"Talent does what it may; Genius, what it must." To no one could the definition apply more appropriately than to the well-known and gifted poetess, Jean Ingelow. She came into the world full-blown; she was a poet in mind from infancy; she was born just as she is now, without improvement, without deterioration. From her babyhood, when she could but just lisp her childish hymns, she was always distressed if the rhyme were not perfect, and as she was too young to substitute another word with the same meaning, she used simply to make a word which was an echo of the first, quite oblivious of the meaning. Every trifling incident, a ray of sunlight, a flower, a singing bird, a lovely view—all inspired her with a theme for expression, and she had a joy in so expressing herself.

Jean Ingelow was born near Boston, Lincolnshire. She was one of a large family of brothers and sisters; she was never sent to school, and was brought up entirely at home, partly by teachers of whom she regrets to say she was too much inclined to make game, but more by her mother, who, being a very clever woman of a poetical turn of mind, mainly educated her numerous family herself. Her father was a banker at Suffolk, a man of great culture and ability. "It was a happy, bright, joyous childhood," says Miss Ingelow; "there was an originality about us, some of my brothers and sisters were remarkably clever, but all were droll, full of mirth, and could caricature well. We each had a most keen sense of the ridiculous. Two of the boys used to go to a clergyman near for instruction, where there was a small printing machine. We got up a little periodical of our own and used all to write in it, my brothers' schoolfellows setting up the type. It was but the other day one of these old schoolfellows dined with us, and reminded me that he had put my first poems into type."

Many of these verses are still in existence, but the girl-poet had yet another place, and an entirely original one, where in secret she gave expression to her muse. In a large upper room where she slept, the windows were furnished with old-fashioned folding shutters, the backs of which were neatly "flatted," and formed an excellent substitute for slate or paper. "They were so convenient," she remarks, smiling. "I used to amuse myself much in this way. I opened the shutters and wrote verses and songs on them, and then folded them in. No one ever saw them until one day when my mother came in and found them, to her great surprise." Many of these songs, too, were transmitted to paper and were preserved.

Whilst on a visit to some friends in Essex, Jean Ingelow and some young companions wrote a number of short stories and sent them for fun to a periodical called The Youth's Magazine. She signed her contributions "Orris," and was delighted when she received an intimation that they were accepted and that the editor "would be glad to get more of them." Meantime, she went on accumulating a goodly store of poems, songs, and verses; many were burnt and others directly they were written were carefully hidden away in old manuscript books, but the day was fast approaching when they were to see the light. In the affectionate give and take of a witty, united, and cultured family, her brothers and sisters used to laugh merrily at her efforts and often parodied good-naturedly her poems, though secretly they were proud of them. The method of bringing out this book, which was her first great success and was destined shortly to become so famous, was very curious. A brother wishing to give her pleasure offered to contribute to have her MSS. printed. This was done, and the next move was to take them to a publisher, Mr. Longman. "My mother and I went together," says Miss Ingelow; "she consented to allow my name to appear; we were all rather flustered and excited over it, it seemed altogether so ridiculous." Very far from "ridiculous," however, was the result. Mr. Longman at first looked doubtful, but soon recognising the merits of the work, took up the matter warmly, with the excellent effect that in the first year four editions of a thousand copies each were sold and the young poet's fame was secured. The book bore the simple and unpretending title, "Poems, by Jean Ingelow."

"It was a long time before I could make up my mind if I liked it or not," says the author. "I could not help writing, it is true, but it seemed to make me unlike other people; being one of so many and being supposed to be sensible, and to behave on the whole like other people, and trying to do so, and delighting in the companionship of my own family more than in any other, I am not at all sure that I was pleased when I was suddenly called a poet, because that is a circumstance more than most others which sets one apart, but they were all so joyous and made much fun over it."

