Ballads," and the welcome given to it induced her to issue, five years
later, "Yorkshire Songs and Ballads." A still more important volume was
given to the world in 1878, from the well-known house of Messrs. Macmillan
& Co., entitled, "On the Seaboard." The critical press were not slow to
recognise the sterling merits of this book, which soon passed into a
second edition. On this work the reputation of Mrs. Phillips mainly rests.
Some of the poems had previously appeared in the pages of _Macmillan's
Magazine_, _All the Year Round_, _Cassell's Magazine_, and other leading
periodicals. They had been widely quoted in the press on both sides of the
Atlantic. "These poems," said the reviewer, in a leading London daily,
"suggest a recollection of Charles Kingsley, but the writer has a voice
and song of her own, which is full of yearning pathetic sweetness, and a
loving human sympathy with the anxious homes of the poor toiler of the
sea. The poems evince a true simplicity of style which is only another
word for sincerity." It was stated by another critic that "This volume of
verses stands out in bright relief from the average poetry of the day. All
is pure, womanly, in a setting of most graceful and melodious verse."
Other notices were equally good. In 1884, Messrs. J. S. Fletcher & Co.,
Leeds, published "Told in a Coble, and other Poems." Many of those
relating to Whitby were warmly welcomed, and added not a little to her
fame. This is her last volume of collected poems, but not a few have since
been written and printed in the periodicals, and might, with advantage to
the world of letters, be collected, and reappear in book form.
Mrs. Phillips was for a long period one of the honorary secretaries of the
Ripon Home for Girls, and did much useful work for this excellent
institution. Says one who knew her well, "She was extremely generous in
disposition, and her warm-hearted liberality and her kindly interest in
those in distress endeared her to all classes." On May 25th, 1897, she
died at Sea Lawn, Torquay, having reached the age of sixty-six years.
Instead of giving brief quotations from several pieces, it will be perhaps
the better plan to reproduce at length two or three of the author's poems,
and enable our readers to form their own conclusions. We may not quote the
best of the writer's work, but indicate her style. No one, we think, can
read lines like the following without being moved, and his sympathy
extended to the sorrowing fisher-folk:--
LOST WITH ALL HANDS.
"'Lost, with all hands, at sea.'
The Christmas sun shines down
On the headlands that frown o'er the harbour wide,
On the cottages, thick on the long quay side,
On the roofs of the busy town.
'Lost, with all hands, at sea.'
The dread words sound like a wail,
The song of the waits, and the clash of the bells,
Ring like death-bed dirges or funeral knells,
In the pauses of the gale.
Never a home so poor
But it brightens for good Yule Tide,
Never a heart too sad or too lone,
But the holy Christmas mirth 'twill own,
And his welcome will provide.
Where the sea-coal fire leaps
On the fisherman's quiet hearth,
The Yule Log lies for his hand to heave,
While he hastes to his bride on Christmas Eve,
In the flush of his strength and mirth.
High on the little shelf
The tall Yule candle stands,
For the ship is due ere the Christmas night,
And it waits to be duly set alight,
By the coming father's hands.
Long has the widow spared
Her pittance for warmth and bread,
That her sailor boy, when he home returns,
May joy, that her fire brightly burns,
Her board is so amply spread.
The sharp reef moans and moans,
The foam on the sand lies hoar;
The 'sea-dog' flickers across the sky,
The north wind whistles shrill and high
'Mid the breakers' ominous roar.
But on the great pier head,
The grey-haired sailors stand,
While the black clouds pile away in the west,
And the spray flies free from the billow's crest
Ere they dash on the hollow sand.
Never a sail to be seen
On the long grim tossing swell;
Only drifting wreckage of canvas and spar,
That sweep with the waves o'er the harbour bar,
Their terrible tale to tell.
Did a vision of Christmas pass
Before their drowning eyes?
When 'mid rent of rigging and crash of mast,
The brave ship, smote by the mighty blast,
Went down 'neath the pitiless skies.
No Christmas joy I ween
On the rock-bound coast may be.
Put token and custom of Yule away,
While widows and orphans weep and pray
For the 'hands lost out at sea.'"
Still in the pathetic strain we will give another poem. In quoting this we
feel we are not doing full justice to Mrs. Phillips, but it at all events
shows her deep devotion to the race she greatly helped in their many
trials.
THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL.
"Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made,
Where, over the daisies and clover-bells, the birchen branches swayed;
Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,
And under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune;
For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,
Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.
