen the rifle range and tobogganing ground. The next is the large photographing room (in which art the whole family are deeply interested), but noticing a negative plate lying buried under two inches of ice in a dish, you prudently and promptly beat a retreat, though not before noticing the lovely effect of the hoar-frost on the deep ruby-coloured windows lighted up by the sun. Noon strikes, and descending the staircase you find your hostess in the hall (both her hands are full of lumps of sugar for her pets), and en passant pause to examine a splendid old Italian cassonè over seven feet long, supported on two animated-looking griffins. This is one of the finest sixteenth century walnutwood carvings, or rather sculptures in high relief, in Europe, and is complete and uninjured.

The long passage at the back of the lower rooms of the great house opens out into a large square red-brick courtyard, with coach-house, forge, and two stables on the right and left, where the good stud-groom Butlin is waiting. This faithful and trusted retainer is greatly valued by his employers. He has been in their service for a great many years, adores his horses, and is as proud of Mrs. Kennard's riding as are her husband and boys. He opens the door on the left, where there are four stalls and two loose boxes, in which stand "Roulette," a fine bay mare; "Bridget," a dun pony who goes in harness, and carries the younger boy to hounds; "Leicester" and "Blackfox," who are both harness horses and hunters. The magnificent black-brown animal yonder is "Quickstep," a gift from Mrs. Kennard's father; she says, "He does not know what it is to refuse or turn his head, and is one of the boldest and freest horses that ever crossed Leicestershire. I rode him twenty-seven times last season, and he never had a filled leg." In the stable on the right you find "Diana," a handsome bay mare with black points, standing 16.1, and "Grayling," both fine bold fencers; "Grasshopper," and "Magic," a bay mare by "Berserker," and a marvellous hunter. Lastly, "Bobbie," by "Forerunner," who is a great pet, and inherits his natural jumping qualities from his dam, Rhoda. Out of this fine collection "Bobbie" and "Quickstep" are Mrs. Kennard's favourite mounts, though she often rides most of the others. But you are particularly enjoined to see old "Skylark," who occupies a summering box in the smaller yard. This grand old hunter, though twenty years old, can still hold his own after hounds, indeed, Butlin observes that "there is not a horse in the country who can jump or gallop against him for a four mile run." Returning by the side of the field, he points out old "Judy," and a promising filly, "Rosie," who come trotting up to their mistress, in anticipation of their daily sugar.

There is a large and merry party of frozen-out fox-hunters at luncheon, after which everyone goes off to the tobogganing ground. Mrs. Edward Kennard is to the fore here too. She seats herself daintily in the little vehicle, and glides down the great hill swiftly and gracefully, though many of the party get an awkward spill, or land ignominiously in a hedge full of twigs. By and by comes the news that a thaw is imminent, which sends up all the spirits of the hunting community delightfully, and great are the preparations and arrangements. If this state of things continue, ere many days have elapsed the brave and fearless writer will once more be in the saddle doing three, and occasionally four, days a week, mounted alternately on her good little "Bobbie" or the equally gallant "Quickstep." Then, although skating and curling may have kept the sportsmen and women, who did not forsake Market Harboro', fairly amused, there will be great jubilation, and once more the delights of the chase will come as a fresh sensation after a stoppage of so many weeks. Before long the shires will again be in their glory, hounds will race over the purified pastures, foxes will run straight and true, in that best of all hunting months February, and it is just possible that the end of the season may yet atone for the disappointments, inaction, and last, but not least, the expense which for so long characterised it, and to the "music of hound and ring of horn" you leave the gentle and clever author.

JESSIE FOTHERGILL.[1 - Since the serial publication of these sketches the death of the gifted writer has taken place.]

With a vivid recollection of the comforts enjoyed on a recent trip to Ireland to visit Mrs. Hungerford, you again trust yourself to the tender mercies of the London and North-Western line with the intention of calling on Miss Jessie Fothergill, author of "The First Violin," etc., in her own home. Starting at 10.10 a.m. from Euston, and having prudently taken another of the young writer's works, "Kith and Kin," to beguile the time during the long journey, you arrive punctually at 2.20 p.m. at the busy, bustling town of Manchester, having found that with the fascinating novel, combined with the smoothly-running and comfortable carriages and a good luncheon basket, four hours have passed like one; so deeply absorbing is the story that you have lost all count of time, and utterly neglected to notice the scenery through which you have been so rapidly carried. Proposing, however, to repair this omission on the return journey, you select a tidy hansom, with a good-looking bay horse and an intelligent-faced Jehu, desiring him to point out the principal objects of interest to be seen. Having an hour to spare, there is time to make a détour, and drive round the exterior of the great Cheetham Hospital, which, with its college and library, are famous relics of old Manchester, and are in the immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral, and in a moment you seem to be transported from the bustle and roar of life into the quiet and peace of the old world cloisters.

Presently, driving past St. Peter's Church, the open door invites a peep at the famous painting of the "Descent from the Cross," by Annibal Carracci, which adorns the altar, and, finally, passing on the left Owens College, the principal branch of the Victoria University, the cab pulls up at Miss Fothergill's door.