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Mary Maria Colling

From Colling (1831):

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
&c. &c.

MY DEAR SIR,

WHEN you so kindly advised me to collect for a local history "those short and simple annals of the poor, which ought not to be forgotten," how little did I think that within a few days, as it were, after receiving your letter, I should have so many particulars to relate to you respecting Mary Colling! and as little did I expect, when I made that communication, that it would so soon be followed with a relation of other circumstances concerning her family, certainly possessing a more than ordinary interest; and, probably, in early life, having an influence on the remarkable genius of a superior order, I am much inclined to believe you will consider her, when you shall have read one of her poems, "The Birth of Envy," that will be found in this letter before I bring it to a close.

Since I had last the pleasure of writing to Keswick, Mr. Hughes, the worthy master of this worthy girl, and for whom she seems to feel that sort of grateful respect and regard which Louise did for Oberlin, has obliged me with some interesting particulars concerning her family; and from the girl herself I have also derived additional information. I now take up my pen to relate the little tale to you, in whose bosom lowly virtue and luckless talent are sure to meet with generous sympathy and regard.

Mary Colling, when not more than five years old, lost her maternal grandmother, a person whose strong affection for the child made so powerful an impression on her young and artless feelings, that it is to this day fresh and vigorous. The character and history, especially in regard to her marriage, of this deceased relative, appear to have been so remarkable, and considering, also, how much she influenced the early feelings of our Mary, that they must not be passed in silence when stating the particulars of her story. Much of the narrative I have to relate will appear like a romance, since it has an abundance of the misfortune, and not a little of the mystery, that adds so much interest to works of fiction in the drama or the novel.

Mary's maternal grandfather, George Philp, was a native of Tavistock, respectably born, though, by various mischances, his friends were so reduced in the world that they caused George to follow the business of a tailor. Mr.Hughes was assured by a lady of this place, now dead, a Mrs. Murray, who knew him well, that Philp was one of the handsomest young men she had ever beheld. His education had been better than his fortunes; he had a high spirit, and longed for manly enterprize [sic]. His business of a tailor,therefore, became a subject of discontent to him, and the good town of Plymouth (only fourteen miles off), with its port and its fine shipping, was for ever in his mind, and he, like Robinson Crusoe, would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea; though, also, like the hero of De Foe, he was not wanting in friends who assured him that is he did so, "God would not bless him." But youth, ardour, and ambition have each a voice more powerful than that of prudence; so away went George Philp, and leaving his shears and his thimble, and Tavistock, and all care behind him, he became as gay and as gallant a sailor as ever ploughed the wild ocean in the service of the king.

For some few years nothing was heard of him; till at length, to the wonder of all Tavistock, George Philp suddenly appeared in his native town, bringing with him a young and beautiful bride, whose manners, appearance, and the possession of several rings, &c. all proclaimed her to be of a rank much above that of the handsome sailor to whom she was wedded.

Philp and his bride were universally admitted to be the finest couple that had ever been seen in Tavistock; and on the Sunday after his return, it was with evident delight and pride that George carried her to church, to attend divine service. Every body admired her, and ever body enquired who she might be, and nobody could answer, since nothing was known to satisfy such enquiries; the bride and bridegroom maintaining the utmost reserve on all that related to the subject of their marriage. Whatever night have been the family of the bride, or the worth of her jewels, it appeared she had no money; for George Philp, whose spirit of enterprize had yielded, perhaps, to one of a tenderer nature, in order to maintain himself and his wife, instead of mounting the deck, was once more obliged to mount the shop-board at his old business in Tavistock. For awhile curiosity and rumour busied themselves to the full in endeavouring to "pluck out the heart of his mystery;" but these, unsatisfied, gradually died away, and the people were content to say, that "Mrs. Philp was for certain a gentlewoman born,but a very whisht* sort of a body."

* Whisht is a favourite expression in Devonshire, meaning melancholy, dull, &c.; it is most probably a corruption of wistful.

Her character and her manners, from all I can learn at this distnace of time, were marked and peculiar. She did not seem happy, but she never complained. She had a high independent spirit, but refused no employment, however mean, to earn bread for her children. She was ardently fond of her husband, but kept aloof from his connections. She was well-red to all persons, but associated with no one; and though in her way of life, in her dress and her industry, she entirely suited herself to her condition (and that was truly a poor one), yet she never parted from her few jewels till, long after, absolute want compelled her to do so. To all enquiries relative to her own family, for many years she remained totally silent. However, after her severe misfortunes - which I shall presently have occasion to relate - something of her history became know, though, even to her own children, and to the day of her death, she was never very communicative upon the subject. The following particulars will not be read without interest.

