As a poetry-fan with a family connection to the Isle of Man, I have often wished that T[homas]. E[dward]. Brown (1830-1897) were more celebrated off the island than he is. Actually, what I wish is that he were more deserving of off-island celebration than he is. His Collected Poems, alas, embodies many of the excesses of Victorian verse, although he celebrates a place that I love and--in his long narratives--conveys the dialect of English spoken by the Manx in his day.

In perusing Brown last night, I was struck by this poem, which recounts the meeting, in the afterlife, of two real-life adversaries. "Wilson" was an island authority, who sentenced the title character--"a notorious strumpet" with a significant "defect of understanding"--to prison, public humiliation, and worse in 1713 and 1718, after the births of her third and fourth illegitimate children. By "worse" I mean this: Catherine Kinrade was twice bound and "dragged after a boat in the sea at Peel," although the boat's captains had to be forced to carry out the punishment and although her clergyman opposed it. I can't vouch for the historicity of all this, but Brown attaches lengthy epigraphs...

CATHERINE KINRADE

None spake when Wilson stood before
The throne--
And He that sat thereon
Spake not; and all the presence floor
Burnt deep with blushes, as the angels cast
Their faces downwards. Then at last,
Awe-stricken, he was 'ware
How on that emerald stair
A woman sat, divinely clothed in white,
And at her knees four cherubs bright,
That laid
Their heads within her lap. Then, trembling, he essayed
To speak:--"Christ's mother, pity me!"
Then answered she:--
"Sir, I am Catherine Kinrade."
Even so--the poor dull brain,
Drenched in unhallowed fire,
It had no vigour to restrain--
God's image trodden in the mire
Of impious wrongs--whom last he saw
Gazing with animal awe
Before his harsh tribunal, proved unchaste,
Incorrigible, woman's form defaced
To uttermost ruin by no fault of hers--
So gave her to the torturers;
And now--some vital spring adjusted,
Some faculty that rusted
Cleansed to legitimate use--
Some undeveloped action stirred, some juice
Of God's distilling dropt into the core
Of all her life--no more
In that dark grave entombed,
Her soul had bloomed
To perfect woman--swift, celestial growth
That mocks our temporal sloth--
To perfect woman--woman made to honour
With all the glory of her youth upon her.
And from her lips and from her eyes there flowed
A smile that lit all Heaven; the angels smiled;
God smiled, if that were smile beneath the state that glowed
Soft purple--and a voice:--"Be reconciled!"
So to his side the children crept,
And Catherine kissed him, and he wept.
Then said a seraph:--"Lo! he is forgiven."
And for a space again there was no voice in heaven.


Anybody still there? If so, I'll reward your perseverance with this wonderful opening sentence from the introduction to Brown Collected, a spirited endorsement of the poet by W.E. Henley (a student of Brown's and the author of "Invictus"):

"You are told that to many he was only a local poet, a party who rhymed in dialect--a kind of beggar at Apollo's gate; and you are told by academic persons--things made after supper at the Muses' table out of a melon rind--that he was one affected and unskilled in letters."

[This message has been edited by Simon Hunt (edited March 09, 2005).]

The subject is clearly a worthy one but the treatment doesn't grab me, I have to admit - though the image of “some juice /Of God's distilling dropt into the core / Of all her life” is an interesting one. I'm intrigued by the fact that W. H. Auden, in his anthology of 19th-century minor British poets, doesn't find room for a single poem of Brown's - and Auden had very catholic tastes. I've often seen Brown's collected poems in second-bookshops and thought of buying them but somehow never have. Are the dialect poems more interesting, by any chance? Could you post an example?

By the way, from the dates you attribute to him, he lived to a ripe old age. Manx air must be very salubrious

Gregory: Thanks so much for replying to the little topic that couldn't! I knew in posting it that Brown wasn't likely to set the world alight with his combination of piety, sentiment, and pomposity. But what the hell, right? I hoped folks wouldn't mind looking at a short one from a poet who may be worth knowing about

As to the dialect stuff, well, it is interesting for those few interested in the history of the IOM, but those poems tend to be too long for posting here, indeed too long for almost all readers.

It's interesting to me that poets like Brown can be so celebrated locally (you should see the Brown room of the Manx museum!) but totally forgotten everywhere else. I can imagine the phenomenon of the "local poet laureate" might be a worthy GT topic--as might the value of "dialect poetry" in general...

Thanks for catching my stupid typo. I have erased the erroneous 90 years from Brown's life.

Actually, to judge from the number of editions of his collected poems that one comes across in second-hand shops, he must have been pretty big outside of the IOM as well at one time.

My other reason for some curiosity is that he actually taught for many years (if I remember rightly) in a school in my own home-town, Bristol. So the Manx dialect was something he carefully preserved amid the alien corn, I presume.