Fair learning's train, are seen,
Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along,
And up her benches green.[2]
Unfolded to their mental eye
Thy awful form, Sublimity!
The moral teacher shows--
Sublimity of Silence born,
And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn
And dimly vision'd woes;
Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great
Mocks the malignity of faith.
While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound
Murmurs the crowded room around,
And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions,
Exulting hails her new dominions.
Oh! both on me your influence shed,
Dwell in my heart and deck my head!
Where'er a broader, browner shade
The shaggy beaver throws,
And with the ample feather's aid
O'er canopies the nose;
Where'er with smooth and silken pile,
Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile,
The crimson velvet glows;
From some high benches giddy brink,
Clinton with me begins to think
(As bolt upright we sit)
That dress, like dogs, should have its day,
That beavers are too hot for May,
And velvets quite unfit.
Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw
From her unerring lip;
How light, how simple are the straw,
How delicate the chip!
Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice,
The audience melt away,
I fly to fix my final choice
And bless th' instructive day.
The milliner officious pours
Of hats and caps her ready stores,
The unbought elegance of spring;
Some wide, disclose the full round face,
Some shadowy, lend a modest grace
And stretch their sheltering wing.
Here clustering grapes appear to shed
Their luscious juices on the head,
And cheat the longing eye;
So round the Phrygian monarch hung
Fair fruits that from his parched tongue
For ever seem'd to fly.
Here early blooms the summer rose;
Her ribbons wreathe fantastic bows;
Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes--
Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes!
Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head!
Mine be the chip of purest white,
Swan-like, and as her feathers light
When on the still wave spread;
And let it wear the graceful dress,
Of unadorned simpleness.
Ah! frugal wish; ah! pleasing thought;
Ah! hope indulged in vain;
Of modest fancy chiefly bought
A stranger yet to Payne.[3]
With undissembled grief I tell,--
For sorrow never comes too late,--
The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall
Is sold for L1 8_s._
To Calculation's sober view,
That searches ev'ry plan,
Who keep the old, or buy the new,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the shabby and the gay
Must meet the sun's meridian ray;
The air, the dust, the damp.
This, shall the sudden shower despoil;
That slow decay by gradual soil;
Those, envious boxes cramp.
Who will, their squander'd gold may pay;
Who will, our taste deride;
We'll scorn the fashion of the day
With philosophic pride.
Methinks we thus, in accents low,
Might Sydney Smith address,
'Poor moralist! and what art thou,
Who never spoke of dress!'
'Thy mental hero never hung
Suspended on a tailor's tongue,
In agonising doubt;
Thy tale no flutt'ring female show'd,
Who languish'd for the newest mode,
Yet dar'd to live without.'"
In Miss Mary Russell Mitford's "Recollections of a Literary Life" are some
genial allusions to Miss Fanshawe. "Besides," wrote Miss Mitford, "her
remarkable talent for graceful and polished pleasantry, whether in prose
or verse, Miss Catherine Fanshawe was admirable as a letter-writer, and as
a designer in almost every style." Her drawings and etchings met with
praise from those capable of judging their merits.
After Miss Fanshawe's death, in 1834, her friend, the Rev. William
Harness, printed for private circulation a small collection of her poems,
expressing his wish "that some enduring memorial may exist of one who, in
her varied accomplishments, her acute perception of the beautiful, her
playful fancy, her charming conversation, her gentle and retiring manners,
her lively sympathy with the sorrows and joys of others, and above all,
her simple piety, was so cherished a member of a society, not very
extended but intimately united by a common love of literature, and art,
and science, which existed in London at the close of the last and the
opening of the present century, and which, perhaps, taken for all in all,
has never been surpassed." In 1876, Mr. Basil Montagu Pickering issued
"The Literary Remains of Catherine Maria Fanshawe," with notes by the
Rev. William Harness. Doubtless his admiration of the productions of the
author prompted him to publish the volume. Only two hundred and fifty
copies were printed. Mr. Pickering is entitled to the gratitude of lovers
of choice poetry for publishing the charming volume.
A Popular Song Writer:
Mrs. John Hunter.