It appears that Mrs. Philp's maiden name was Domville*, and that she had been left an orphan at an early age, both her parents dying of the small-pox. [Her headstone, paid for by Mary Colling, says she was aged 79 at her death in 1811. This implies that she was born around 1732] Her maternal uncle, whose name was White, lived near Arundel in Sussex; and after the death of her parents he took her home, treated her with every kindness, and gave her, when she was old enough to know their use, valuable clothes, and some jewels that had belonged to her mother. Mary Domville grew up a beautiful girl, and though a favourite, was nevertheless so high-spirited, that, not wishing to be obliged to her relative for support, she left the comfortable asylum his house had afforded ehr, and fled to the Isle of Wight. If she took offence at any thing in her uncle's conduct towards her, it does not appear. To whom she fled, or by what means, is likewise unknown. She acknowledged having there entered into the service of two sisters, as a sort of attendant or upper servant; but these ladies, seeing how much she was above ehr condition, treated her as a friend and companion, and became exceedingly attached to her. The uncle traced her out; and,at various times, endeavoured to prevail with her to return to his protection: but all his solicitations proved vain; she would never live with him again.

* Mary Colling tells me, she does not know if the name might be Domville or Donville, as she never saw it written. Might it not have been D'Enville?

Whilst in the Isle of Wight she first saw George Philp, the young and handsome sailor. A mutual attachment followed, and the same rash spirit that had tempted her, perhaps, to quite the asylum of her uncle's roof, might now have induced her to enter upon hasty and unadvised marriage. Be this as it may, married was; and whatever had been the rashness of her former conduct, her wedded life was without reproach. she bore her change of fortune with resignation; made a tender mother, and an industrious, affectionate wife.

For some years George Philp continued in business; but it is most likely he still entertained a lingering regard for his late profession, and would much rather have plied the oar on the broad ocean, than the needle and shears on the shop-board of a country town. However, he had made a resolution to abandon the seafaring life for ever. But his resolution, may be, was something like Benedict's, who, when he determined to die single, thought he should never live to be married; for, on the first temptation, it melted away like ice before the sun. A fine frigate, the Vestal, was launched at Plymouth, and fitted out for a particular service in the formation of a settlement in some far-distant and foreign land. The crew were all picked men; and the gallantry and spirit of George Philp being well known to the late Admiral Vincent, he was recommended by this gentleman to the office in command, and speedily nominated to a confidential appointment, with an offer of support, likewise, for his youthful son, would he join his father in the enterprize. George Philp, full of golden dreams of success and ambition, in the same buoyancy of spirit with which he had first gone to sea so many years before, now accepted this new offer of service; and his son, a fine lad of fourteen years old, gladly consented to join his father in the voyage.

All was arranged, and the morning came on which George was to bid adieu to his wife and to his native town, once more to seek an uncertain fortune amidst the dangers and the toils of the sea. Mrs. Philp, whose affection for her husband and her son was well known, supported this trail with that peculiar and marked restraint she had, in so many instances since her marriage, placed as a curb upon her strong and high feelings. It was a scene never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. George wept; but she shed no tear whilst he was in ehr sight, and continued to hold her babe, of four months old, at her bosom, whilst another child, a girl nine years of age, hung about her father, and, crying, asked him, "When he would come back again, and why he went away to sea from herself and her mother?"

The boy, whose nature was exceedingly affectionate, kissed his mother a thousand times, and, as he did so, gave her a parting gift, the model of a little pair of andirons*, as a chimney ornament, that he had bought as a remembrance for her at Plymouth; and promised her "that he would bring her a token from every foreign land on which he set his foot." The last kiss was given; the mother's last blessing was bestowed; and that last look, which turns again and again, till it is blinded with tears, was fixed on the sorrowing mother and bereaved wife. George departed, leading by the hand his youthful son, to follow his dreams of ambition; and his deserted partner was left with God for her hope, and her infants for her care, to maintain them as she best could till her husband's return.

* Mary Colling keeps them to this day as a relic.

She bore ehr trial with meek resignation, and laboured only for bread. She said little: but as month after month rolled on, and no news came from George or her son, her countenance grew sad: she could scarcely take her daily food: nights were passed in tears, and her heart so failed her in the day, that nothing but love, which in a mother's heart for her offspring is "strong as death," could have enabled her to earn for her two children a trifling and necessary pittance.

