The Quaker Poets of Great Britain and Ireland

Front matter

THE QUAKER POETS

OF

GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND

Rise of Society, etc.

BRIEF SKETCH OF THE RISE OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS, AND CHARACTERISTICS OF ITS POETRY.

J in his interesting work, “The Two Counties in their relation to general History,” says “that the birth of Quakerism is one of the landmark events in English History, and George Fox one of the master builders of English freedom and nationality, few persons will now be found to gainsay. . . . Never since the days of the early Christians had men and women been so cruelly aspersed. Suffering as great, and even greater, (or at least on a larger scale), there had before been, for the expression of religious opinions; but I do not know any case in the history of bygone times in which men and women, acting on a faith of benevolence and mercy, were at once so basely ill-treated, and so persistently calumniated, both in England and America, and by professed saints as well as by acknowledged sinners. The whippings and torture of pure and gentle women were less hard to bear than the falsehood which pursued those brave women to the grave, and which they knew would follow them, and stigmatise their names long after the grave was closed upon them.”

Anyone who has read George Fox’s Journal, or Sewel’s History of the People called Quakers, or any of the autobio memoirs of the early Friends, will recognise the truth of these statements. But we must remember that George Fox preached to the people of his time an absolutely new religion, the churches had grown into the habit of teaching the spiritual, truths of God as purely material facts: George Fox roughly drew aside the deluding material veil, and showed the spiritual reality; thus, as of old, taking away the rich livings of those who sold images of the God, and rousing the image makers and image sellers in all the sects against his teaching.

He found a large number of earnest folk indeed, dissatisfied with what Herbert Spencer calls "the current mythology of the day," full of repressed discontent, yearning, and enthusiasm, and amongst these his message spread like flame in dry grass. To these he pointed out the Eternal Light, which had burned on unseen and undreamed of in their souls, and had wakened their sleeping spirits, and set their empty hands blindly groping, and they passed on the blessed tidings to others, until the fire of God crept, sometimes slowly, choked back by men’s passions and interests, sometimes by leaps and bounds, over the length and breadth of England.

George Fox was born in 1624 at Drayton, in Leicestershire. His father was a weaver, and called by his neighbours "Righteous Christer" (his name was Christopher) his mother was Mary Lago, "of the stock of the martyrs." George Fox was a grave and thoughtful child, noticing all things around him with those large, clear eyes we see in his portraits, and deciding in his child’s heart that he would do differently when he became a man, and not give himself to the light and wanton ways of many people he saw around his home. As he grew up, many of the family’s friends advised that he should be made a priest, but he was finally put to learn shoe-making, with a man who dealt also in wool and cattle.

At the age of nineteen, he tells us very quaintly how he suddenly came to the parting of the ways, when at a Fair, his cousin and a friend, both religious “professors,” as they were called at that time, tried to induce the serious lad to drink too much ale. Taking a groat from his pocket, he laid it on the table, and left them; but that night he could not sleep; the spirit of God was calling to him again, as it had called to him since childhood, at certain times and places, warning him to be pure, to be honest, to be true inwardly as well as outwardly; now it seemed to bid him forsake all, and be a stranger for the love of truth. The youth had not then learned that the commands of God are spiritual laws, and for the spirit; and that however loathsome a dungeon, however uncongenial a company surrounds the body, the soul may be free, and in the presence of its Father. He therefore took the command literally, and left his parents and friends, wandering about from place to place in great trouble of mind, seeking light from priest after priest, and professor after professor, in vain.

After awhile, he went back to his people in Leicestershire, but we may understand how unsympathetic they were, from their advice to him to “get married,” or to “join the auxiliary band among the soldiers.” One priest to whom he tried to open his troubled soul, advised him to “take tobacco and sing psalms.”

