Notable Women Authors of the Day Part 9

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 pa.s.sed 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 Ba.s.sieti, 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 princ.i.p.al 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 ta.s.sels. 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 gla.s.s 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 gra.s.ses 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 mediaeval deities painted on gla.s.s, 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 h.o.a.r-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 pa.s.sant_ pause to examine a splendid old Italian ca.s.sone 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 pa.s.sage 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; "Gra.s.shopper," 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 antic.i.p.ation 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Jessie Fothergill]

JESSIE FOTHERGILL.[1]

[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 pa.s.sed 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 princ.i.p.al objects of interest to be seen. Having an hour to spare, there is time to make a _detour_, 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, pa.s.sing on the left Owens College, the princ.i.p.al branch of the Victoria University, the cab pulls up at Miss Fothergill's door.

It is a quiet street lying off Oxford-street, one of the main thoroughfares of Manchester; and the house, one of a modest little row, is small and ordinary. The rooms are larger than might have been expected from its exterior, notably Miss Fothergill's own "den," as she calls the place where she spends nearly all her time. It is upstairs, and has two windows facing south; between them stands a large writing table, from which the author rises to welcome you. It is literally covered with papers and ma.n.u.scripts. "You think it looks extremely untidy," she says with a bright smile, after the first greetings are over. "It is not untidy for me, because I can put my hand on everything that I want. I am much cramped for s.p.a.ce, too, in which to arrange my books as I would have them. I have a great many more than these, and they are scattered about in different other rooms in the house, which is only my temporary home, and everything is in disorder now, as I am on the eve of departure for sunnier climes."

The furniture is arranged with the greatest simplicity, but it is all very comfortable; there are several easy chairs, a good resting couch, and plenty of tables, heaped up with the books, papers, and magazines of her daily reading. Over the fireplace is a large and very good autotype of Leonardo da Vinci's "Monna Lisa," with her mysterious smile and exquisite hands. There are likewise many photographs of Rome, and the art treasures of Rome. On another wall are two of Melozzo da Forti's angels, after those in the Sagrestia dei Canonici at St. Peter's, Rome, and a drawing of Watts' "Love and Death," made by a friend.

"It is all extremely simple and rather shabby," Miss Fothergill remarks placidly, "but it suits me. I rarely enter the downstair rooms except at the stated hour for meals, and, though I detest the dirt and gloom of Manchester, and am always ill in this climate, yet for luxury I do not care. Sumptuous rooms, gorgeous furniture, and an acc.u.mulation of 'the pride of life' and 'the l.u.s.t of the eye' would simply oppress me, and make me feel very uncomfortable."

It is only fair to remark that on this occasion Manchester has put on a bright and smiling appearance. Though the fogs and rain can be as persistent as they are in London, the latter indeed much more frequent, the sun to-day shines brilliantly over the great city, and "dirt and gloom" are conspicuous by their absence.

In person the author is moderately tall and slight in figure. She is pale and delicate-looking, with dark brown curly hair brushed back from her forehead, and fine grey eyes, which have a sparkle of mirth in them, and indicate a keen sense of humour. "I have a keen sense of fun," she replies in answer to your remark, "and see the ridiculous side of things, if they have one. It is a blessed a.s.sistance in wending one's way through life. My mother and all her family possessed it, and we inherit it from her." She wears a soft black dress, trimmed with lace and jet embroidery, and she is so youthful in her appearance that she looks like a mere girl.

Jessie Fothergill was born at Cheetham Hall, Manchester, and is of mixed Lancashire and Yorkshire descent. Her father came of an old Yorkshire yeoman and Quaker family, whose original home--still standing--was a lonely house called Tarn House, in a lonely dale--Ravenstonedale, Westmoreland. From there, in 1668, the family, having joined the Society of Friends, removed to a farmhouse, which some member of it built for himself in Wensleydale, Yorkshire, a district which until lately has been quite remote and little known, but which is now beginning to be sadly spoiled by the number of visitors from afar, who have found it out, and who are corrupting the primitive simplicity of the inhabitants of the dale. This old-world farmstead was called Carr End. It is still in existence, but has pa.s.sed out of the possession of its former owners.

"My father spent his childhood there," says Miss Fothergill, "and used to keep us entranced, as children, living in a stiff Manchester suburb, with accounts of the things to be seen and done there--of the wild moors, the running waterfalls, the little lake of Semirwater hard by filled with fish, haunted by birds to us unknown, and bordered by gra.s.s and flowers, pleasant woods and rough boulders. I never saw it till I was a grown woman, and, standing in the old-fashioned garden with the remembrance of my dead father in my heart, I formed the intention of making it the scene of a story, and did so." But ere she has finished speaking you recognize the whole description in the volume of "Kith and Kin" which you had been reading in the train.