The dreary months fled on, and still no news came. Every time the wind blew she was observed to shudder. If an old newspaper lay in her way, she would snatch it up, tremble, and look pale, as her eyes eagerly sought the corner that gave intelligence of the shipping. And then she would often ask how long a vessel might be going to Newfoundland, and how son news might be brought home about it; for the Vestal, she knew, was to touch there in its voyage. These, and a thousand more questions, she would ask, but she was never satisfied; for none could give her a word of intelligence, or of hope, excepting the old and common-place theme of consolation, which every neighbour had in his mouth, "that no news was good news, and so she had best make her mind easy." The fever of suspense, of anxious days and sleepless nights, - the sight of her children, not knowing if they were fatherless, or if she might herself be wife or widow, - preyed on her heart, affected her health, and would in all probability have destroyed her, had she not been called upon to a new exertion of the energies of her naturally strong character; and that by the confirmation, if confirmation it could be deemed, of the very calamity she had so long dreaded in all the intense agonies of suspense.

In her course, it was well known the Vestal was to pass Newfoundland. A vessel - supposed from the distance for time elapsed since the frigate had quitted England, and other circumstances, to have been the Vestal - was heard, by another ship also exposed to the storm, firing guns of distress in the midst of a tempest off Newfoundland. Gun after gun was fired; but there was no hope they could be saved: the winds and waves mocked the signal of misery. A boat was put out; human souls were in to - a wave came, and they were nothing. Another boat followed; it had the same fate: whilst the ship, like a parent who sees the children of her bosom die around her, at last sunk, having lived to witness the ruin and the fall of her sons.

Mary Colling, when a child, had, to use her own words, "often heard tell of the loss of the ship in a storm, in which it was supposed her grandfather and his son had perished."

The conduct of the unfortunate widow of George Philp was a marked and as characteristic of high-spirited independence as had been all the former acts of her life. When the account came of the loss of the vessel off Newfoundland, and that there was every reason to suppose it was the Vestal that had thus foundered, her composure and resigned demeanour returned. She had now two fatherless children and herself to support by her own and sole exertions; since, such were the peculiar feelings of her mind, she would accept of no assistance from any one; and, though kindly advised to attempt it, refused to hold any communication with her own family to procure relief for her children in this day of distress. The motive for such refusal she would never divulge to the hour of her death; and, though so proud in independence, she was most humble in toiling for her daily bread, laboured incessantly, and declined not the meanest employment by which she could maintain herself and her little ones. She would often (so Mary tells me) toil all day, come home in the evening to give food to her children, place them in bed, cry over them, and look upon the last little present given her by her lost son, and go out again to her work, and labour sometimes till twelve o'clock at night ere she took the least rest. Her few jewels were now sold, one by one, not according to their value, but for what she could most readily get for them to help her necessities.

She had one ring, I think it was diamond, that she had reserved for the last. Some dear remembrance was, in all probability, connected with it; for, like Isabella, she had preserved it through all her misery; and now, like her also, parted with it to "stop the cries of hunger for a time." It was sold for three guineas, being nothing in comparison with its actual value. Possibly this was the last relic of her better fortunes; for after the ring was gone, she was scarcely ever heard to allude to her former life or to her family, even in the presence of her own daughters. One of them married Edmund Colling, the father of our poet. The child was name Mary Maria (being, in fact a repetition of the first name), at the express desire of her maternal grandmother Philp, for such had been the favourite names in her own family.

Mary Colling, who was only five years old when this beloved grandmother died, tells me she has the most distinct remembrance of her; and that "she did not talk like Devonshire people." There was something high-spirited and reserved about her to most persons, but to little Mary she was gentleness and affection itself. she has never yet talked to me about her grandmother without shedding tears, and speaks of her with a warmth of gratitude that it is delightful to witness. She has, indeed, those strong and genuine emotions that frequently show themselves in an honest burst of feeling.

When the widow of George Philp grew old, though in extreme poverty, and no longer capable of work, she would willingly have starved rather than have sought relief from the parish; but she was at length prevailed with by her neighbours to accept it. To the last, her reserve, her calm but high spirit, her ardent affection for her grandchild Mary, who was her chief care even on her death-bed, never deserted her; and she expired as she lived, firm, collected, and resigned. Mary Colling perfectly well remembers attending her grandmother on ehr death-bed; and that not long before she died, she embraced her, and as she bestowed her last blessing, wished "that she was in Abraham's bosom, and could carry that dear little lamb thither in her own."

