Part 9

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.

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 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."