e rank of
general, many strange gems, many cloudy stories of adventure, and, next
his heart, the daguerreotype of an Indian prince with whom he had mixed
blood.

The last of this wild family, the daughter, Henrietta Camilla, became
the wife of the midshipman Charles, and the mother of the subject of
this notice, Fleeming Jenkin. She was a woman of parts and courage. Not
beautiful, she had a far higher gift, the art of seeming so; played the
part of a belle in society, while far lovelier women were left
unattended; and up to old age, had much of both the exigency and the
charm that mark that character. She drew naturally, for she had no
training, with unusual skill; and it was from her, and not from the two
naval artists, that Fleeming 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 mai