After these fruitless attempts to find help and consolation from his relations and teachers, the youth wandered away by himself into the fields, often remaining out all night, sleeping in hollow trees, and having no companion but the Bible. Gradually, the light came to him, and he grew to recognise the spirituality of the Gospel, and although many temptations and doubts still assailed him, and he was often cast into darkness for a time, yet he never again lost the faith that Christ, and Christ only, could speak to his and every man’s condition, and that human learning and a humanly-appointed priesthood had nothing in common with the truths of God, which must be directly revealed from the Father of Spirits to the child-spirit in men and women.

Having discovered this great truth, he began to preach to others, and gradually drew around him a company of earnest and devoted men and women, ready to lay down their lives rather than yield to what they believed was treason against God.

The fundamental doctrines of Quakerism which he preached were those of the Inner Light and Immediate Revelation. The Light of God made manifest in Christ was, he taught, set as a seed in every soul, and if followed and watched in the quiet of a pure and peaceful life, would lead each one into communion with God the Spirit, who is also the Father of all spirits, and who would thus immediately (not mediately through church, sacrament, or priest) unite Himself with His obedient child, and lead that child into the knowledge of all truth. From these fundamentals sprang all the peculiar tenets which have distinguished the Society of Friends. The perfect equality of men and women, which, however much of a truism to-day, was a startling doctrine when George Fox preached it; the anointing of men and women to preach, by Christ himself, with no reference to theological training, or human appointment; the stern renunciation of all war, fighting, and , and the readiness to go to prison or death rather than bear arms, because they believed these things contrary to God’s will; the severe simplicity of dress, language, and manners, because they would be perfectly truthful and pure; the refusal to pay tithes or church-rates, or to keep holy days and festivals—all these things sprang from their belief in the Inner Light, and the capacity of the soul to receive messages direct from God, if kept perfectly pure and quiet waiting for His Inspiration to enter. The Quaker attitude towards the Scriptures is clearly shown in Margaret Fell’s account of the first sermon she heard George Fox preach, when he said:—“The Scriptures were the prophets’ words, and Christ’s and the apostles’ words, and what, as they spoke, they enjoyed and possessed, and had it from the Lord then what had any to do with the Scriptures, but as they came to the spirit that gave them forth. You will say, Christ saith this, and the apostles say this; but what canst thou say? Art thou a child of light, and hast walked in the light, and what thou speakest, is it inwardly from God?”

From this view of the Bible and Inspiration, it follows that the Friends never persecuted for religious belief, and they are thus an honourable exception to nearly all sects and saints. They believed so firmly in the absolute necessity of truth in thought, word, and action, that they dared not judge another’s spirit, to whom perchance had been revealed a different phase of truth to that their own mind could receive. It also follows from this view that Friends have no fear of what science, or art, or criticism, or any possible discovery or revelation, may make known. God reveals Himself through every avenue of nature and life, and although different manifestations may, through man’s imperfect sight, appear to clash, it is only an appearance; truth is God, and cannot be contradictory. Therefore the true Friend, he who has realised, as George Fox realised, the spiritual behind the material, has no fear that the spiritual can be injured or disproved; he knows that as no dissection of the human body can do away with that mysterious something, whether called soul, or spirit, or life, or merely the effect of physical causes: so no probing of our material surroundings can do away with the Deity, call it God, or Will, or merely Force. Therefore he can follow Science to its most daring conclusions, yield to art its fairest, wildest dreams, let criticism dissect the flower or the butterfly, and explain all it can, and yet recognise behind all these the God, who, unseen, guides them and inspires them all!

