Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches

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. Passionately 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 Dickens 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 principal 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 classical 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 Lasses 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 passed 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 circumstances 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, unassisted 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 principal 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. Dickenson 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 principal 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 latitudes, she may soon regain her lost health and strength.

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.

She certainly justifies her belief. The door opens, and, duly escorted by "Sam," a tall, portly gentlewoman of commanding and dignified presence, with cordial and hearty manner, enters. Her gown of violet velvet harmonizes well with her nearly white hair, which contrasts so favourably with her dark eyebrows and brown eyes. These last have a sparkle of merriment and fun in them, for Lady Hardy is of that pleasant and genial disposition, which loves to look on the best side of people and things, and she is consequently popular with old and young alike. She tells you that she is a Londoner pur et simple; that she was born in Fitzroy Square, when that part of town was in its zenith, and was a favourite locality for great artists, Sir W. Ross, R.A., the celebrated miniature painter, and Sir Charles Eastlake, late President of the Royal Academy, being among their number.

With the exception of a few years spent at Addlestone, where her daughter was born, Lady Hardy has passed all her life in London, residing for many years in the pretty house, standing in the midst of a large and well-wooded garden in St. John's Wood, where she used to give delightful Saturday evening parties, which are still pleasantly remembered by her friends.²

Lady Hardy was an only child. Her father, Mr. T. C. McDowell, died five months before her birth, at the untimely age of twenty-six, when on the threshold of a promising career, and her early-widowed mother, resolving that she should never be sent to school, had her educated entirely at home under her own eye, and only parted with her on her marriage with Mr., afterwards Sir Thomas Duffus Hardy, D.C.L., Deputy Keeper of Her Majesty's Records (first at the Tower and later at the Rolls House), who died in 1879. "Rarely," says Lady Hardy, "has there been a man at once so learned and so good." Whilst wading in the deep fields of historic research, he did not disdain some of the lighter portions of literature; indeed, the prefaces to many of his historical collections were written in such an entertaining and pleasant vein, that they by themselves would make delightful essays in any magazine of the present day. With all his laborious occupation – for which he used to declare the year was so short that he must make it into fourteen months by stealing the balance out of the night – Sir Thomas Duffus Hardy maintained that the busiest people have ever the most leisure, and he always had time to spare to enjoy the society of his friends. It may be truly said of him that seldom did twenty-four hours pass without his showing some act of kindness to one or other of them. This sympathetic and amiable trait of character has caused his name to be remembered with lasting affection and respect, not only by the erudite scholar, but among his personal friends.

Though always fond of writing, Lady Hardy did not actually set to work seriously at story-making until after her marriage. Then, living in an atmosphere of literature, she began to occupy her leisure hours with her pen, and, having taken much trouble to collect her materials, she wrote "Two Catherines" (Macmillan) and "Paul Wynter's Sacrifice," which went well, and was soon translated into French. This success encouraged her to write "Lizzie," "Madge," "Beryl Fortescue," and "A Hero's Work," all of which were published in three volumes by Messrs. Hurst and Blackett. "Daisy Nicholl" was brought out first by Sampson Low and Co., and then in America, where it was received with much favour, and had a large sale. Her latest novel, "A Dangerous Experiment" (Mr. F. V. White), came out in 1888. During the last two or three years Lady Hardy has written many short stories for high-class magazines and Christmas numbers, which are all bright in dialogue and vigorous in design.

Full of indomitable energy, the author has lately turned her attention to journalism, and is writing a series of articles on social subjects, "which interest me so deeply," she says, laughing, "that I sometimes think of leaving novel-making entirely to Iza." Two of these papers recall themselves particularly to mind at the moment as possessing singular merit – one called "The Morality of Mercy" and the other "Free Pardon." The former was quoted and much complimented in Mr. Donald Nichol's book, "Man's Revenge," an interesting work on the reform of administration of the criminal law, a subject in which Lady Hardy and her daughter take a keen interest.

