inherited his eye and hand. She played on the harp and sang with
something beyond the talent of an amateur. At the age of
seventeen, she heard Pasta in Paris; flew up in a fire of youthful
enthusiasm; and the next morning, all alone and without
introduction, found her way into the presence of the PRIMA DONNA
and begged for lessons. Pasta made her sing, kissed her when she
had done, and though she refused to be her mistress, placed her in
the hands of a friend. Nor was this all, for when Pasta returned
to Paris, she sent for the girl (once at least) to test her
progress. But Mrs. Jenkin's talents were not so remarkable as her
fortitude and strength of will; and it was in an art for which she
had no natural taste (the art of literature) that she appeared
before the public. Her novels, though they attained and merited a
certain popularity both in France and England, are a measure only
of her courage. They were a task, not a beloved task; they were
written for money in days of poverty, and they served their end.
In the least thing as well as in the greatest, in every province of
life as well as in her novels, she displayed the same capacity of
taking infinite pains, which descended to her son. When she was
about forty (as near as her age was known) she lost her voice; set
herself at once to learn the piano, working eight hours a day; and
attained to such proficiency that her collaboration in chamber
music was courted by professionals. And more than twenty years
later, the old lady might have been seen dauntlessly beginning the
study of Hebrew. This is the more ethereal part of courage; nor
was she wanting in the more material. Once when a neighbouring
groom, a married man, had seduced her maid, Mrs. Jenkin mounted her
horse, rode over to the stable entrance and horsewhipped the man
with her own hand.