William Penn, Robert Barclay, Thomas Ellwood, and innumerable others of equal learning, probity, and talent, joined the new prophet, and at one time, during the half century after George Fox’s death, the Society of Friends numbered such a large proportion of the population that his dream of the conversion of the whole world to the knowledge of, and guidance by, the Inner Light in each spirit, seemed likely to be realised. Then the tide turned; the breadth of view, the wise tolerance, the universal loving idea of brotherhood, and the ardent enthusiasm of its founders, seem for awhile to have forsaken the Society of Friends, and they, too, lit their candles and retired into their cellars of orthodoxy and formalism. Quakerism seemed likely to die out like an exhausted torch; but, happily for the world, there is now springing up a new life, a new hope, within our borders, and the Society has begun to grow once again in numbers, and, what is of more importance, in spiritual energy and spiritual faith. Always occupying an honourable place among philanthropists, Friends are now taking the lead in many political questions, and the leaven wherewith they have been quietly leavening the world is shown by the tone of opinion on such subjects as war, slavery, opium, drink, social morality and purity, and all the other burning questions, not only of this day, but of all days. The various editions of the Friends’ “Book of Discipline” form probably the noblest rule of life and conduct ever formulated: on the highest interests of the spirit, as the smallest details of the body, this wonderful book suggests right conduct and conversation; and all in the tolerant, practical, unsectarian fashion, which is so strong and noble a characteristic of Quaker teaching.

Having thus briefly glanced at the rise and growth of the Society of Friends, and seen how beautiful and spiritual were its doctrines and practice, it is a little disappointing not to find that, living in such rare ether, the voices of its singers are no sweeter than others, and the songs they sing, though with strong characteristics, yet lack that sublimity, that breath of God, which we should certainly expect to find in them. Examples of fine poetry, of noble thought, beautiful diction, and divine power, will be found in the following pages, but they are fugitive and scattered; the stray sunbeams prisoned in a darkened chamber, not the full radiance of a summer noon on the mountain.

The reasons for this are not far to seek, I think, and the chief cause is undoubtedly the imperfection of the human medium: every poet, every artist, every musician, knows well how different is his realised work from his unrealised dream, from his ideal poem, picture, or sonata, and the higher we climb spiritually the more difficult becomes the reproduction in concrete form of our experience, our vision, our revelation. Who could express in cold language the glory and glow of that vision of the Light Within, which comes so vividly yet so inexpressibly to the soul that waits and longs and listens until the darkness parts like a storm-cloud, and the gleam of the guiding-flame shines forth? What pen could write, what voice could utter, the rapture that floods the patient spirit which, having thrown open all the doors and windows of its being and cleansed each dark corner and niche, waits, pure as the symbolical lily of the vale, and after awhile the King of Glory comes in, the God communes, spirit to spirit, with his worshipping child, and neither heaven nor earth nor hell, nor things present nor things to come, are anywhere, but God is all and Love is everything Is it possible when the Divine Visitant has passed, and the spirit thrilled to blissful silence, lies low in the Light once more, that it can rise up and indite a poem?

There is another cause also, and that is the instinctive shrinking of Friends from definitions, from formulating any creed or doctrine: they recognise the great truth that in the defining or formulating a belief, the belief itself is lost, and only its dead body remains. Therefore the early friends lived their poetry, and only occasionally wrote it down, and then their unaccustomed exercise made them awkward, and, striving after truth, they missed beauty, and so, as far as poetry went, missed truth too. Quaint and interesting as it is, the early Quakers’ verse is not poetry; but Friends now are writing poetry, as well as, I trust, living it, and have discovered that a suggestion, a glimmer, an all-pervading yet invisible spirit, which gives their verse a peculiar and sweet difference, is all they can at present hope to win from words and letters. But evolution is a universal law, and as spirit and intellect brighten and broaden, symbols for their expression will amplify and enlarge: the Quaker poetry of the future will, I venture to prophesy, be no longer a disappointment and a surprise; but will be a mirror in which the Light is reflected, a channel for the expression of divine communion, and a golden chain between the angels who sing continually and the men and women whose trembling lips are being touched with the living fire, which will give power of utterance and breath of Inspiration.