The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, and the priest's low tone
were blent
In the breeze that blew from the moorland, all laden with country scent;
But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains,
Or of lilies deep in the wild wood, or roses gemming the lanes,
Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed men who gathered about the
grave,
Where lay the mate who had fought with them the battle of wind and wave.
How boldly he steered the coble across the foaming bar,
When the sky was black to the eastward and the breakers white on the
scar!
How his keen eye caught the squall ahead, how his strong hand furled the
sail,
As we drove through the angry waters before the raging gale!
How cheery he kept the long dark night; and never a parson spoke
Good words like those he said to us when at last the morning broke!
So thought the dead man's comrades, as silent and sad they stood,
While the prayer was prayed, the blessing said, and the dull earth
struck the wood;
And the widow's sob, and the orphan's wail, jarred through the joyous
air;
How could the light wind o'er the sea blow on so fresh and fair?
How could the gay waves laugh and leap, landward o'er sand and stone,
While he, who knew and loved them all, lay lapped in clay alone?
But for long, when to the beetling heights the snow-tipped billows roll,
When the cod, and the skate, and dogfish dart around the herring shoal;
When gear is sorted and sail is set, and the merry breezes blow,
And away to the deep-sea harvest the stalwart reapers go,
A kindly sigh and a hearty word, they will give to him who lies
Where the clover springs, and the heather blooms beneath the northern
skies."
We regard the following lines on a well-known division of East Yorkshire,
as a successful effort on the part of Mrs. Phillips. An August day spent
in rambling amongst the leafy lanes of Holderness cannot easily be
forgotten. There is a lack of romantic and rugged scenery, but the old
farmsteads nestling amongst the trees and the fields of golden grain have
a beauty not surpassed in many parts of old England:--
IN HOLDERNESS.
"The wind blew over the barley, the wind blew over the wheat,
Where the scarlet poppy toss'd her head, with the bindweed at her feet;
The wind blew over the great blue sea, in the golden August weather,
Till the tossing corn and the tossing waves showed shadow and gleam
together.
The wind blew over the barley, the wind blew over the oats,
The lark sprung up in the sunny sky, and shook his ringing notes;
Over the wealth of the smiling land, the sweep of the glittering sea,
'Which is the fairest?' he sang, as he soared o'er the beautiful
rivalry.
And with a fuller voice than the wind, a deeper tone than the bird,
Came the answer from the solemn sea, that Nature, pausing, heard,--
'The corn will be garnered, the lark will be hushed at the frown of the
wintry weather,
The sun will fly from the snow-piled sky, but I go on for ever!'"
It would be a pleasure to reproduce some of her poems dealing with the
romantic legends of her native shire, but the space at our disposal does
not permit this; they may, however, be found in her published works. We
close with some pretty lines on the bells she loved so well:--
THE WHITBY BELLS.
"The Whitby bells, so full and free,
They ring across the sunny sea,
That the great ocean god, who dwells
'Mid coral groves and silvery shells,
Wakes to the summons joyously.
O'er the purpling moors and ferny dells
Sound the sweet chimes, and bird and bee
Pause, hearing over land and lea
The Whitby bells.
And as the mellow music swells
One listener to the Whitby bells
Feels all the days that used to be,
Speak in the blended harmony;
They shrine life--death--and their farewells,
The Whitby bells."
A Poet and Novelist of the People:
Thomas Miller.
On the roll of self-taught authors, Thomas Miller is entitled to a high
place, and amongst Victorian men of letters he holds an honourable
position. He enriched English literature with many charming works on
country life and scenes. Although his career was not eventful, it is not
without interest, furnishing a notable instance of a man surmounting
difficulties and gaining distinction.
He was born on August 31st, 1808, at Gainsborough, a quaint old
Lincolnshire town, situated on the banks of the river Trent. His father
held a good position, being a wharfinger and shipowner; he died, however,
when his son was a child, without making provision for his wife, who had
to pass some years in pinching poverty. Young Thomas received a very
limited education at school, and according to his own account he only
learned "to write a very indifferent hand, and to read the Testament
tolerably." His playmate was Thomas Cooper, the Chartist and Poet, and
this notable man, in his autobiography, has much to say about the boyhood
of our hero. Mrs. Miller, to provide for her family, had to sew sacks.
Says Thomas Cooper, "She worked early and late for bread for herself and
her two boys; but would run in, now and then, at the back door, and join
my mother for a few whiffs at the pipe. And then away they would go again
to work, after cheering each other, to go stoutly through the battle of
life."
