Notable Women Authors of the Day: Biographical Sketches

by Helen C. Black

There is great wailing and lamentation at Market Harboro'. King Frost holds the ground in an iron grip. Fresh snow falling almost daily spreads yet another and another layer, and all is encrusted hard and fast, but far around it sparkles like a sea of diamonds, emitting the colours of a rainbow in the radiant sunshine. Horses are eating their heads off and are ready to jump out of their skins; hounds are getting fat and lazy; the majority of the sportsmen have long ago taken themselves off to London, Monte Carlo, and elsewhere, and the few who remain spend their days in skating, toboganning, and curling.

While the barometer averages nightly ten to twenty degrees of frost, perhaps the most favourable moment has arrived to find one's hunting friends freed from the daily labour they so cheerfully undergo for the sake of sport. As in ordinary weather a protracted hunt with Mr. Fernie's hounds, or a long day with the Pytchley, would at this season have kept Mrs. Edward Kennard to a late hour in the saddle, you gladly seize the opportunity afforded, and accept a kind invitation to visit her at "The Barn." A two-hours' run from St. Pancras to Leicestershire, with a change at Kettering, lands you at Market Harboro' station, where a neat brougham, drawn by a pair of handsome brown horses (with no bearing reins), waits to convey you to Mr. Edward Kennard's hunting box, which stands back between two fields of ridge and furrow in the main road from Kettering to Market Harboro'. A straight avenue, bordered on either side by lime and fir trees, breaks into a circular grass front, where the drive divides, the right road leading to a substantial, comfortable-looking red-brick house, with sloping roof, tall gable over the entrance-hall, and sides picturesquely covered with ivy, whilst the left turns to the stables (that essential part of a sporting establishment), which, with the kitchen gardens and paddocks, are in the rear. In usual circumstances a fine vista of undulating pasture, and extensive views of the happy hunting-fields of Northamptonshire and Leicestershire, can be seen, in which are several historical fox-coverts; but now, in the snow-bound condition of the earth, everything is white, save for the line of dark intersecting hedgerows, and the delicate tracery of leafless trees standing in black silhouette against the sky. As the afternoon advances, a grey haze creeps over the far-famed Harboro' Vale, shrouding alike "bullfinches" and "double-oxers," into which sinks a golden sun behind a bank of crimson and purple clouds.

But the carriage stops. The broad stone steps lead into the entrance hall, where, facing you, stands a black, long-haired, stuffed sloth bear, hugging the sticks and umbrellas, and an oak case, full of English game-birds. Glass doors open into the broad, lofty, central hall, giving outlet to numerous rooms, which are all draped with heavy portières on each side. The first to the right opens, and Mrs. Edward Kennard comes out to bid you welcome to "The Barn," and leads the way into the drawing-room, which is bright with a huge, blazing fire and tall lamps. She is above the middle height, and her slight, well-built figure shows to as much advantage in the neatly-fitting brown homespun costume as it does in her well-cut "Busvine" habit. She has a small head, well set on, with dark hair curling over her brow, and dark eyes which, owing to her being short-sighted, have somewhat of a searching expression as she looks at you, and the kindest of smiles. A woman of peculiar grace, gentleness, and refinement, her pluck and skill which are so prominent in the chase and lead her to delight in all field sports, in no way detract from her womanly characteristics in the home circle and other relations in life.

Mrs. Edward Kennard is the second daughter and fourth child of a well-known public man, Mr. Samuel Laing, late member for the counties of Orkney and Shetland, and formerly Finance Minister of India.

"I believe," says your hostess, as you sit at tea, "that I took to scribbling principally through finding time hang heavy on my hands and seeking occupation. I fancy that any small love of literature which I may possess is hereditary, since my father, who is now chairman of the Brighton Railway, has written several important works, notably, "Modern Science and Modern Thoughts," "Problems of the Future," etc., whilst my grandfather, Mr. S. Laing, was also well known as an author in his day, and wrote a famous book of Norwegian travel, still considered one of the best extant. In the schoolroom (we lived at Hordle, Hants, then) I was regarded as the dunce, and my childish recollections are always embittered by thoughts of scoldings, punishments, and admonitions from our various governesses.