Even as it is, Quaker poetry has a subtle charm in its perfect peace and acquiescence with the will of God. Whittier has touched on the faith of Quakerism with beautiful tenderness and truth, and also with real poetical power, and many of our English and Irish poets included in this volume have done the same in a lesser degree; but they seem to have recognised that the purely human, with occasional gleams of the Divine, is the fittest subject-matter for poetry, and inasmuch as they have done this, the peculiar aroma of Quakerism has been weakened. The aim of a Quaker poet in the future will be to show the influence of the “Christ in us,” of the divine manifesting itself in the human, and the developments that follow this manifestation. There will no longer be any timidity of expression, but the whole web of many-coloured life will be laid before us with Shakespere’s grasp of character and knowledge of motive, but with a clearer judgment and larger vision than even he possessed. The characteristics of Quaker poetry in the past have been a fear to tread in holy places, a determination not to tread, or even look in passing, at evil ones, and a consequently limited view of the world and human passion, whether for good or evil; a too great restraint, in fact, because of a mistaken feeling of reverence; but the essentially Quaker doctrine of the Light that lighteth every man would, had it been fully realised, have prevented this. If the light is there, present, even though invisible, in every soul, why need one fear to drag every feeling, thought, and action of that soul forth, and shed the light upon them? An undeveloped germ of the divine lies buried in every spirit, to be developed, if not in this life, then in some following existence: being a portion of God it can never be destroyed, and if God is not afraid to dwell in the distorted and loathsome prison-house of a sinful human soul, why should brother souls be afraid to look and show forth?

The poet should also be a prophet, and should sing to each and all, “Arise, shine, for thy light has come!” He should bring his beautiful dreams before the people in such wise that they recognise their truth, and so will strive to realise them in their everyday life. He should show the Light falling on the dark places of the earth and purifying them. All this and much more the future Quaker poet will do, and be; and perhaps he may even now be walking amongst us, seeing what we see, but how differently; hearing what we hear, but with what added overtones, and writing that “Divine Comedy,” and “Paradise Regained” of the future, which shall be the prelude and herald-song of the manifestation of the Sons of God.

Adams, Jessie

T talented young writer was born at Ipswich, in 1863, and educated at private schools, partly there, and partly at York, whither her family removed in 1878. In 1889 her father settled with his family near London, first at Tottenham, afterwards at Twickenham, where they still reside.

In 1892, Jessie Adams published (Digby Long & Co.), a clever social satire, called “A good little Book for grown up Boys and Girls,” by Squire Tom, Jun. This little volume was received with much appreciative praise, and I hope the writer will give us some more glimpses of what is seen and noted by those innocent, but extremely clear-sighted, child-eyes of Squire Tom, Jun. She has also written much charming verse of a more serious character.

poem

Live they who deem it is unblest to wander, And mark my homeless lot with kindly sigh? With pity I the worldling’s portion ponder, Whom Fate, however lavish, must deny The bliss of such a vagrant soul as I.

Who, for my portion, take the woods and valleys, The fresh, sweet pastures and the pleasant shade, The countless buds in Spring’s celestial chalice, The midnight skies with diamond stars inlaid, The golden harvest-field and leafy glade.

In unsubstantial dreams man seeks his pleasure, Then mourns the broken idol of his thought; I ask my Maker but for light and leisure, And a pure heart with noble reverence fraught, The charms of this sweet glowing earth to court.

And every simple joy in mercy given, That cheers my wandering youth and makes it blest, May it accord with this sweet earth and heaven, As beautiful and holy as the rest, So runs my dream, and these my hopes confessed.

poem2

From “A Good Little Book for the Grown-up Boys and Girls.”

When Jack and Willie shout and stamp, Aunt calls them “Naughty Boys;” But Captain Splinter always makes A most tremendous noise.

He laughed so loud, he talked so fast, His voice went through my head, But Mabel laughed, and clapped her hands, At every word he said.

If any fun is going on, The Captain will be in it, But no one seems to box his ears And say, “Be still this minute.”

I don’t know how it is that we Can never make a noise,

And laugh and play together gay, Like grown up girls and boys.

The Captain’s very well, but we Can’t quite make out his ways, And was he kind to do the things, He did in battle days.

