The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mrs. Hungerford, by Helen C. Black

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Title: Mrs. Hungerford Notable Women Authors of the Day

Author: Helen C. Black

Release Date: December 25, 2008 [EBook #27620]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. HUNGERFORD ***

Produced by Daniel Fromont

[Transcriber's note: Helen C. BLACK, article "Mrs. Hungerford" in Notable women authors of the day (1893) 1906 edition]

NOTABLE

WOMEN AUTHORS

OF THE DAY, By

HELEN C. BLACK

WITH PORTRAITS

LONDON: MACLAREN AND COMPANY

WAITHMAN STREET, PILGRIM STREET, E.C.

1906

CONTENTS

(…)

MRS. HUNGERFORD

(…)

It is well worth encountering the perils of the sea, even in the middle of winter, and in the teeth of a north-east wind, if only to experience the absolute comfort and ease with which, in these space-annihilating days, the once-dreaded journey from England to the Emerald Isle can be made. You have resolved to accept a hospitable invitation from Mrs. Hungerford, the well-known author of Molly Bawn, etc., to visit her at her lovely house, St. Brenda's, Bandon, co. Cork, where a 'hearty Irish welcome' is promised, and though circumstances prevent your availing yourself of the 'month's holiday' so kindly offered, and limit an absence from home to but four days, it is delightful to find that, travelling by the best of all possible routes—the Irish Mail—it is to be accomplished easily and without any fatiguing haste.

Having given due notice of your intentions, you arrive at Euston just in time for the 7.15 a.m. express, and find that by the kindness of the station-master a compartment is reserved, and every arrangement, including an excellent meal, is made for your comfort. The carriages are lighted by electricity, and run so smoothly that it is possible to get a couple of hours' good sleep, which the very early start has made so desirable. On reaching Holyhead at 1.30 p.m. to the minute, you are met by the courteous and attentive marine superintendant Captain Cay, R.N., who takes you straight on board the Ireland, the newest addition to the fleet of fine ships, owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. She is a magnificent vessel, 380 feet long, 38 feet in beam, 2,589 tons, and 6,000 horse-power; her fine, broad bridge, handsome deck-houses, and brass work glisten in the bright sunlight. She carries electric light; and the many airy private cabins indicate that, though built for speed, the comfort of her passengers has been a matter of much consideration. She is well captained, well officered, well manned, and well navigated. The good-looking, weather-beaten Captain Kendall is indeed the commodore of the company, and has made the passage for nearly thirty years. There is an unusually large number of passengers to-day, for it is the first week of the accelerated speed, and it is amusing to notice the rapidity with which the mails are shipped, on men's backs, which plan is found quicker than any appliance. Captain Cay remarks that it is no uncommon thing to ship seven hundred sacks on foreign mail days; he says, too, that never since these vessels were started has there been a single accident to life or limb. But the last bag is on board, steam is up, and away goes the ship past the South Stack lighthouse, built on an island under precipitous cliffs, from which a gun is fired when foggy, and in about an hour the Irish coast becomes visible, Howth and Bray Head. The sea gets pretty rough, but luckily does not interfere with your excellent appetite for the first-class refreshments supplied. The swift-revolving paddles churn the big waves into a thick foam as the good ship Ireland ploughs her way through at the rate of twenty knots an hour, 'making good weather of it', and actually accomplishes the voyage in three hours and fifteen minutes—one of the shortest runs on record. The punctuality with which these mail packets make the passage in all weathers is indeed truly wonderful—a fact which is experienced a few days later on the return journey. Kingstown is reached at 6.10 p.m. (Irish time), where the mail train is waiting to convey passengers by the new loop line that runs in a curve right through 'dear dirty Dublin', as it is popularly called, to Kingsbridge, and so on to Cork, where you put up for the night at the Imperial Hotel.

Another bright sunshiny morning opens, and shows old Cork at her best. Cork! the old city of Father Prout's poem, 'The Bells of Shandon', which begins thus: With deep affection and recollection

  I often think of Shandon bells,
  Whose sounds so wild would in days of childhood
  Fling round my cradle their magic spells,
  On this I ponder where'er I wander,
  And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
  With the bells of Shandon
  That sound so grand on, etc. etc.

The river Lee runs through the handsome little city, and has often been favourably compared with the Rhine. But Bandon must be reached, which is easily managed in an hour by rail, and there you are met by your host with a neat dog-cart, and good grey mare; being in light marching order, your kit is quickly stowed away by a smart-looking groom, and soon you find yourself tearing along at a spanking pace through the 'most Protestant' town of Bandon, where Mr. Hungerford pulls up for a moment to point out the spot where once the old gates stood, whereon was written the legend, 'Let no Papist enter here'. Years after, a priest in the dead of night added to it. He wrote:

Whoever wrote this, wrote it well

The same is written on the gates of Hell.

Then up the hill past Ballymoden Church, in through the gates of Castle Bernard, past Lord Bandon's beautiful old castle covered with exquisite ivy, out through a second gate, over the railway, a drive of twenty minutes in all, and so up to the gates of St. Brenda's. A private road of about half a mile long, hedged on either side by privet and hawthorn and golden furze, leads to the avenue proper, the entrance gate which is flanked by two handsome deodars. It takes a few minutes more to arrive at a large, square, ivy-clad house, and ere there is time to take in an idea of its gardens and surroundings, the great hall door is flung open, a little form trips down the stone steps, and almost before the horse has come to a standstill, Mrs. Hungerford gives you indeed the 'hearty Irish welcome' she promised.

It is now about four o'clock, and the day is growing dark. Your hostess draws you in hastily out of the cold, into a spacious hall lighted by a hanging Eastern lamp, and by two other lamps let into the wide circular staircase at the lower end of it. The drawing-room door is open, and a stream of ruddy light from half-a-dozen crimson shaded lamps, rushing out, seems to welcome you too. It is a large, handsome room, very lofty, and charmingly furnished, with a Persian carpet, tiny tables, low lounging chairs, innumerable knick-knacks of all kinds,