At this juncture Miss Iza Duffus Hardy comes into the room. She is dressed in a flowered "Liberty" silk tea-gown, with black facings. She bears a striking likeness to her late distinguished father. She, too, is tall, but slight and fragile-looking, pale in complexion, with soft hazel eyes, and brown hair worn in coils round her head. Whilst she does the honours of the tea-tray, you have leisure to look around. Lady Hardy's Chippendale writing-table stands in the window, and her ink-stand is a beautiful bronze model of Titian's own, and was sent to her from Venice. There is a carved Venetian bracket on each side of the fireplace; on one stands some fancy glass work, and on the other a lovely Cyprus vase, a perfect replica of the third century model. The richly-carved jar, flanked on either side by terra-cotta statuettes, is handsome in itself and is treasured because it was a gift from the late Mr. S. C. Hall, who, together with his wife, was an intimate and valued friend of your hostesses. Yonder, on a cabinet, is a large bust of Clytie, also in terra-cotta. Amongst the pictures are, notably, a little gem in oils by Ernest Parton, and a fine water-colour drawing of Durham by Mr. W. H. Brewer. The bookcase is filled with autograph copies by many of their friends, principally Julian Hawthorne, the late Mr. Hepworth Dixon, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, Mr. P. B. Marston, and Mr. Cordy Jeaffreson. It also contains a goodly collection of Lady and Miss Hardy's favourite poets which are evidently often used. There are volumes of Rossetti, Browning, Morris, Swinburne, and some by Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet, son of Dr. Westland Marston. Over the couch is spread a large patchwork coverlet, which was made and embroidered by Miss Hardy, who is as much at home with the needle as with the pen.

A year after their bereavement, the mother and daughter having long entertained a desire to visit America, determined to make a trip across the Atlantic in 1880. After passing several pleasant weeks in Canada, enjoying delightful glimpses of the social life in Ottawa and Toronto, they visited Niagara Falls, stayed awhile in New York, and then travelled over the Rocky Mountains to San Francisco, "where," says Miss Hardy, "we spent a thoroughly pleasant winter, and received so much genuine kindness and hospitality that it has endeared the name of the country to us ever since," and she goes on to tell you that, amongst many acts of courtesy shown to them – the courtesy which is so freely displayed to women travelling alone in America – there was one from a fellow-traveller, who did not even know their name, until by chance it transpired, when the discovery was made that he had been intimately acquainted in his youth with Sir Thomas Hardy, who had given him his first start in life forty years before, and of whose letters he possessed a large packet. On their return journey they visited Boston, where they made the acquaintance of Oliver Wendell Holmes, and spent a delightful day with the poet Longfellow at his country residence at Nahant.

In the following spring Lady and Miss Duffus Hardy returned home, but a year later the restless spirit of travel again took hold of them, and they decided to make a second tour in America, this time embracing the Southern States, and visiting the chief cities of Virginia, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, on their way to New Orleans, where they met General Beauregard, the renowned Confederate leader, whose thrilling reminiscences of the great struggle of 1863-5 Miss Hardy says they can "never forget, any more than they can forget his unfailing kindness and attention." The experiences of all these expeditions were embodied by Lady Hardy in her books "Through Cities and Prairie Lands," and "Down South," both of which were successful and well received.

Inheriting talent from both parents, and reared among literary surroundings, Iza Duffus Hardy naturally turned to writing at a very early age. Before she was fifteen she had planned and begun a novel. Always of a retiring and studious nature, she describes her lessons as having been no trouble to her, and her greatest punishment would have been to deprive her of them. Being an only and delicate child, her parents did not like her to be much away from home, so she was only sent to school for about two years, receiving all the rest of her education at home. "But I think," says Miss Hardy, "that I learned more from my father than from all my teachers put together."

Her choice of reading was carefully guided, and an early determination was made that before all things she would be thorough and conscientious in her work.

Her two first novels, "Not Easily Jealous" and "Glencairn," were followed in rapid succession by "A Broken Faith," "Only a Love Story," and "Love, Honour, and Obey." These two last were originally brought out by Hurst and Blackett, but have been since published by Mr. F. V. White in a single volume. Then came a short rest, after which the young author wrote "The Girl He Did Not Marry," of which Messrs. Hutchinson are about to produce a new edition in their "Popular Series." Then the first journey to San Francisco gave Miss Hardy fresh ground to break, and suggested the leading ideas of the incidents and graphic description of the life in the beautiful Californian valleys, so charmingly depicted in "Hearts and Diamonds" and "The Love that He Passed By" (F. V. White).

"The nucleus of this plot," says Iza Duffus Hardy, "was a story told to me by a fellow-passenger on the cars, who had been governor of the gaol at the time of the attack by the Vigilantes. I connected that with certain incidents in a celebrated murder trial which was going on about that time, and built up all the rest of the story around those scenes."