This first volume of poems has been re-published and yet again and again, until up to the present time it has reached its twenty-sixth edition, in different forms and sizes. One of these was brought out as an Édition de luxe, and is profusely illustrated. Jean Ingelow's poetry is too well known and widely read to need much comment. In this remarkable volume, probably the most quoted and best recollected verses are to be found under the title of "Divided," "Song of Seven," "Supper at the Mill," "Looking over a Gate at a Mill," "The Wedding Song," "Honours," "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire," "Brothers and a Sermon," "Requiescat in Pace," "The Star's Monument," yet when this is said, you turn to another and yet another, and would fain name the last read the best. Where all are sweet, sound, and healthy; where all are full of feeling, bright with suggestions, and thoroughly understandable, how hard it is to choose! And who has not read and heard over and over again that exquisite song which has been set to music no less than thirteen times, "When sparrows build"? Also, "Sailing Beyond Seas," with the beauteous refrain:—

O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

To the most superficial reader the tender and real humanity of these entirely original poems is evident, while to the student who goes further into the fascinating work, deeper treasures are discovered; you realise more and more her own personality, her own distinctive style, and get many a glimpse of the pure heart and lofty aspiration of the gifted singer.

But to return to the original issue of this first published book. In consequence of its success, Mr. Strahan made an immediate application for any other work by the same pen; accordingly Jean Ingelow's early short tales, signed "Orris," were collected and published under the title of "Stories told to a Child." This, too, went through many editions, one of which was illustrated by Millais and other eminent artists. A further request for longer stories resulted in the production of a volume called, "Studies for Stories."

These delightful sketches, professedly written for young girls, soon attracted children of much older growth. While simple in construction and devoid of plot, they are full of wit and humour, of gentle satire and fidelity to nature. They are prose poems, written in faultless style and are truthful word-paintings of real everyday life.

Jean Ingelow has ever been a voluminous writer, but only an odd volume or so of her own works is to be found in her house. She "gives them away, indeed, scarcely knows what becomes of them," she says. Among many other of her books is one called "A Story of Doom, and other Poems," which has likewise passed into many editions. Here stand out pre-eminently "The Dreams that come true," "Songs on the Voices of Birds," "Songs of the Night Watches," "Gladys and her Island," ("An Imperfect Fable with a Doubtful Moral,") "Lawrance," and "Contrasted Songs." "A Story of Doom" may be called an epic. It deals with the closing days of the antediluvian world, while its chief figures are Noah, Japhet, Amarant the slave, the impious giants, and the arch-fiend. Her portraiture of these persons, natural and supernatural, is very powerful and impressive. "Lawrance" is unquestionably an idyll worthy to be ranked with "Enoch Arden." Told, at once, with much dramatic power and touching simplicity, there is a fresh, pure atmosphere about it which makes it intensely natural and sympathetic. One of the poems in a third volume, republished four or five years ago, is called "Echo and the Ferry," which is a great favourite and is constantly chosen for recitation. In the "Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection," breathes the deeply devotional and sincerely religious spirit of the author who was brought up by strictly evangelical parents, yet is there no trace of narrowness or bigotry in Jean Ingelow or her writings. She is large-hearted, single-minded, and tolerant in all matters.

"It may seem strange to say so," observes your gentle hostess, whilst a smile illuminates the speaking countenance; "but I have never been inside a theatre in my life. I always say on such occasions, that although our parents never took us, and I never go myself out of habit and affectionate respect for their memory, I do not wish to give an opinion or to say that others are wrong to go. We must each act according to our own convictions, and must ever use all tolerance towards those who differ from us. We had many pleasures and advantages. There was no dulness or gloom about our home, and everything seemed to give occasion for mirth. We had many trips abroad too, indeed, we spent most winters on the Continent. I made an excursion with a brother who was an ecclesiastical architect, and in this way I visited every cathedral in France. Heidelberg is very picturesque, and suggested many poetical ideas, but all travelling enlarges one's mind and is an education."

