An eighteenth century print of a girl feeding a bird
Dear friends and readers,
I’ve another foremother poet blog, one which I hope will now prompt me to read a literary biographical study, Richard Greene, Mary Leapor, a Study in 18th Century Women’s Poetry. I’ve had it for years and this is long overdue.
Mary Leapor was the daughter of a gardener, self-educated (discouraged by her mother from writing), said to be “a cook-maid in a gentleman’s family at Brackley (probably Weston Hall, owned by the Sitwell family); like Mary Chandler she is (in effect) said to have been disabled (“extremely swarthy, and quite emaciated, with a long crane-neck, and a short body”). Her poems circulated and attraction the attention of Bridget Freemantle (Artemisa), the daughter of a Rector of Hinton; the became friends and Freemantle assisted Mary to circulate her poems, and organized a subscription to publish her poetry, sent her play and samples to London. She was proud but uncomfortable, had worried rather that if her father were to die, she’d end up “naked and defenseless,” and longed to be able to build a subsistence income for herself. Alas, in “poor health,” she died of measles at age 24. Isaac Browne, Samuel Richardson and Christopher Smart were among those who were responsible for the printing of an extensive volume, which was liked and a substantial selection printed in the 1755 Poems for Eminent Ladies. I find her satiric and wryly melancholy tone very appealing, her reversals of conventions, an identity, a personality emerges.
I first came across Mary Leapor in Donna Landry’s book, The Muses of Resistance: Laboring class women’s poetry in Britain, 1739-96, and I was struck by how she felt marginalized — this in a class system where this should have been taken for granted. Also that she said she learned by reading, her mentors were people in books because there was no way she could reach such people otherwise; when I wrote my translation of Vittoria Colonna, I wrote that I was mentored by the poets and critics who had studied poetry like hers. I too had no one to speak to. Then the accusations that she was “repugnant,” and her satiric pastoral responses. The poems are skilled, alive with life, innovative, says Bill Overton (who wrote one of the best books ever written on Anthony Trollope’s art). She fits very much into the image of 18th century woman poet, especially her friendship poetry. She is a feminist in her Essay on a Woman, where the injustice of her lot is the result of the social order not women themselves.
Here’s how it opens:
Woman, a pleasing but a short-lived flow’r,
Too soft for business and too weak for pow’r:
A wife in bondage, or neglected maid;
Despised, if ugly; if she’s fair, betrayed.
‘Tis wealth alone inspires ev’ry grace,
I have not forgot my promise to keep these blogs shorter. So I refer the interested reader to the Eighteenth Century Archive (to which I add a few essays I have read), where many of her poems are printed, there’s a link to a facsimile of the contemporary book, books and essays are cited.
A contemporary photo of Weston Hall
This is what she wrote when her play was returned to her: to me it is so touching how her play is a living thing, how she feels it was not respected (because she felt herself not respected); how she wanted to protect it.
Upon her Play being returned to her, stained with Claret.
Welcome , dear Wanderer, once more!
Thrice welcome to thy native Cell!
Within this peaceful humble Door
Let Thou and I contented dwell!But say, O whither hast thou rang’d?
Why dost thou blush a Crimson Hue?
Thy fair Complexion’s greatly chang’d:
Why, I can scarce believe ’tis you.Then tell, my Son, O tell me, Where
Didst thou contract this sottish Dye?
You kept ill Company, I fear,
When distant from your Parent’s Eye.Was it for This, O graceless Child!
Was it for This, you learn’d to spell?
Thy Face and Credit both are spoil’d:
Go drown thyself in yonder Well.I wonder how thy Time was spent:
No News (alas!) hadst thou to bring.
Hast thou not climb’d the Monument ?
Nor seen the Lions, nor the King?But now I’ll keep you here secure:
No more you view the smoaky Sky:
The Court was never made (I’m sure)
For Idiots, like Thee and I.
The long country house poem she wrote as Ursula (one of the pastoral-classical-romance pseudonyms she used; another was Mira); is a burlesque on the house she served in (and doubtless had limited space in), which she called Crumble Hall (one source said it was Edgecote Hall but I could find no further information about the asssertion). Presumably it could’ve needed fixing.
From Crumble Hall:
We sing once more, obedient to her Call,
Once more we sing; and ’tis of Crumble-Hall;
That Crumble-Hall , whose hospitable Door
Has fed the Stranger, and reliev’d the Poor;
Whose Gothic Towers, and whose rusty Spires,
Were known of old to Knights, and hungry Squires …
Of this rude Palace might a Poet sing
From cold December to returning Spring …
Tell how the Building spreads on either Hand,
And two grim Giants o’er the Portals stand;
Whose grisled Beards are neither comb’d nor shorn,
But look severe, and horribly adorn …
Then step within—there stands a goodly Row
Of oaken Pillars—where a gallant Show
Of mimic Pears and carv’d Pomgranates twine,
With the plump Clusters of the spreading Vine …
From hence we turn to more familiar Rooms;
Whose Hangings ne’er were wrought in Grecian Looms:
Yet the soft Stools, and eke the lazy Chair,
To Sleep invite the Weary, and the Fair.
Shall we proceed?—Yes, if you’ll break the Wall:
If not, return, and tread once more the Hall.
Up ten Stone Steps now please to drag your Toes,
And a brick Passage will succeed to those.
Here the strong Doors were aptly fram’d to hold
Sir Wary ‘s Person, and Sir Wary ‘s Gold.
