"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 _edition 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 _bornee_ 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."