Miss Fothergill's father spent his early manhood in Rochdale, learning the ins and outs of the cotton trade, the great Lancashire industry, settling with a friend as his partner in business in Manchester. He was a Quaker, and on marrying her mother, who was a member of the Church of England, he was turned out of the Society of Friends for choosing a wife outside the pale of that body. His Nonconformist blood is strong in all his children, and not one of them now belongs to the Established Church.

Mrs. Fothergill was the daughter of a medical man at Burnley, in North-East Lancashire, another busy, grimy, manufacturing town.

"I, however," says your young hostess, "knew very little of these northern towns, or the characteristics of their people, the love of which afterwards became part of my life, for, though my father's business was in Manchester, our home was at Bowdon, a popular suburb some eight or ten miles on the Cheshire side of the great city, and as utterly different from its northern outskirts and surroundings as if it belonged to another world."

Misfortune soon brought the young girl in contact with other scenes.

When she was a mere child at school, and all her brothers and sisters very young, her father died. Much reduced in circ.u.mstances, the family went to live (because it appeared best, most suitable, and convenient) at an out-of-the-way house appertaining to a cotton mill, in an out-of-the-way part of Lancashire, in which her father and his partner had had a business interest.

"There must have been something of the artist," continues Jessie Fothergill, "and something also of the vagabond in me, for I quite well remember going home to this place for the first Christmas holidays after my father's death and being enchanted and delighted--despite the sorrow that overshadowed us--with the rough roads, the wild sweeping moors and fells, the dark stone walls, the strange, uncouth people, the out-of-the-worldness of it all. And the better I knew it the more I loved it, in its winter bleakness and its tempered but delightful summer warmth. I loved its gloom, its grey skies and green fields, the energy and the desperate earnestness of the people, who lived and worked there.

I photographed this place minutely under the name of Homerton in a novel called 'Healey.' Here I pa.s.sed a good many years after that turning-point in a 'young lady's' career--leaving school. Alas! there was little of the 'young lady' about me. I hated company, except exactly that in which I felt myself at home. I loved books, and read all that I could get hold of, and have had many a rebuke for 'poring over those books' instead of qualifying myself as a useful member of society.

Almost better, I loved my wild rambles over the moors, along the rough roads, into every nook and corner of what would have been a beautiful vale--the Tadmorden Valley--if man had but left it as G.o.d had made it.

But I liked the life that was around me too, the routine of the great cotton and flannel mills, the odd habits, the queer sayings and doings of the workpeople. It was only when compa.s.sionate friends or relations, wishing to be kind and to introduce me to the world, insisted upon appearing in carriages, presenting me with ball-dresses, and taking me to entertainments that I was unhappy. I wove romances, wrote them down, in an attic at the top of the house, dreamed dreams, and lived, I can conscientiously say, far more intensely in the lives and loves of my imaginary characters, than even in the ambition of some day having name and fame."

Both of Jessie Fothergill's two first books "Healey" and "Aldyth,"

according to her own account "fell flat and dead to the ground." Nothing daunted, however, by their failure, she paused for a while before writing anything more. Soon after their publication, she paid two visits to the Continent as the guest of friends, delighting much in all the new and wonderful things she saw. But the real enjoyment of foreign life came on a subsequent journey, when, with a sister and two young friends, she found herself established in a German boarding-house at Dusseldorf, on the Rhine, utterly without any of the luxurious hotels, drives, dinners, or any correct sight-seeing which she had enjoyed on her former visits, but with a thousand interests brought by the opening of a new life, the wonderful discovery of German music, the actual hearing of all the delightful things she had previously only heard of, which naturally inspired her imagination and fancy. At Dusseldorf she began to write "The First Violin," weaving into the scenes which pa.s.sed every day before her eyes a series of imaginary adventures of imaginary beings. It was written "in spasms," she says--often altered, again completely changed in plot and incident several times, and it was not actually finished for a very long time after it was begun.