The child Mary loved her most affectionately; and, after her eyes were closed in death, for some time she thought her sleeping. She shed many bitter tears, and when she saw her grandmother did not wake up again, she stole to the bed and kissed her. To this house she remembers her funeral, as the saddest day of her own life. And she told me, when I noticed having first seen her in aisle of Tavistock church, under the reading desk, that she used to sit there form a melancholy recollection, not, however, unmixed with pleasing feeling, that it was =there=, when a child of four or five years old, whilst seated by the knees of her beloved grandmother, she had first listened to the word of God, and learnt to call upon His name that he would bless her.

Many years after these events, Mary Colling wrote the following lines, which, I am sure, you will agree with me in thinking are full of tender and beautiful feeling: -

ON THE DEATH OF MY MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER

Oh! what can Memory's page efface,
Since Gratitude can thus retrace
These lines of tenderness and grief,
Nor time nor death shall blot the leaf?

The names of those we once held dear,
When water'd by Affection's tear,
Within our bosoms sweetly bloom,
As is transplanted from the tomb.

Affection loves the sad employ,
The grief which steals a secret joy;
That softly strikes, but sweetly heals,
The tender smart that nature feels.

This from experience well I know,
Conscious what gratitude I owe
To one who hath resign'd her breath,
And sleeps within the arms of Death.

Blest shade! accept my humble lay;
'Tis all that tenderness can pay,
For all thy toils and all thy cares,
Bestowed upon mine infant years.

Anxious to guard, intent to please,
'Twas thine to give my bosom ease;
And oft, while pillow'd on thy breast,
A kiss upon my cheek was prest.

What joy was in my bosom raised,
When by thy kindness I was prais'd;
Or ran to thee and sought relief
For every little infant grief!

What was my joy, what was my pride,
I mind* when prattling by thy side;
When oft thy feeble arms would stretch,
To pick the flowers above my reach.

*I mind, is a Devonshire expression for I remember or bear in mind

No wants from thee did I conceal;
I sought thine house at every meal;
Though e'er so little thine might be,
A bit was always saved for me.

When stretch'd upon the bed of death,
I heard thee speak with falt'ring breath;
Thought they departure was no near,
I was the object of they care.

And when the vital spark was fled,
I fondly climb'd beside thy bed;
Not knowing then what death could mean,
I kissed thee o'er and o'er again:

But seem'd affronted in my mind,
Thinking that thou wert grown unkind,
And wonder'd what the cause could be
That thou no kiss returned to me.

I mind when on they burial day,
With grief I saw thee borne away;
I then was told I should not mourn,
For by and by thou would'st return.

These hopes awhile did I maintain,
That I should see they face again;
And often thought how long 'twould be,
Before thou would'st return to me.

High were my expectations grown,
Till Reason's light began to dawn:
The fond mistake she soon remov'd,
And chased the hopes I long had lov'd.

These thoughts renew'd create a sigh,
And I with nature will comply;
The tears which now fast fall can prove,
That I remember still thy love.

Oh, yes! perhaps to thee 'tis known,
How oft I've sat and wept alone;
When there the artless tear might be,
Unseen by all save Heaven and thee.

Each word by thy fond lips express'd,
Is still the treasure of my breast;
When thy remembrance, oft renew'd,
Is by affection's tear bedew'd.

Some singularity is likewise attached to Mary Colling on her father's side.* Her paternal grandfather was a highly respectable yeoman, occupying on his life only (in other days a common tenure in Devon) two farms. He had had eight sons. Edmund, the youngest, the father of our poet [born 1770 according to the 1851 census], was helpless infant when his father died; and his property falling with him, the family, already suffering by sundry misfortunes, were reduced to such a state of distress, that the child, Edmund, was (to repeat the words of Mr. Hughes) "left as a godsend to the parish."

* The family of Colling (formerly spelt Collyn) appears to have been an ancient one in the county of Devon. In a parochial document appertaining to the church of St. Eustace, and called "The account of Thomas Boles and John Collyn, wardens of the churche of Tavystock, in the yere of our Lorde Godd one thowsande ffyve hundred ffower schore and nyne," there is the following entry in the "Receipts for the buryalle and bell" - "Receaved for all the bells upon the death of Ewestices (Eustace) Collyn viiid." - Vide Notices of Tavistock Abbey, by A.J. Kempe, F.S.A [Anna Eliza Bray's brother].
From the above entry it is evident that Eustace Collyn must have been a man of some note, as he had all the bells tolled at his funeral; a custom by no means common in those days, and confined, indeed, to person of wealth of consequence.