The name of Mrs. John Hunter stands high on the roll of English song
writers. She is one of the most gifted women in her particular literary
field Hull has produced, and it is most remarkable that she is not noticed
in any local work devoted to history or biography. Her maiden name was
Anne Home, and she was the eldest daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw,
Berwickshire, surgeon of Burgoyne's Regiment of Light Horse, and
subsequently a physician in Savoy. He greatly displeased his parents by
marrying at an early age, and on this account they declined to assist him
in the outset of his professional career. He proceeded to Hull, and
practised as a surgeon. In the year 1742, Anne, his eldest daughter, was
born. She received a liberal education, and at an early age displayed
considerable poetical gifts. Her early work found its way into the
periodicals, and in one entitled the _Lark_, published at Edinburgh, at
the age of twenty-three years, she contributed her well-known song, "The
Flowers of the Forest," and a song we quote as a specimen of her style:--
"Adieu, ye streams that smoothly glide
Through mazy windings o'er the plain;
I'll in some lonely cave reside,
And ever mourn my faithful swain.
Flower of the forest was my love,
Soft as the sighing summer's gale;
Gentle and constant as the dove,
Blooming as roses in the vale.
Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,
For me he searched the banks around;
But, ah! the sad and fatal day,
My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.
Now droops the willow o'er the stream;
Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;
Dire fancy paints him in my dream;
Awake I mourn my hopeless love."
Such is one of her many songs, several of which were set to music by
Haydn. Her best known song is, perhaps, "My Mother bids me bind my
Hair":--
"My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my bodice blue.
"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?"
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.
'Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead
Now Lubin is away."
In July, 1771, Miss Home was married to John Hunter, the famous anatomist,
who step by step rose from the bench of a cabinet-maker to one of the
highest positions in the medical profession. He was a native of Long
Calderwood, Kilbride parish, Lanarkshire. After working some time as a
cabinet-maker, he proceeded to London, and obtained an appointment as an
anatomical assistant. He was student at Chelsea Hospital in 1748, a year
later undertook the charge of the dissecting room, and in the same year
entered St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, as a gentleman commoner. He did not
remain there very long. In 1750 he was a surgeon-pupil at St. George's
Hospital. His brother made his mark in London as a surgeon, and John
joined him as lecturer in 1754. Ten years' toil in the dissecting room
broke down his health. With a view of obtaining a change of work and
climate, he joined the army, and in 1761 was made staff-surgeon. He was at
the siege of Belle Isle in his first year, and was afterwards with the
army in Portugal. He returned home in 1763, and commenced practising as a
surgeon. He read many able papers before the members of the Royal Society;
in 1767, he was elected a fellow of that distinguished body. In 1787 he
was awarded the Copleyan gold medal. He wrote some important medical
works. His death was sudden, and occurred in the Board-room of St.
George's Hospital, on the 16th October, 1793, at the age of 64 years. His
father died when he was ten years of age, and his early education was
neglected. At the age of twenty he could simply read and write, knowing no
other language than his own. He was most diligent. His museum contained
10,563 specimens and preparations illustrative of human and comparative
anatomy, physiology, pathology, and natural history. It was two years
after his death purchased by the Government for L15,000, and presented to
the Royal College of Surgeons. Dr. Hunter won fame but not wealth, and
died a comparatively poor man. In marriage he was most fortunate; his
wife had a beautiful face, and handsome person. She entertained the
doctor's guests with delightful conversation, and her amiability and
simple manners endeared her to all with whom she came in contact, many of
whom were men of world-wide reputation. Some of Mrs. Hunter's friends did
not always meet with the approval of her husband. The following story is
well known, but will bear repeating:--"On returning home late one evening,
after a hard day's fag, Hunter unexpectedly found his drawing-room filled
with musical professors, connoisseurs, and other idlers, whom Mrs. Hunter
had assembled. He was greatly irritated, and walking straight into the
room, addressed the astonished guests pretty much in the following strain:
'I know nothing of this kick-up, and I ought to have been informed of it
beforehand; but as I am now returned home to study, I hope the present
company will retire.' This intimation was, of course, speedily followed by
an _exeunt omnes_." Mrs. Hunter was both a skilful musician and a graceful
singer. The greater part of her poetry displays much sweetness of
expression and force. A volume of her poems was issued in 1802, and
attracted much favourable notice.