"Love in Idleness" is a picture drawn from the life, of a winter spent among the orange groves of South Florida, a happy and peaceful time of which Lady Hardy and her daughter speak most enthusiastically, and declare to have been quite idyllic, the days gliding away in dream-like fashion, boating on the lakes, driving through the open woods of the rolling pine lands, and lounging on the piazzas, enjoying the exquisite effects of the morning sunshine, the sunset hazes, or the glorious tropical moonlight. Besides these books, Iza Duffus Hardy has also embodied her American experiences in two interesting volumes, "Oranges and Alligators" (Ward and Downey) and "Between Two Oceans." The former in particular made such a decided hit that the first edition was exhausted in two or three weeks. This work, widely noticed and quoted, was strongly recommended by many papers to the attention of parents about to send their sons abroad, as giving a fair and true picture, showing both sides of life in Florida.

Asking Miss Hardy for a peep at her study, she leads the way to a comfortable little room at the back of the house, which she calls her "cabin." Here she works from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. daily, though she confesses to taking occasionally an extra hour or two late in the afternoon, and, the conversation turning on plots, she tells you how she constructs her own. "I always," she observes, "have the story completely planned out before I begin to write it. I often alter details as I go on, but never depart from the main lines. My usual way of making a plot is to build up on and around the principal situation. I get the picture of the strongest scene – the crisis of the story – well into my mind. I see that this situation necessitates a certain group of characters standing in given situations towards each other. Then I let these characters speak for themselves in my mind, and if they do not individualize themselves, I never feel that I can portray them satisfactorily. Having got the characters formed, and the foundation of the story laid, I build up the superstructure just as an artist would first get in the outline of his central group in the foreground, and then sketch out the background and the details."

Miss Hardy's later work, "A New Othello," ran first as a serial through London Society, and was afterwards published by Mr. F. V. White in three volumes. It deals largely with hypnotism, and not only to those readers who are interested in this subject, but also to the genuine fiction-lover, it is evident that she has handled the matter in a masterly and skilful style, and has put excellent work into it. Before beginning this book she fully read up the details of hypnotism, studying all the accounts of Dr. Charcot's experiments, whilst Dr. Morton, of New York, personally related to her the interesting episodes from his own experience, which are so ably worked into the story. The author is also an occasional contributor of a biographical article, or a fugitive poem, or a short sketch, to various magazines, and she has just finished another book, called "Woman's Loyalty," now running through the pages of Belgravia, which she says has been somewhat delayed, owing to a sharp attack of inflammation of the eyes, from which she has now happily recovered.

And so the busy days glide on, in peaceful contentment; not that these interesting, amiable gentlewomen shut themselves from society. On the contrary, their receptions are crowded with friends well known in the world of fashion, of literature, and of art. Work alternates with many social pleasures and amusements. Both being worshippers of music and the drama, concerts and theatres are an endless source of enjoyment to them. Perhaps one secret of their popularity may lie in the fact that they always have a good word to say of everyone, and it is well known to their many friends that they may rely as confidently upon their loyalty as upon their sympathy.

Over the well-filled bookstand in the dining-room hangs the picture of Lady Duffus Hardy, taken in her early married life. Except that the figure is slender and the hair dark, the likeness is still excellent. On one side of this painting there is a large-sized engraving of a portrait of Admiral Sir Thomas Hardy, of the Blue Squadron, painted in 1714, and on the other is a portrait of the late Lord Romilly, whose memory is treasured by your hostess as that of a kind and valued friend. The cuckoo clock opposite used to hang in Philip Bourke Marston's study, and was bequeathed to Miss Hardy, together with some other souvenirs, in memory of their life-long friendship.

A photograph of Mr. Henry Irving occupies a prominent place, and leads Lady Hardy to speak of the theatre. "I am very fond of the drama," she remarks, "and though I can thoroughly enjoy a good melodrama once in a way, yet I prefer plays of a more serious kind. I am a great admirer of Mr. Irving. Few actors, in my opinion, excel as he does both in tragedy and comedy. I think that the most intellectual treat I ever had was in witnessing the performances of Othello when Henry Irving and Edwin Booth alternated the characters of Iago and Othello. Irving's Iago struck me as a subtle and masterly study. Salvini, too, realised most thoroughly my conception of Othello. He is indeed the ideal Moor of Venice. In New York we used to enjoy immensely the classic plays which are too seldom seen in London, such as Coriolanus, Julius Cæsar, and Virginius."

A visit to the theatre is in contemplation this evening; so, having been beguiled into making an unusually long but most enjoyable visit, you take leave of Lady and Miss Duffus Hardy, with sympathetic admiration for the happy home life in which daily work is sweetened by harmony and affection. As Miss Hardy quoted the noble utterance, "Justice is the bed rock of all the virtues," you cannot help feeling that here are two women who at least endeavour to act up to their ideal.