During the fifteen months spent at Dusseldorf she took every opportunity of studying the German language and life, and at the expiration of that time she went back to England--"to the house at the end of the world,"

she says, smiling; "and soon after my return I took a secretaryship, my heart in my books, making several efforts to get some enterprising publisher to take 'The First Violin.' I went to the firm who had brought out my two first unlucky efforts, but they kindly and parentally advised me, for the sake of whatever literary reputation I might have obtained, not to publish the novel I submitted to them. Much nettled at this, I replied, somewhat petulantly, that I acknowledged their right to refuse it, but not to advise me in the matter, and I _would_ publish it. Next I took it to another firm who made it a rule never to bring out any novels except those of some promise. If it were possible to grant the premises of my story, the action itself was consistent enough, but it was up in the clouds and (though so elevated) was below their mark. Finally Mr.

Bentley took pity on it, and brought it out in three-volume form, first running it through the pages of _Temple Bar_. Since that time I have not experienced any difficulty in disposing of my wares, though continuous and severe ill-health has been a constant restraint on their rapid production, and has also kept me quiet and obliged me to seek rest and avoid excitement at the expense of many an acquaintance and many a pleasure I should have been glad to enjoy."

On looking back, Jessie Fothergill cannot remember anything which caused her to write beyond the desire to do it. Her first attempts began when she was a mere child. Pa.s.sionately fond of fairy tales, or any other, good, bad, or indifferent, she read them all, literally living in them when doing so. Then at school she used to instigate the other girls to write stories, because she wished to do so herself. She would tell them marvellous romances, which she had either read or invented. Her talent for writing fiction cannot be called hereditary, since the only family literary productions of which she is aware are a volume or two of sermons preached by some Fothergill who was a Friend, a missionary, and a man of note in his time. "Then, long ago," says the author, "there was a celebrated Dr. John Fothergill in London. I came across his name in one of the volumes of Horace Walpole's letters. He not only made a fortune, but wrote books--purely professional ones, I imagine. My father's people were brought up narrowly as regards literature and accomplishments, as was the fashion in his sect in that day, but he himself was an insatiable devourer of novels and poetry, and introduced me to the works of d.i.c.kens and Walter Scott, exacting a promise that I should not read more than three chapters of any given book in one day, a promise which was faithfully kept, but with great agony of mind."

Jessie Fothergill forms her plots as follows: She imagines some given situation, and works round it, as it were, till she gets the story, all the characters except the two or three princ.i.p.al ones coming gradually.

Next she writes them out, first in a rough draft, the end of which often contradicts the beginning, but she knows what she means by that time.

Then it is all copied out and arranged, as she has settled it clearly in her mind. She is quick in composing, but slow in deciding which course the story shall take, as all the people are very real to her, and sometimes unkindly refuse to be disposed of according to her original intentions. "I write much more slowly," says Miss Fothergill, "and much less frequently now that my health is so indifferent. As a child I learnt very quickly, and sometimes forgot equally quickly, but never anything that really interested me. I remember winning one prize only at a very early age, and choosing the most brightly bound of the books from which I had to select. It has always been my great regret that I did not receive a cla.s.sical education. If I had, I would have turned it to some purpose; but when I was a child, music, for which I had absolutely no gift, was drummed into me, and a little French, German and Italian I have learnt for myself since." "The La.s.ses of Leverhouse" was her third book, but "The First Violin" scored her first success. It went through several editions, and was followed by "Probation," "Kith and Kin," "The Wellfields," "Borderland," "Peril," and "From Moor Isles." Most of these pa.s.sed first through _Temple Bar_ before being issued in book form, and each has been warmly welcomed and favourably reviewed. Some have appeared in Indian and Australian journals, and nearly all her works are to be found in the _Tauchnitz_ edition. "A March in the Ranks" is the author's latest book. Besides these, she has written numerous short stories, among them, "Made or Marred," "One of Three," and a great many articles and essays for newspapers and magazines.

Full of interest and incident, carefully and conscientiously worked out, there is one prevailing characteristic running through all Miss Fothergill's novels. She is thoroughly straightforward and honest.

Hating shams of all kinds, she pictures what seem to be things that happen, with due license for arranging the circ.u.mstances and catastrophes artistically and dramatically. "The First Violin" is a book for all time; "Probation," "Kith and Kin," "Peril" and "The Wellfields,"

are decidedly nineteenth century stories, as many of the interesting questions of the day appear in them, and it is evident that the said questions occupied the gifted writer's mind not a little. "I have absolutely no sympathy," she says, "with what is often called realism now, the apotheosis of all that is ugly in man's life, feelings, and career, told in a minute, laborious way, and put forth as if it were a discovery. Life is as full of romance as Italy is full of roses. It is as full of prose as Lancashire is full of factory chimneys. I have always tried to be impartial in my writings, and to let the pendulum swing from good to bad, from bad to good; that has been my aim when I could detach myself enough from my characters." Here Miss Fothergill draws off a seal ring which she long ago had engraved with the motto she chose to guide her through life. "Good fight, good rest," she adds. "It embodies all I have of religious creed. It means a good deal when you come to think of it."