"They bent their wits, on one occasion," continues Mr. Cooper, "to
disappoint the tax-gatherer. He was to 'distrain' on a certain day; but
beds, chairs, and tables were moved secretly in the night to blind Thomas
Chatterton's; and when the tax-gatherer came next day to execute his
threat, there was nothing left worth his taking. The poor were often
driven to such desperate schemes to save all they had from ruin, in those
days; and the curse upon taxes and the tax-gatherer was in the mouths of
hundreds--for those years of war were terrific years of suffering for the
poor, notwithstanding their shouts and rejoicings when Matthew Guy rode
in, with ribbons flying, bringing news of another 'glorious victory.'"
"Sometimes," adds Mr. Cooper, "Miller's mother and mine were excused
paying some of the taxes by appealing to the magistrates, a few of whom
respected them for their industry, and commiserated their hardships. But
the petition did not always avail."
In spite of poverty, Miller's childhood was not without its sunshine, and
many days spent in the lanes and fields were not the least enjoyable of
his pleasures. He was first engaged as a farmer's boy at Thornock, a
village near his native town. The trade of basket-making was subsequently
learned, and when quite a young man he married. He migrated to Nottingham,
and obtained employment as a journeyman at a basket-manufactory in the
town.
"At this period," says Dr. Spencer T. Hall, "the Sherwood Forester," "he
had a somewhat round but intelligent face, a fair complexion, full, blue,
speaking eyes, and a voice reminding one of the deeper and softer tones of
a well-played flute. Of all who saw him at his work, it is probable that
scarcely one knew how befitting him was the couplet of Virgil, where he
says:
'Thus while I sung, my sorrows I deceived,
And bending osiers into baskets weaved.'"
He had the good fortune to become known to Mr. Thomas Bailey, a man of
literary taste, the writer of several works, and father of the more famous
Philip James Bailey, author of "Festus." Mr. Bailey recognised at once the
merits of a collection of poems submitted to him by Miller, was the means
of the pieces being printed, and did all in his power to obtain a
favourable welcome for the volume. The book was entitled "Songs of Sea
Nymphs;" it contained only forty-eight pages, and was sold at two
shillings. In his preface the author stated: "I am induced to offer these
extracts from unpublished poems in their present state solely because I
cannot find any publisher who will undertake, without an extensive list of
subscribers, the risk of publishing a volume of poetry written by an
individual whose humble station in life buries him in obscurity." He next
explains that the object of the work is to elicit the opinion of his
country-men as to the merits or demerits of his verses--which he terms
"trifles." Mr. Miller says, "Concerning the poems, I have only to add that
the three first songs are extracts from an unpublished poem entitled,
'Hero and Leander, a Tale of the Sea.' The scene is chiefly confined to
Neptune's palace beneath the waves. The other extracts are from 'Adelaide
and Reginald, a Fairy Tale of Bosworth Field.' I am aware that the date is
too modern for fairies; however, who can prove it? for so long as a barren
circle is found in the velvet valleys of England, tradition will ever call
it a fairy-ring. Having launched my little bark on the casual ocean of
public opinion, not without anxiety, I leave it to its fate.--Thomas
Miller, Basket-maker, Nottingham, August, 1832." The volume was the means
of making him many friends, and enabling him to start business on his own
account. He had a work-room in the Long Row, and a stall on a Saturday in
the market-place. Here is a picture of the stall from Spencer Hall's
graphic pen:--"There was poetry in his very baskets. A few coarser ones
were there, but others of more beautiful pattern, texture, and colour,
flung a sort of bloom over the rest; and the basket-maker and his wares
well-matched each other, as he would take his cigar from his mouth, and
ask some pretty market maiden, in his cheeriest tones, as she lingered and
looked, if she would not like to purchase. As a youth, I was wont to stand
there chatting with him occasionally, and to hear him, between customers,
pour out the poetry of Coleridge and other great minds, with an
appreciance and a melody that such authors might themselves have listened
to with pride and delight."
He next moved to London, hoping to follow a literary career by
contributing at the commencement to the monthly magazines. Writing gave
Miller great pleasure, but put little money in his purse, and to obtain
bread for his household he had to work at his trade in the metropolis.
Friends at first were few, and he had none able to help him to literary
employment. He had journeyed to London alone, and arrived there with
seven-and-sixpence in his pocket, intending to send for his wife and
family when brighter days dawned. Some time passed before there was a
break in the dark clouds which hung over him. Here are particulars of the
dawn of better times. "One day," says Mr. Joseph Johnson, in _Manchester
Notes and Queries_, "when bending over his baskets, he was surprised by a
visit from Mr. W. H. Harrison, editor of _Friendship's Offering_, who had
fortunately read one of Miller's poems, and had become impressed with the
ability and original talent of the author. The result of the interview was
a request that the basket-maker would write a poem for the _Offering_.