For Dr. Dryer told us once That I must never fight, But when a boy pulled my left ear, To turn to him the right.

But Captain Splinter told me how He fought against the Blacks, They stood like nine-pins in a row, He sent them on their backs.

He galloped on them afterwards, And mashed their bodies flat, Did no one say, “My little boy, It’s naughty to do that ?”

Why is it things are different For little boys and girls; It isn’t as it ought to be (That’s my idea and Pearl’s).

Us children always have, you know, To say our prayers at night, But Mabel says, when she’s so tired, That she forgets them quite.

The holidays big people get. One every day, I think,

They must forget their tables soon, I’d say as soon as wink.

But no one ever dodges them, Or asks them nine times eight, Or makes them write their old mistakes Ten times upon a slate.

Baker, Gulielma A. Wheeler

T gifted woman was born at Edgbaston, Birmingham, in 1831, and after an early education under the wise and tender care of Rachel Barnes, of Waterford, went to Ackworth, and finally to F. Dymond’s school at Berkhampstead.

In 1859, she married Morris Baker, of Birmingham, and died in 1886.

Her poems, which were collected and printed for private circulation after her death, by her husband, under the title of “The Consecration of the Temple,” are many of them very beautiful, and all of them are full of that tender thoughtfulness and bright culture for which she seems to have been so remarkable.

poem

The King bowed low on his brazen throne Where bright on Moriah’s fair summit shone, In the dazzling light of an eastern sun, The glorious House of the Holy One; And the countless myriads breathless knelt, Around the cloud where Jehovah dwelt, While ascended the monarch’s prayer:—

O Lord, God of Israel, who reignest above, Peerless in justice and perfect in love, God of my fathers, who walked in Thy ways, Look on the house I have built for Thy praise; And when prayer from this temple is borne toward the sky,

Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

If man, to whom evil and weakness belong, His friend or his neighbour shall wilfully wrong, Yet repent of his sin toward his brother and Thee, And hoping for grace to Thy footstool shall flee, If his prayer from this temple is borne toward the sky, Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

If Israel (whose fountain of power Thou art) Her dependence forget in the pride of her heart: And fighting should fall ’neath the enemy’s sword; Yet humbly repentant should return to her Lord, If her prayer from this temple be borne toward the sky, Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

If Thy people be chastened with dearth in their land, Or pestilence spreadeth his withering hand, Whatever the sickness or sorrow may be, If they turn from their sin and seek pardon of Thee, And their prayer from this temple be borne toward the sky, Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

If we sin (and Thou knowest we are but as dust), And kindle Thine anger eternally just, The Jew or the Stranger, the bond or the free, Who e’er may seek blessing and pardon of Thee, If their prayer from this temple be borne toward the sky, Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

And now, oh Thou God of Salvation, appear! With the beautiful Ark of Thy Covenant here; Oh! hallow this temple and make it Thy rest, Let its priests in the robe of Thy glory be drest, Let the saints Thou hast saved in Thy fathomless love Behold Thee descending in light from above, And shout—That their joy is in Thee.

So Solomon spoke, and his prayer being ended, On his offering fire from Heaven descended, And loud through the temple high glorying rang, While the people in one mighty utterance sang— “Oh praise ye Jehovah! eternally praise, For good are His purposes, great are His ways, And His mercy abideth for aye.”

Lord! Thou hast seen how that temple decayed, Not a stone may now trace where Thine altars were laid; The glories of Moses are faded away, And our Monarch, Thy Jesus, has taught us to say— When prayer thro’ His Spirit is borne toward the sky, Then hear Thou from Heaven, Thy dwelling-place high, And hearing, oh Father, forgive!

