that she lived to see published is a collection of clever, crisp stories, entitled An Anxious Moment, which, with a strange and pathetic significance, terminates with a brief paper called 'How I Write my Novels'. Two posthumous works were left completed, bearing the names, respectively, of Lovice, just issued, and The Coming of Chloe, which will shortly be brought out.

Thoroughly wholesome in tone, bright and sparkling in style, the delicacy of here love-scenes and the lightness of touch that distinguishes her character sketches can only be equalled by the pathos, which every now and then she has thrown in, as if to temper her vivacity with a little shade. Here and there, as in the case of Nor Wife, nor Maid, she has struck a powerfully dramatic note, while her descriptions of scenery are especially vivid and delightful, and very often full of poetry.

The late Mrs. Hungerford was the daughter of the late Rev. Canon Hamilton, Rector and Vicar Choral of St. Faughman's Cathedral, Ross Carberry, co. Cork, one of the oldest churches in Ireland. Her grandfather was John Hamilton, of Vesington, Dunboyne, a property thirteen miles out of Dublin. The family is very old, very distinguished, and came over from Scotland to Ireland in the Reign of James I. She was first married when very young, but her husband died five and a half years later, leaving her with three little girls. In 1882, en secondes noces, she married Mr. Thomas Henry Hungerford, of St. Brenda's, Bandon, co. Cork, whose father's estate Cahirmore, of about eleven thousand acres, lies nearly twenty miles to the west of Bandon. By this most happy union, she has left three children—two sons and a daughter.

Thoroughly domestic in all her tastes, with a love of gardening, and a practical knowledge of all the details of country life, which tend to make the home so comfortable, her unfailing sweet temper, ready wit and espièglerie, her powers of sympathy and strong common sense, caused her to be the life and center of her large household. Tenderly attached to her husband and family, by all of whom she was adored, she used often to say, with joy and pride, 'They came to her for everything, and told her everything, and it was a union of perfect love, confidence, and peace'. In social life she numbered a large circle of friends, to whom she was deservedly endeared by her many engaging qualities; she possessed, indeed, a magnetism which drew all hearts towards her. But seldom could Mrs. Hungerford be induced to leave her picturesque Irish home, even to pay visits to her friends in England. Her manifold duties, the cares of a large family, and her incessant literary work filled up a life that was complete, useful, and congenial, and leaves behind an irreparable blank.

A brief description of the well-beloved little author and her pretty home will be interesting to those who knew her not, save through her works. She was a very tiny woman, but slight and well-proportioned, with baby hands and feet. The large hazel eyes, that sparkled with fun and merriment, were shaded by thick curly lashes; a small, determined mouth and slightly upturned chin gave a piquant expression to the intelligent face—so bright and vivacious. Her hair, of a fair brown colour, a little lighter than the eyelashes, was worn piled up on the top of her head, and broke away into natural curls over a broad and intellectual brow.

Driving up the hill, past Ballymoden Church, in through the gates of Castle Barnard, Lord Bandon's beautiful old place covered with ivy, out through a second gate and over the railway, the gates of St. Brenda are reached. A private road, about half a mile long, hedged on either side with privet, hawthorn and golden furze, leads to the avenue proper, the entrance gate of which is flanked by two handsome deodars. It takes a few minutes more to arrive at the large square ivy-clad house an grounds, where beech trees stand on the lawn sloping away down to a river running at the bottom of a deep valley. The long gravelled walk by the hall door turns into a handsome walled kitchen garden, where apple and pear trees abound, together with a quarter of an acre of strawberry beds, currant, gooseberry, and raspberry bushes in plenty. From the library window can be seen the flower garden and shrubbery and a large variety of rose trees. Close by is her own special plot where she delighted to work with her own little implements, spade, trowel, hoe, and rake, planting her seeds, pricking her seedlings, pruning, grafting, and watching with deepest eagerness to see them grow. In spring-time her interest was alike divided between the opening buds of her daffodils and the breaking of the eggs of the first little chickens in the fine poultry yard, in the management of which she was so successful. But among all these multifarious and healthy outdoor occupations in which she delighted, Mrs. Hungerford invariably secured three hours daily for her literary pursuits, when everything was done with such method and order, the writing included, that there was little wonder that she got through so much.

Her own writing-room bears the stamp of her taste and her love of study, where the big log-fire burned in the huge grate, and lighted up a splendid old oak cabinet that reaches from floor to ceiling, which, together with four other bookcases, are literally crammed to overflowing, while the picturesque is not wanting, as the many paintings, old china, ferns, plants and winter flowers can testify.

On the great knee-hole writing table lies the now silent pen where last she used it, with each big or little bundle of MSS. methodically labelled, and a long list of engagements for work, extending into future years, now, alas! destined to remain unfulfilled!

With so active a brain she was a bad sleeper, and always planned out her best schemes during the night, and wrote them out in the morning without difficulty. Driving, too, had a curious effect upon her; the action of the air seemed to stimulate her, and she disliked talking, or being talked to, when driving. She loved to think and to watch the lovely variations of the world around her, and would often come home filled with fresh ideas, scenes, and conversations, which she used to note down without even waiting to throw off her furs. If questioned how she went to work about a plot she would reply, with a reproachful little laugh, 'I never have a plot really, not the bona fide plot one looks for in a novel. An idea comes to me, or I to it—a scene, a situation, a young man or a young woman—and on that mental hint I begin to build, and it has frequently happened to me that I have written the last chapter first, and so, as it were, worked backwards'.

But in whatsoever form the gifted writer composed her novels the result was the same, and she will be widely mourned by the many, who in hours of sickness, of carking care or sorrow, owed a temporary respite from heavy thought, or the laugh that banishes ennui, to her ready pen—grave and gay by turns, but in every mood bewitching. During her long illness, with its constant relapses, its alternations of now hope, now despair, her patience and unselfishness were exhibited to a remarkable degree. Ever fearful to give trouble, hopeful and wishing to encourage the loved ones around her, she maintained a gentle cheerfulness and resignation, and finally passed away so peacefully that her sorrowing husband and children scarcely realised the moment when her spirit winged its flight to the better land, whence she, being dead, 'yet speaketh', for 'to live in hearts we leave behind is not to die'."

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

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

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