Miller, at the time, was so poor that he had neither paper, pens, nor ink,
nor the means to buy these needful materials for his poem. He tided over
the difficulty by using the whity-brown paper in which his sugar had been
wrapped, and mixed some soot with water for his ink; the back of a bellows
serving him for a desk, upon which he wrote his charming poem, entitled,
'The Old Fountain.' His letter to the editor of the _Offering_ was sealed
with moistened bread. The poem was accepted, and two guineas immediately
returned. It is simply impossible to imagine the rapture which would fill
the breast of the poor poet on receipt of so large a sum." Says Miller, "I
never had been so rich in my life before, and I fancied some one would
hear of my fortune and try and rob me of it; so, at night, I barred the
door, and went to bed, but did not sleep all night, from delight and
fear."
We reproduce the lines as a fair example of Miller's poetry:--
THE OLD FOUNTAIN.
"Deep in the bosom of a silent wood,
Where an eternal twilight dimly reigns,
A sculptured fountain hath for ages stood,
O'erhung with trees; and still such awe remains
Around the spot, that few dare venture there--
The babbling water spreads such superstitious fear.
It looks so old and grey, with moss besprent,
And carven imag'ry, grotesque or quaint;
Eagles and lions are with dragons blent
And cross-winged cherub; while o'er all a Saint
Bends grimly down with frozen blown-back hair,
And on the dancing spray its dead eyes ever stare.
From out a dolphin's mouth the water leaps
And frets, and tumbles to its bed of gloom;
So dark the umbrage under which it sweeps,
Stretching in distance like a dreary tomb;
With murmurs fraught, and many a gibbering sound,
Gurgle, and moan, and hiss, and plash, and fitful bound.
Oh! 'tis a spot where man might sit and weep
His childish griefs and petty cares away;
Wearied Ambition might lie there and sleep,
And hoary Crime in silence kneel to pray.
The fountain's voice, the day-beams faintly given,
Tell of that starlight land we pass in dreams to heaven.
There, lovely forms in elder times were seen,
And snowy kirtles waved between the trees;
And light feet swept along the velvet green,
While the rude anthem rose upon the breeze,
When round the margin England's early daughters
Worshipped the rough-hewn Saint that yet bends o'er the waters.
And some bent priest, whose locks were white as snow,
Would raise his trembling hands and voice to pray;
All would be hushed save that old fountain's flow
That rolling bore the echoes far away;
Perchance a dove, amid the foliage dim,
Might raise a coo, then pause to list their parting hymn.
That old grey abbey lies in ruins now,
The wild-flowers wave where swung its pond'rous door;
Where once the altar rose, rank nettles grow,
The anthem's solemn sound is heard no more;
'Tis as if Time had laid down to repose,
Drowsed by the fountain's voice, which through the forest flows."
He wrote and worked at his trade; his poetry won for him many admirers,
amongst them Lady Blessington, Thomas Moore, Samuel Rogers, the
banker-poet, and others, and he was welcomed to their houses. He remarked,
"Often have I been sitting in Lady Blessington's splendid drawing-room in
the morning, and talking and laughing as familiarly as in the old house at
home; and on the same evening I might have been seen on Westminster
Bridge, between an apple vendor and a baked-potato merchant, vending my
baskets."
In 1836, he wrote "A Day in the Woods," consisting of a series of
sketches, stories, and poems. The reading public welcomed the work, and
the critical press recognised it as the production of a man of undoubted
genius. He continued to make friends, including "L. E. L.," the poetess,
Campbell, Leigh Hunt, Jerrold, Disraeli and Thackeray. The merits and
success of his book caused Colburn to make him a tempting offer to write
a three-volume novel, and in 1838 appeared "Royston Gower." The work was
so popular that the same publisher commissioned him to write two more
novels, namely, in 1839, "Fair Rosamond," and in 1840, "Lady Jane Grey."
He produced other novels, perhaps the best known is "Gideon Giles." These
works are now to be obtained in cheap form, and have been most extensively
circulated.
He was assisted and encouraged by Rogers, Lady Blessington and others, to
commence as a publisher and bookseller, and was enabled by their kindness
to purchase back from Colburn the copyrights of his novels. His place of
business was 9, Newgate Street, opposite Christ's Hospital, and from here
he issued several of his own books besides works by well-known authors.