Mrs. Hunter wrote the following epitaph for a monument to her husband to
be placed in St. Martin's Church, London, where he was buried. The then
rector of the parish, however, stated it was contrary to the rules to have
any memorial placed in the church:--
"Here rests in awful silence, cold and still,
One whom no common spark of genius fir'd;
Whose reach of thought Nature alone could fill,
Whose deep research the love of truth inspired.
Hunter, if years of toil and watchful care,
If the vast labours of a pow'rful mind
To soothe the ills humanity must share,
Deserve the grateful plaudits of mankind.
Then to each human weakness buried here
Envy would raise, to dim a name so bright,
Those specks which on the orb of day appear,
Take nothing from his warm and welcome light."
In the year 1860, the remains of John Hunter were removed from the church
of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and placed in Westminster Abbey, to rest with
the dust of England's most famous sons. The Council of the Royal College
of Surgeons erected a tablet bearing a suitable inscription.
Mrs. Hunter retired from society after the death of her husband, and found
much enjoyment in literature. She had two children, a son and a daughter.
On the 7th January, 1821, she died in London after a lingering illness,
being nearly eighty years of age. Her name will long remain, and recall
the life of one who added several popular songs to our literature. In
popular anthologies her productions usually find a place.
A Poet of the Poor:
Mary Pyper.
Scotland is a land of song. It has been the birthplace of many poets who
have added glory to our literary annals. Its list of authors includes the
names of a large number of men and women in the humbler walks of life, who
took up literature under difficulties, and won honourable places in the
world of letters. Burns at the plough, Hogg tending his sheep on the
hillside, Hugh Miller in the quarry, Allan Cunningham with chisel in hand,
William Thom and Robert Tannahill at the shuttle, and Janet Hamilton in
her humble home are familiar figures to every reader of Scottish
biography.
Amongst the lesser known names is that of Mary Pyper, who, under severe
trials, read a great deal and produced poems of considerable merit for a
self-taught writer. She was born at Greenock, on the 27th of May, 1795.
Her father was a clockmaker, named Alexander Pyper, who had married a
worthy woman, Isabella Andrews, both of whom were natives of Edinburgh.
Failing to obtain regular employment in their native city, the parents of
our heroine moved westwards in search of work. Mary Pyper, in an
autobiographical letter, addressed to the Rev. Charles Rogers, LL.D.,
states that "her father enlisted in the 42nd Highlanders on account of
failing to find employment." Says Mr. D. H. Edwards, in his _Modern
Scottish Poets_, "it was a time of war when recruits were often made in an
unscrupulous manner, and one day Alexander Pyper found a shilling in his
pocket, and was told to his astonishment that he had enlisted in His
Majesty's service." His regiment, shortly after he joined it, received
orders to march from Perth across the Sheriffmuir, a distance of sixteen
miles. Poor Mrs. Pyper walked, carrying her infant in her arms, the rain
coming down in torrents. After a weary tramp the poor mother sat down
nearly broken-hearted, fearing that her baby had perished. On the arrival
of the baggage carts, warm clothing and other necessaries were procured,
and happily the child began to revive.
The regiment subsequently proceeded to Ireland. Pyper, on leaving Dublin
for England, stumbled and fractured his leg. The accident rendered him
unfit for active service, and he was discharged. He did not long survive,
and at the age of six months, Mary Pyper was left fatherless.
Her mother then returned to her native city. Here she had to struggle for
bread, gaining a scanty living as a boot-binder. She devoted much time to
the education of her child, who proved an apt scholar. Mother and daughter
delighted in the study of history, but Mary's chief pleasure was derived
from the works of the poets. She was familiar with the poetry of
Shakespeare, Milton, Scott, Cowper, and other celebrated authors. As a
child she was puny; she was always little, and might be called a dwarf. In
her early years she suffered much from ill-health. She was troubled with
jaundice, and on three occasions had severe attacks of fever, each lasting
from six to eight weeks. Her mother, too, was often sick, and when other
children of her age were enjoying childish games Mary Pyper was busy with
her needle helping to add to the slender income of her mother.