At seven years old, the boy, who had been taught nothing, was bound as an apprentice to a farmer. Misfortune still pursued him; for this farmer proved to be a hard-hearted wretch, who used the lad cruelly; he had no bed to lie upon, and was so starved, that, Marry assured me, want of necessary food had often obliged her father to take potatoes out of the ground, and roast them as well as he could where they were burning bate for manure in the fields, according to the peculiar custom of manuring this county. Her father, I have great pleasure in saying, is a very worthy honest man, and to the day is employed as a working assistant to the parochial surveyor of highways.

I have only a few particulars to add about Mary Colling, before I take my leave. Inoffensive, humble, and amiable as she really is, she has notwithstanding, been assailed by envy and malice, on account of her living so much to herself, and avoiding that sort of idle society that could never be pleasing to a mind like hers. She told me, that at on time these attacks had made her very ill; that she used to lie crying in her bed at the thoughts of them; and whilst so ill she had up her mind to die, and the felt perfectly calm and happy.

It is very remarkable that she should have sent to us her weakest poems first; but I think I can account for it. She is so modest, and so wholly unconscious of what she does best, that she fancied such poems as resembled what she had now and then read in a book as it came in her way, would please her most; and so she went me verses that talked about little birds and blooming sprays, &c. But the original conceptions of her strong mind and feelings she kept back, fearing we might not like them.

I have seen a great deal of her during the last week; and I confess to you that her warm, affectionate, and grateful heart has won upon me even more than her poetry. She is a most interesting person, and do not doubt will be worth any little good we can do for her. The errors of her poetry are not many; they consist principally in bad rhymes, such as morn and storm, and writing thou comes, instead of thou comest, &c. The other evening, when I pointed out to her a few things of this sort, and advised her to re-write a stanza or so in one of her poems, she made me her little country courtesy, and said, "If I pleased she would endeavour to do so at home, for somehow or other there were only two or three places in which she could think of verses. One was amounts the flower beds, the other in her own room, but the chief and favourite place was in a certain old chair that stood in a corner of her kitchen, The with her two companions, her canary* and her little dog, Dimpler, at her side, she delighted to sit and make her poetry".

*Her canary bird appears to be as great a wonder as herself; for she assures me (and so have others) it can talk, and say "Pretty Dick," and "Pretty little dear." The poor talking canary now gives her trouble, for, as she tells me, "it is like to die."

Her favourite dog, however, tore up a neighbour's garden in so sad a manner that he has been given away. She cried about it "scores of times," she said, but he comes every day to see her. Before she was obliged to part with him, Dimpler and herself went one evening to take a walk together to Crowndale, a beautiful valley watered by the river Tavy, where the celebrated mariner, Sir Francis Drake, was born. Beguiled by the beauty of the scene at the evening hour, Mary lingered longer than she should have done, and, not being much accustomed to ramble from home, could not readily find her way back again.

I have only to add the that few verses she now tkes the liberty of addressing to you are, as well as being her own composition, in her own hand writing. She begged me to take charge of them, with her "most humble and grateful duty to the kind gentleman." Such were her words, and I have faithfully reported them. As all her feeling, if of poetry, pleasure, or gratitude, connect themselves with flowers, you would have had a very fine plant sent, as an offering of thanks, from her garden, could I have taken charge of it.

Hoping that the accounts I have been able to collect respecting this poor girl and her poems, may afford some little interest of amusement to the fire-side of Keswick,

           Allow me, my dear Sir,
                The honour to remain,
                         Yours most faithfully,
                                 ANNA ELIZA BRAY.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
POET LAUREATE, &c. &c.

On being told be Mrs. Bray, that he had most kindly noticed me and my little verses.

As the flower that is bathed in the tears of the night,
Will breathe forth its fragrance, the boon to require;
So, when kindness hath kindled delight in the heart,
To breathe forth its feelings is gratitude's part.

And since condescension my lay hath beguiled,
Forgive, Sir, the boldness of Nature's rude child;
Permit me to thank you with humble respect,
For goodness so great, which I ne'er could expect.

To you, by the Muse, were your laurels assign'd,
That her nurslings beneath them protection might find,
Your care is display'd like the sin which bestows
A ray on the violet as well as the rose.

Although to acknowledge is all I can do,
I'm conscious that much I'm indebted to you;
And if Heaven to my prayer a kind answer will send,
Then the smiles of its goodness your path shall attend.

MARY MARIA COLLING.

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