One event which caused the keenest amusement to these happy young people, all blessed with excellent spirits, sparkling wit, and general enjoyment of everything, occurred when a pretty, kindly, appreciative notice appeared in some paper of a person called by her name. There was hardly a single item in it that was really true, even to the description of her birthplace, which was described vaguely as being stationed on the sea-beach and flanked by two lighthouses, "between which the lonely child might have been seen to wander for hours together nursing her poetic dreams, dragging the long trails of seaweed after her, and listening to the voice of the waves." This supposititious little biography was productive of the greatest merriment to her brothers and sisters. The first impulse was to answer it, to disclaim the solitary wanderings and poetic dreams, and to describe the place correctly; but although urged by friends to do this, Jean Ingelow on reflection decided to let it pass, and in the end the laughter died out. "To a poetic nature," she remarks, "expression is a necessity, but once expressed, the thought and feeling that inspired it may often be forgotten. I am sure that I could not repeat one of my own poems from beginning to end just as I wrote it. I have a distinct theory too, that one is not taught, one is born to it. I was never able to make a great effort in my life, but what I can do at all, I can do at once, and having thought a good deal on any subject I know very little more than I did at first. Things come to me without striving, besides I am quite unromantic. I never wrote in a hurry. We might all be laughing and talking together, yet if I went up to my room and sat alone, I could at once write in a most sad and melancholy strain. I was not studious as a child, though I remember a great epoch in my life was reading 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' when I was seven years old, and I was perfectly well able to perceive the deep imaginative powers of it, but I always wanted to study what was not in books."

But if Jean Ingelow's books are sold by thousands in England, they are sold by tens of thousands in America. Her publishers there for many years used to send her a handsome royalty on their sales; some years ago, however, five other American publishers brought out her poetical works simultaneously, since which time she has received nothing! She is probably the first woman-poet who has met with not only world-wide popularity, but who might if it had been needful, have lived very well by the proceeds of her verse alone. A few years ago Messrs. Longman brought out, by request, a new edition of her books. Altogether, she declares herself to "have been a very fortunate woman, and almost always happy in her publishers, too."

In later years Jean Ingelow has written many prose works of fiction, notably "Off the Skelligs," "Fated to be Free," "Don John," "Sarah de Berenger," "Mopsa, the Fairy," "John Jerome," etc. "Off the Skelligs" was the first novel by the author whose name had hitherto been almost exclusively associated with verse, and it was received with more than ordinary interest. The book teems with incident; the poetic vein may be traced in the realistic pictures of child life, in the description of the lovely scenery depicted in the yachting trip, and in the graphic and stirring account of the burning ship and rescue of its passengers. "Fated to be Free" is a sequel to the previous work. The book opens with a powerful description of an old manor house and family over whose head hangs the mysterious blight of some unknown misfortune, which is cleverly indicated rather than described, and though tragical in the main, the sorrow is not allowed to overshadow the story too heavily, for here and there humour and wit sparkle out, while the whole betrays the writer's deep intuitive knowledge of human hearts and human lives. "Mopsa, the Fairy" has been called "A poem in prose, for the use of children," and a better name for it could not be found. It is, as the title implies, a tale of fairyland in its brightest aspect, and is told with the purity of conception and the excellence of execution which characterise the gifted author's writings.

A few words must be said in description of the pretty house in Kensington where Miss Ingelow lives with her brother, and into which, some thirteen years ago, they removed from Upper Kensington to be further out and away from so much building. Since this removal she says, "three cities have sprung up around them!" The handsome square detached house stands back in a fine, broad road, with carriage drive and garden in front filled with shrubs, and half a dozen chestnut and almond trees, which in this bright spring weather are bursting out into leaf and flower. Broad stone steps lead up to the hall door, which is in the middle of the house. The entrance hall—where hangs a portrait of the author's maternal great-grandfather, the Primus of Scotland, i.e., Bishop of Aberdeen—opens into a spacious, old-fashioned drawing-room of Italian style on the right. Large and lofty is this bright, cheerful room. A harp, on which Miss Ingelow and her mother before her played right well, stands in one corner. There is a grand pianoforte opposite, for she was a good musician, and had a remarkably fine voice in earlier years. On the round table in the deep bay windows in front are many books, various specimens of Tangiers pottery, and some tall plants of arum lilies in flower. The great glass doors draped with curtains at the further end, open into a large conservatory where Miss Ingelow often sits in summer. It is laid down with matting and rugs, and standing here and there are flowering plants and two fine araucarias. The verandah steps on the left lead into a large and well-kept garden with bright green lawn, at the end of which through the trees may be discerned a large stretch of green-houses, and a view beyond of the great trees in the grounds of Holland Park. On the corresponding side of the house at the back is the billiard-room, which is Mr. Ingelow's study, leading into an ante-room, and in the front is the dining-room, where the author's literary labours are carried on. "I write in a commonplace, prosaic manner," she says; "I am afraid I am rather idle, for I only work during two or three of the morning hours, with my papers spread all about the table." Over the fireplace hangs a painting on ivory of her father, and above it a portrait of her mother, taken in her early married life. This portrait, together with one of the poet herself when an infant, is in pastels, and they were originally done as door panels for her father's room; the colouring is yet unfaded.