After being confined to her bed for six years, Mrs. Pyper died on the 27th
of March, 1827. It was during the attendance on her mother that Mary first
thought of composing verses. The poor woman had been obliged to run into
debt to the extent of L9. This amount was paid by her daughter out of her
wages of six shillings per week, obtained from a shop-keeper who employed
her to make buttons and fringes. Hoping to earn more, she left her
situation, and obtained a small basket containing fancy goods, which she
hawked for sale, but this did not prove a satisfactory means of making a
living. It was uncertain, and the walking fatiguing. In later years she
had a continual struggle, and met with numerous misfortunes. Writing to
Dr. Rogers, in 1860, she said: "As I was working in our church-school, I
fell and broke my arm, some ten years since. Eight months after this, I
was painting my house and, over-reaching myself, ricked my back, and the
year before I fell on the frost and severely hurt my head." Kind friends
helped to lighten her troubles, which she bore with Christian fortitude.
A small volume of her poems was published in 1860, mainly through the
assistance of Mr. T. Constable. The work met with a favourable reception,
and a couple of the hymns were reproduced in the pages of _Lyra
Britannica_. Mr. Henry Wright, the compiler of the work entitled _Lays of
Pious Minstrels_, includes in it examples of Mary Pyper's poetry. In the
preface to his volume he wrote: "The attention of my readers is especially
directed to the pieces 'Let me go,' 'Servant of God,' and 'We shall see
Him as He is,' the composition of Miss Mary Pyper, a resident in one of
the closes or alleys in the Old Town of Edinburgh, who is in extreme old
age, quite alone in the world, totally blind, and in deep poverty. Since
the notice of Miss Pyper appeared in the last edition of this work, many
benevolent persons have sent me donations for her in postage stamps, and
otherwise. I shall be glad to be the medium of alleviating in any degree
the very painful circumstances in which she is placed." It will be seen
from the foregoing that in addition to other afflictions she lost her
eyesight in her old age.
We give a few specimens of her verses, which are chiefly of a religious
and devotional character. The first poem is entitled "The Christian's View
of Death":
"Let me go! the Day is breaking
Morning bursts upon mine eye,
Death this mortal frame is shaking,
But the soul can never die!
Let me go! the Day-Star, beaming,
Gilds the radiant realms above;
Its full glory on me streaming,
Lights me to the Land of Love."
The last stanzas of her "Servant of God" are as follow:--
"There Flowers immortal bloom
To charm the ravished sight;
And palms and harps await for those
Who walk with Him in white.
For they shall sing the song
Of Moses, long foretold,
When they have passed those pearly gates
And streets of burnished gold.
The glories of the Lamb
Their rapturous strains shall raise--
Eternal ages shall record
His love, His power, His praise."
The following are the concluding lines of "We shall see Him as He is":--
"When we pass o'er death's dark river
We shall see Him as He is--
Resting in His love and favour
Owning all the glory His;
There to cast our crowns before Him--
Oh! what bliss the thought affords!
There for ever to adore Him--
King of Kings and Lord of Lords."
One of her best hymns is entitled "What has Jesus done?" The little gem we
next reproduce is perhaps her best known production. It has been widely
quoted and much admired:--
EPITAPH: A LIFE.
"I came at morn--'twas Spring, I smiled,
The fields with green were clad;
I walked abroad at noon, and lo!
'Twas summer--I was glad.
I sate me down--'twas autumn eve,
And I with sadness wept;
I laid me down at night--and then
'Twas winter--and I slept."
The following poem is a fair specimen of her poetic power:--
ON SEEING TWO LITTLE GIRLS PRESENT A FLOWER TO A DYING PERSON.
"Come, sit beside my couch of death,
With that fair summer flower,
That I may taste its balmy breath
Before my final hour.
The lily's virgin purity,
The rose's rich perfume,
Speak with a thrilling voice to me,
Preparing for the tomb.
"Each calls to mind sweet Sharon's rose,
The lily of the vale--
The white and stainless robes of those
Who conquer and prevail.
For as it droops its modest head,
Methinks it seems to say:
'All flesh, like me, must quickly fade,
Must wither and decay!'
"And yet it tells of fairer skies,
And happier lands than this,
Where beauteous flowers immortal vie,
And plants of Paradise:
A land where blooms eternal spring--
Where every storm is past;
Fain would my weary spirit wing
Its way--and be at rest.--
"But hark, I hear a choral strain--
It comes from worlds above,
It speaks of my release from pain,
Of rest--in Jesus' love!