Miss Fothergill is a great reader. She delights especially in Ruskin, Darwin, Georges Sand, and George Eliot's works, which she says have solaced many an hour of pain and illness. In lighter literature she prefers some of Anthony Trollope's novels, and considers Mrs. Gaskell's "Sylvia's Lovers" one of the masterpieces of English fiction, and "Wuthering Heights" as absolutely unique and unapproachable. Herbert Spencer and Freeman are great favourites, whilst in poetry Browning stands first of all in her affections, and next to him, Morris, Goethe, and bits of Walt Whitman. Of her own works she remarks modestly, "It seems to me that I have not much to say of them. What little I have done has been done entirely by my own efforts, una.s.sisted by friends at court, or favour of any kind. It has been a regret that owing to my having never lived in London I have not mixed more with scientific or literary people, and that I only know them through their books."

The author having studied her "Lewis' Topographical Dictionary" to such good purpose, is thoroughly conversant with her own native city, and its doings past and present, she has therefore much interesting information to impart about its ancient history, the sources of its wealth, and the origin of the place, which is so remarkable for the importance of its manufactures and the great extent of its trade.

Manchester may be traced back to a very remote period of antiquity. It was once distinguished as a princ.i.p.al station of the Druid priests, and was for four centuries occupied by the Romans, being amply provided with everything requisite for the subsistence and accommodation of the garrison established in it. It was as long ago as 1352 that the manufacture of "Manchester cottons" was introduced, and the material was in reality a kind of woollen cloth made from the fleece in an unprepared state. In that period Flemish artisans settled in the town, where, finding so many natural advantages, they laid the foundations of the trade and brought the woollen manufacture to a great degree of perfection. Nor is the industrious city without later historical reminiscences. In 1744 Prince Charles Edward visited Manchester, where he was hospitably entertained for several weeks at Ancoat's Hall, the house of Sir Edward Moseley, Bart., returning the following year at the head of an army of 6000 men, when he took up his quarters at the house of Mr. d.i.c.kenson in Market Place. In 1768 Christian, King of Denmark, lodged with his suite at the ancient Bull Inn. Early in the present century the Archdukes John and Lewis of Austria, accompanied by a retinue of scientific men, spent some time in the place, and in 1817 the late Emperor of Russia, then the Grand Duke Nicholas, visited Manchester to inspect the aqueducts and excavations at Worsley, and was escorted all over the princ.i.p.al factories.

But the shades of evening draw on; London must be reached to-night, and having likewise been "hospitably entertained," you bid Jessie Fothergill good-bye, with an earnest hope that under southern skies, and in warmer lat.i.tudes, she may soon regain her lost health and strength.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Mary Hardy]

LADY DUFFUS HARDY.

IZA DUFFUS HARDY.

At the uppermost end of the long Portsdown Road, which stretches from near St. Saviour's Church away up to Carlton Road, and runs almost parallel with Maida Vale, there stands a large and lofty block of flats known as Portsdown Mansions. In one of these, a cosy suite of rooms on the parlour floor, arranged so as to form a complete maisonette, an industrious mother, Lady Duffus Hardy, and her only child, Iza, tread hand in hand along the paths of literature.

Whilst mounting the broad stone steps which lead to the entrance door, and ere pressing the electric bell, a fierce barking is heard within, but it is only the big good-natured black dog "Sam," keeping faithful watch over his mistresses. The hall door opens, and displays a half-bred pointer whose well-groomed, satin-like coat gives evidence of the care and attention lavished upon him. He is a great pet, and is generally known as the "Household Treasure" or "Family Joy." He inspects you, is apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, wags his tail, and solemnly precedes you into the pleasant home-like drawing-room, where he first keeps a furtive eye on you as you glance around, and presently, in the most comical way, brings up his favourite playmate, an equally jet-black cat, to be stroked and petted, and then departs as if to fetch his mistress. It is all very bright and cheerful: a fair-sized, lofty room, the prevailing tints of pale sage green, with heavy damask curtains, which do not, however, exclude the brilliant glow of sunlight streaming in through an unusually broad window, for Lady Duffus Hardy likes plenty of light, and wisely maintains that people, like plants, thrive best in sunshine.