The conversation turning upon memory—for Jean Ingelow holds pronounced theories on this subject—she leads the way back to the conservatory and points out the picture of her grandfather's house, called Ingelow House after her, with which her very earliest recollections are associated, and her memory dates back to when she was but seventeen months old! She says that "friends smile at this and think that she is romancing, but if people made attempts to recollect their very early days, certain visions which have passed into the background for many years would rise again with a distinctness which would make it impossible to mistake them for inventions, and also make it certain that the records of this life are not annihilated, but only covered." She took some trouble to collect facts as to "first recollections" of many people, and found that two at least could remember events which were proved to have happened at the age of eighteen and twenty-two months respectively. In further support of this theory she relates an amusing and curious incident of dormant memory in early childhood which actually happened in her own family. Miss Ingelow's mother went on a visit to her own father, who lived in London, accompanied by her infant son aged eleven months and his nurse. One day the nurse brought the baby into his mother's room and put him on the floor, which was carpeted all over, where he crept about and amused himself whilst she dressed her mistress. When the toilet was completed, a certain ring which Mrs. Ingelow generally wore was missing. Search was made but it was never found and shortly after the visit ended, and the matter was almost forgotten. Mother and child again went on the same visit exactly a year later, accompanied by the same nurse, who took the boy into the same room. His mother saw him look around him, and deliberately walk up to one corner, turn back a bit of the carpet and produce the ring. He never gave any account of it nor did he seem to remember it later; he had probably found it on the floor and hidden it for safety—it could hardly have been for mischief—and had forgotten all about it until he saw the place again, as he was too young when the ring was missed to understand what the talk and search about it meant. "He was by no means a precocious child," adds Miss Ingelow, "nor did he show later any remarkable qualities in his powers of learning or remembering lessons."

She lost her mother thirteen years ago, and her father passed away before the publication of her first book of poetry—the book of which he would have been so proud. "It was a joy to me," says the poetess, "when I found that people began to read my verses, and I can never forget too my pleasure when first introduced to Mr. Ruskin and he asked my mother and me to luncheon at his house. Of course, I was far too modest to be willing to talk to him, especially in my mother's presence; but after luncheon I got away from them, leaving them in high discourse, and surreptitiously stole down to look at a bush of roses which were very much to my mind. Mr. Ruskin presently came up to me, and entered into a charming conversation. He gathered some of the flowers and gave them to me—I kept them for a long time—then we walked round a meadow close at hand which was just fit for the scythe, and afterwards he took me to see a number of the curiosities that he had collected. We soon became loving friends and his friendship has been one of the great pleasures of my life. Sir Arthur Helps, too, was for many years a dear friend."

Miss Ingelow is, as may be supposed, a great reader, though she observes, "that few people take as long a time in reading a book as she does." Her preference is for works of a religious tone, chiefly those of eminent divines. "I do not want to use the word 'fastidious,'" she adds, "but perhaps I am more bornÉe than most people in my taste in literature. Even some of Sir Walter Scott's and many of Thackeray's novels I cannot read, but I am fond of 'Vanity Fair,' and Dickens, and delight in several of Shakespeare's masterpieces, reading them over and over again."

She is "resting" for a while now. The poetic vein, she says, is not strongly upon her for the moment, but it invariably returns. Meantime it is to be hoped that the day may not be far distant when the public will rejoice to welcome yet more sweet strains from the pen of the great and gifted poet.

The pleasant task of writing these simple biographical sketches of writers of the day is at an end. With those who were previously friends the friendship has been deepened, the few who were as yet strangers have become friends. In thankfully acknowledging the great kindness and cordiality shown by all, it must be added, that in future days no remembrances can be happier than the delightful hours spent with the "Notable Women Authors."

For a few brief mentions of historical facts in one or two of these sketches the writer is indebted to "Lewis' Topographical Dictionary."