Ball, William

W was born in January, 1801, at Bridgewater, in Somerset, where his father’s family had resided for several generations. He was a delicate child, inheriting from his mother an affection of the heart which darkened his earlier years, and caused him, in a special manner, to be loved and cared for by that mother and his eldest sister, who strove in all ways to smooth the delicate child’s path, and protect him from the trials incidental to boyhood and youth. In his twenty-second year he was articled to W. L. White, of Yeovil, who had one of the best practices in the county, and was besides Lieutenant-Colonel of the Somerset Local Militia. While with him William Ball entered freely into society, and his wit, vivacity, and charming manners made him very popular.

In July, 1827, he finally left Yeovil, and in 1828, was admitted as a solicitor. The same year he commenced practice at Bristol, in partnership with a friend of his uncle’s, Dr. Gawen Ball, and as his father and unmarried sister had removed there, he again became a member of the home-circle. In 1834, he married Anne Dale, and seems to have been exceptionally fortunate in gaining such a wife. Although possessed of an ample fortune and great personal attractions, together with a charm of manner which rendered her universally popular, she remained perfectly simple and unassuming, and won the hearts of all with whom she came in contact by her kindliness and sympathy. Their marriage was a singularly happy one, and when, in 1861, her long delicacy ended in death, his grief was profound, and life seemed to him a long funeral procession. After their marriage, Willilam and Anne Ball went to live at Northcote House, Durdham Down, Bristol. In the following year, however, William Ball, having given up the practice of law, they took Ivy Cottage, Rydal, and by a succession of alterations made it into their well-known charming residence, Glen Rothay. The Wordsworths were their next door neighbours there, Dr. Arnold and his family but a mile distant, Mrs. Fletcher, and her interesting daughter, Lady Richardson, wife of the Arctic explorer, lived within a few miles, and Hartley Coleridge dwelt in Nab Cottage, by Rydal Lake, so that the charms of the beautiful surrounding scenery were heightened by intellectual enjoyment and social pleasures. After his wife’s death, in 1861, William Ball spent much time in travelling, in Scotland and elsewhere, seeking to soothe his ever-present sorrow; at length, in 1871, finding his health much benefited by the air of Tain, in Ross-shire, he bought a small house there, Alderbrae, where he passed much of his time, until July, 1878, when he set out on a short excursion, planned for the gratification of an old servant. On reaching Aberdeen he went out, according to his usual custom, to take a Turkish bath; while taking the bath he became unconscious, and remained so, with brief intervals of recovery, until the next morning, when he expired.

He published in 1825 in 1827 in 1828 in 1864 and in 1865

The Balls were extremely hospitable, and both at Glen Rothay and Bruce Grove, Tottenham, loved to entertain large parties of Friends and others, and the gracious and graceful hostess and the witty and vivacious host will be lovingly remembered by many who read this. He felt often a physical need for solitude, probably owing to the heritage of a delicate heart, and in his later years rarely appeared among his guests, excepting at meal times.

From a child he had been both a diligent reader and writer of verse, and his solitary hours were busily occupied with study and composition. Many of his poems are very beautiful, but it is said in the notice of him in the Annual Monitor, for 1879, from which much of this sketch is derived, that his “best productions were his humourous ones, thrown off on the spur of the moment to amuse himself and his friends, and bubbling over from beginning to end with genuine wit and drollery. Their quaint verbal conceits, humorous juxtapositions of grave and gay, sly parodies of Quaker phraseology, and a hundred other witty devices, made these jeux d’esprit the delight of his intimate friends.”

He was recorded a minister in 1846.

There is a pure and tranquil wave, That rolls around the throne of love, Whose waters gladden as they lave The peaceful shores above.

While streams, which on that tide depend, Steal from those heavenly shores away, And on this desert world descend O’er weary lands to stray;

The pilgrim faint, and nigh to sink Beneath his load of earthly woe, Refreshed beside their verdant brink, Rejoices in their flow.

There, O my soul, do thou repair And hover o’er the hallowed spring, To drink the crystal wave, and there To lave thy wearied wing !

There droop that wing, when far it flies From human care, and toil, and strife, And feed by those still streams, that rise Beneath the Tree of Life!