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Literary Byways
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 hairWith 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 creepWhile Lubin is away.’Tis sad to think the days are goneWhen 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 deadNow 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 £15,000, 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 mindTo soothe the ills humanity must share,Deserve the grateful plaudits of mankind.Then to each human weakness buried hereEnvy 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 £9. 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 breakingMorning 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: —
“Let me go! the Day is breakingMorning bursts upon mine eye,Death this mortal frame is shaking,But the soul can never die!“There Flowers immortal bloomTo charm the ravished sight;And palms and harps await for thoseWho walk with Him in white.For they shall sing the songOf Moses, long foretold,When they have passed those pearly gatesAnd streets of burnished gold.The glories of the LambTheir rapturous strains shall raise —Eternal ages shall recordHis 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 riverWe shall see Him as He is —Resting in His love and favourOwning 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 presenta flower to a dying person“Come, sit beside my couch of death,With that fair summer flower,That I may taste its balmy breathBefore 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 thoseWho 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 wingIts 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 wingTo 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 highThe 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 powerShall charm my heart to rest.Then, Lord, let me depart from painTo 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 Cædmon, 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 Brontë, 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.
In 1865 her first volume of poetry appeared under the title of “Verses and 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 downOn 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 poorBut 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 leapsOn 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 shelfThe 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 sparedHer 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 crestEre they dash on the hollow sand.Never a sail to be seenOn 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 passBefore 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 weenOn the rock-bound coast may be.Put token and custom of Yule away,While widows and orphans weep and prayFor 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 blentIn 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 spokeGood 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 liesWhere 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: —
