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).]
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