Miller did not succeed in business, and gave it up to devote all his time
to writing books and contributing to the periodicals and newspapers. He
wrote for the _Athenaeum_, _Literary Gazette_, _Chambers' Journal_,
_Household Words_, _Boys' Own Magazine_, the _Illustrated London News_,
and other monthlies and weeklies. Many leading articles from his facile
pen appeared in the _Morning Post_. His papers on the months in Chambers'
"Book of Days," which describe the varied aspects of the country during
the year, have been reproduced in an elegant volume bearing the title of
"All Round the Year."
Mr. J. Potter Briscoe, F.R.H.S., kindly supplies me with the following
list of books by Thomas Miller:--"All Round the Year," 1860; "Birds, Bees,
and Blossoms," 1867, 1869 (see also "Original Poems," etc.); "British Wolf
Hunter," 1859; "Boys' Own Library," 6 vols., 1856; "Boys' Spring, Summer,
Autumn, and Winter Books," 1847, 1881; "Boys' Own Country Book, Seasons,
and Rural Rides," 1867, 1868; "Brampton among the Roses," 1863; "Child's
Country Book," 1867; "Child's Country Story Book," 1867, 1870, 1881;
"Common Wayside Flowers," 1841, 1873; "Country Year book," 2 vols., 1847,
1 vol., 1836; "Day in the Woods," 1836; "Desolate Hall," (in "Friendship's
Offering") 1838; "Dorothy Dovedale's Trials," 2 vols., 1864; "English
Country Life," 1858, 1859, 1864; "Fair Rosamond," 3 vols., 1839, 1 vol.,
1862; "Fortune and Fortitude," 1848; "Fred and the Gorillas," 1869, 1873;
"Fred Holdsworth" (In _Illustrated London News_), 1852, 1873; "Gaboon,"
1868; "Gideon Giles, the Roper," 1840, 1841, 1859, 1867; "Godfrey
Malvern," 1842, 1843, 1844, 1847, 1858, 1877; "Goody Platts and her two
Cats," 1864; "History of the Anglo-Saxons," 1848, 1850, 1852, 1856;
"Jack-of-All-Trades," 1867; "Lady Jane Grey, a romance," 3 vols., 1840, 1
vol., 1861, 1864; "Langley-on-the-Lea; or, Love and Duty," 1858; "Life and
[remarkable] Adventures of a Dog," 1856, 1870; "Lights and Shades of
London Life" (forming vol. 5 of Reynolds' _Mysteries of London_); "Little
Blue Hood," 1863; "My Father's Garden," 1866, 1867; "No Man's Land, etc.,"
1860, 1861, 1863; "Old Fountain" (in _Friendship's Offering_, etc.);
"Original Poems for my Children," 1850 (see also "Birds," etc.); "Our Old
Town" (Gainsborough) 1857, 1858; "Old Park Road," 1870, 1876; "Picturesque
Sketches of London," 1852 (in the _Illustrated London News_); "Pictures of
Country Life," 1846, 1847, 1853; "Poacher and other Pictures of Country
Life," 1858; "Poems," 1841, 1848, 1856; "Poetical Language of Flowers,"
1838, 1847, 1853, 1856, 1865, 1869, 1872; "Royston Gower," 3 vols., 1830,
1 vol. 1858, 1860, 1874; "Rural Sketches," 1839, 1861; "Sketches of
English Country Life"; "Songs for British Riflemen," 1860; "Songs of the
Sea Nymphs," 1857; "Songs of the Seasons," 1865; "Sports and Pastimes of
Merry England," 1859 (?-56); "Summer Morning," 1844; "Tales of Old
England," 1849, 1881; "Village Queen," 1851, 1852; "Watch the End" (second
edition of "My Father's Garden") 1869, 1871, 1873; "Year Book of Country
Life," 1855; "Year Book of the Country," 1837; "Young Angler," 1862.
The foregoing volumes are in the Nottingham Public Library, and the
librarian, Mr. Briscoe is to be congratulated on bringing together
Miller's works in the city closely associated with his career. In Paxton
Hood's "Peerage of Poverty," a fine estimate of Miller's ability as an
author is given, though very little about his life is recorded. On the
25th of October, 1874, he died at his residence, a small house in West
Street, Kensington, leaving a son and two daughters. Shortly before his
death an effort was made to get him placed on the Civil List. Mr. Disraeli
was not able to include him at the time, but, with his well-known
generosity, made him an allowance from some other fund. Miller only
received one quarterly instalment before passing away.
The Cottage Countess.