At the age of fifteen the young girl was sent to a private establishment at St. Germains, when, under a different system of tuition, she began to take an interest in her studies, and to work in earnest. Two or three years later she returned to England, and shortly after married Mr. Edward Kennard, Deputy-Lieutenant and Magistrate for the counties of Monmouthshire and Northamptonshire, son of the late Mr. R. W. Kennard, M.P. He, too, has literary as well as sporting tastes, and is the author of "Fishing in Strange Waters" and "Sixty Days in America," besides being a contributor to the Illustrated London News, Graphic, and The Chase. He is also an artist, and every part of the house is decorated with his clever, spirited sketches in oils and water-colours.

Mrs. Edward Kennard's first literary efforts were a series of short stories, which she wrote for her two boys. These were afterwards collected and published in one volume called "Twilight Tales." Subsequently, when the little fellows had to be sent to school, and she describes herself as "having felt lost without them," during a long period of indifferent health, she turned her attention to authorship. Her first novel, "The Right Sort," was produced in 1888, and was followed by "Straight as a Die," "Twilight Tales," and "Killed in the Open." Next came "The Girl in the Brown Habit," "A Real Good Thing," "A Glorious Gallop," "A Crack County," "Our Friends in the Hunting Field," "Matron or Maid," etc., etc. These are all sporting novels, as most of their names indicate, and contain the graphic account of many a stirring and exciting run depicted with the vividness and fidelity born of accurate knowledge of hounds, horses, and huntsmen, and long experience in the field. All these works are very popular at home and in the colonies, and most of them have passed into many editions. "Landing a Prize" is the result of several seasons spent in Norway on the Sandem, Stryn, Etne, Aurland, Gule, Förde, and Aäro rivers. This book relates to quite another kind of sport, for the author who can so successfully negotiate a real Leicestershire flyer—a high blackthorn fence with a ditch on either side of it—with such ease and grace, and has ridden first flight in this county and in Northamptonshire since her marriage, is equally at home in salmon-fishing, and last year, with considerable dexterity and skill, wielded her seventeen-foot rod of split cane to such good purpose that she landed a thirty-six pounder, a feat of which her husband and sons are justly proud; but you must go to Mr. Kennard to get details of his wife's prowess, for she says, modestly, "It is so very difficult to say anything much of oneself. I like hunting, of course, but look upon it purely as an agreeable physical amusement, and not the one business of life, as it is considered in this neighbourhood, a thing to which all other interests must be sacrificed. Marrying very young, it has since been my fate to reside in a hunting county, and therefore I have had few opportunities for gratifying my love for travel and seeing fresh scenes. For the last few years, however, we have spent our summers in Norway, and I have become almost as fond of salmon-fishing as of riding."

The scene of the author's late work is laid in Germany, and in "A Homburg Beauty" she gives a vigorous narrative of a steeplechase which she witnessed in that place. The last two novels she produced are entitled "That Pretty Little Horse-Breaker," and "Wedded to Sport."

Mrs. Edward Kennard is as clever with her needle as is her husband with his paint-brush, and many are the evidences of her capacity in this feminine accomplishment in the room. The curtains, cornices, mantel-cloths, together with several screens and cushions—even the window blinds—are all exquisitely embroidered by her industrious fingers. There are many priceless pieces of very old Japanese bronze, china, and ancient lacquer work scattered about the room. On one table is a perfect model in soapstone of an Indian burying-ground, and above the dado is a narrow terry velvet ledge on which are strewn lovely bits of Japanese ivories and other ornaments. The walls are hung with water-colour paintings of scenes in Egypt, by Mr. Kennard, and the whole room looks cosy and comfortable in the slow of warm firelight and coloured lamp-shades.