Jesus, my hope, my help, my stay,
My all in earth or heaven,
Let thy blest mandate only say,
'Thy sins are all forgiven!'
"Then will I plume my joyful wing
To those blest realms of peace,
Where saints and angels ever sing,
And sorrows ever cease.
Dear mother, dry thy tearful eye,
And weep no more for me,
The orphan's God that reigns on high
The widow's God shall be.
"Pull me a sprig of that white flower,
And place it on my breast,
The last effect of friendship's power
Shall charm my heart to rest.
Then, Lord, let me depart from pain
To realms where glories dwell,
Where I may meet those friends again,
And say no more 'farewell!'"
Her first book did not yield much pecuniary profit. In 1865 a larger
volume of her poetry was published by Mr. Andrew Elliot, of Edinburgh.
Her valued friend, Miss Moncrieff, prefaced it with a biographical sketch,
and Dean Ramsay wrote an introduction. He described her poems as being of
"no common excellence, both in diction and sentiment." The book also
contains a portrait of the author. Through the kindly interest of the
publisher the work proved extremely successful, and the proceeds of the
sale became her chief support in her old age, when unable to work through
feeble health and blindness. She enjoyed many comforts, thanks to the help
of Miss M. A. Scott Moncrieff, Mr. Andrew Elliot, and other warm-hearted
friends.
She died in 1870, having reached more than the allotted three score years
and ten, and was interred in the historic burial ground of Greyfriars'
Church, Edinburgh. Her last resting-place was for some years without any
monumental stone, but mainly through the exertions of Dr. Rogers, in May,
1885, a handsome cross was erected over her remains, simply bearing her
name, "Mary Pyper."
The Poet of the Fisher-Folk:
Mrs. Susan K. Phillips.
"The poet's little span is done,
The poet's work on earth goes on;
The hand that strikes the ringing chords,
The thought that clothes itself in words,
That chimes with every varying mood,
That gives a friend to solitude,
In flash or fire, in smiles or tears,
Wakes echoes for all coming years."
SUSAN K. PHILLIPS.
From the days of Caedmon, the first and greatest of the Anglo-Saxon poets,
to the present time, Yorkshire has produced many singers of power, whose
poetry has been read and appreciated far beyond the limits of England's
largest county. The lovely scenery, romantic legends, old-world tales, and
noble lives of its sons and daughters have had a marked influence on the
writings of its poets. We recognise this in the best work of Mr. Alfred
Austin, our present Poet Laureate, the sisters Bronte, Ebenezer Elliott,
the Corn Law Rhymer, and in a marked degree in Mrs. Susan K. Phillips,
whose well-spent life has just closed, and whose contributions to
literature have gained for her an honourable place amongst the authors of
the Victorian era. In the realm of poetry devoted to the joys and sorrows
of the fisher-folk, she has not been equalled.
How true are the words of Sir Henry Taylor, "The world knows nothing of
its greatest men," and we may add, less, if possible, of its greatest
women. Men have a better opportunity of becoming known, and their works
appreciated, than women, for men take a more active part in public affairs
which bring them in closer touch with the people. As a rule women are of a
more retiring disposition, and the result is that their merits are not so
readily recognised as those of men, yet their works are often more
ennobling and lasting.
Mrs. Phillips' best poems deal with various incidents in the lives of the
fisher-folk of the Yorkshire coast. She was a frequent visitor to Whitby,
and was beloved by the rough, but kind-hearted, fishermen. She was a true
friend to them in their time of sorrow, and in the hard lot of those who
are engaged on the perilous waters of the North Sea.
Before giving examples of the poetry of Mrs. Phillips, it may be well to
present a few details of her life. She was born in 1831 at Aldborough,
the _Isurium_ of the Romans, a village of great antiquity, not far distant
from Boroughbridge. Her father, the Rev. George Kelly Holdsworth, M.A.,
was vicar of the parish.
In 1856 she was married to Mr. H. Wyndham Phillips, a celebrated artist,
who has been dead some years. Mrs. Phillips resided for many years at
Green Royd, Ripon, but usually spent the summer months at Whitby.