Here Biron sleeps, with Books encircled round;
And him you’d guess a Student most profound.
Not so—in Form the dusty Volumes stand:
There’s few that wear the Mark of Biron ‘s Hand …
Would you go farther?—Stay a little then:
Back thro’ the Passage—down the Steps again;
Thro’ yon dark Room—Be careful how you tread
Up these steep Stairs—or you may break your Head.
These Rooms are furnish’d amiably, and full:
Old Shoes, and Sheep-ticks bred in Stacks of Wool;
Grey Dobbin ‘s Gears, and Drenching-Horns enow;
Wheel-spokes—the Irons of a tatter’d Plough.
No farther—Yes, a little higher, pray:
At yon small Door you’ll find the Beams of Day,
While the hot Leads return the scorching Ray.
Here a gay Prospect meets the ravish’d Eye:
Meads, Fields, and Groves, in beauteous Order lie.
From hence the Muse precipitant is hurl’d,
And drags down Mira to the nether World.
Thus far the Palace—Yet there still remain
Unsung the Gardens, and the menial Train.
[In “her” kitchen]
O’er-stuff’d with Beef, with Cabbage much too full,
And Dumpling too (fit Emblem of his Skull!)
With Mouth wide open, but with closing Eyes
Unwieldy Roger on the Table lies.
His able Lungs discharge a rattling Sound:
Prince barks, Spot howls, and the tall Roofs rebound.
Him Urs’la views; and, with dejected Eyes,
“Ah! Roger , Ah!” the mournful Maiden cries:
“Is wretched Urs’la then your Care no more,
That, while I sigh, thus you can sleep and snore?
Ingrateful Roger ! wilt thou leave me now?
I baste the Mutton with a chearful Heart,
Because I know my Roger will have Part.”
Thus she—But now her Dish-kettle began
To boil and blubber with the foaming Bran.
The greasy Apron round her Hips she ties …
Strange Sounds and Forms shall teaze the gloomy Green;
And Fairy-Elves by Urs’la shall be seen:
Their new-built Parlour shall with Echoes ring:
And in their Hall shall doleful Crickets sing.
An amazing fantasia.
Here we find her quite like Shakespeare in one of his sonnets, making fun of the stereotypes of beauty so often uttered so banally, except here she is talking of illness and disability in such a way as I feel she must herself have known some of this: she also captures the absurdity of male idealized aggression (it’s) against women.
The Headache
Aurelia, when your zeal makes known
Each woman’s failing but your own,
How charming Silvia’s teeth decay,
And Celia’s hair is turning grey;
Yet Celia gay has sparkling eyes,
But (to your comfort) is not wise:
Methinks you take a world of pains
To tell us Celia has no brains.Now you wise folk, who make such a pother
About the wit of one another,
With pleasure would your brains resign,
Did all your noddles ache like mine.Not cuckolds half my anguish know,
When budding horns begin to grow;
Nor battered skull of wrestling Dick,
Who late was drubbed at single-stick;
Nor wretches that in fevers fry,
Not Sappho when her cap’s awry,
E’er felt such torturing pangs as I;
Not forehead of Sir Jeffrey Strife,
When smiling Cynthio kissed his wife.Not lovesick Marcia’s languid eyes,
Who for her simpering Corin dies,
So sleepy look or dimly shine,
As these dejected eyes of mine:
Not Claudia’s brow such wrinkles made
At sight of Cynthia’s new brocade.Just so, Aurelia, you complain
Of vapours, rheums, and gouty pain;
Yet I am patient, so should you,
For cramps and headaches are our due:
We suffer justly for our crimes,
For scandal you, and I for rhymes;
Yet we (as hardened wretches do)
Still the enchanting vice pursue;
Our reformation ne’er begin,
But fondly hug the darling sin.Yet there’s a might difference too
Between the fate of me and you;
Though you with tottering age shall bow,
And wrinkles scar your lovely brow,
Your busy tongue may still proclaim
The faults of every sinful dame:
You still may prattle nor give o’er,
When wretched I must sin no more.
The sprightly Nine must leave me then,
This trembling hand resign its pen:
No matron ever sweetly sung,
Apollo only courts the young.
Then who would not (Aurelia, pray)
Enjoy his favours while they may?
Nor cramps nor headaches shall prevail:
I’ll still write on, and you shall rail.
Her epitaph or Mira’s Will
Imprimis — My departed Shade I trust
To Heav’n — My Body to the silent Dust;
My Name to publick Censure I submit,
To be dispos’d of as the World thinks fit;
My Vice and Folly let Oblivion close,
The World already is o’erstock’d with those;
My Wit I give, as Misers give their Store,
To those who think they had enough before.
Bestow my Patience to compose the Lives
Of slighted Virgins and neglected Wives;
To modish Lovers I resign my Truth,
My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth;
And some Good-nature give (‘tis my Desire)
To surly Husbands, as their Needs require;
And first discharge my Funeral — and then
To the Small poets I bequeath my Pen.
Let a small Sprig (true Emblem of my Rhyme)
Of blasted Laurel on my Hearse recline;
Let some grave Wight, that struggles for Renown,
By chanting Dirges through a Market-Town,
With gentle Step precede the solemn Train;
A broken Flute upon his Arm shall lean.
Six comick Poets may the Corse surround,
And All Free-holders; if they can be found:
Then follow next the melancholy Throng,
As shrewd instructors, who themselves are wrong.
The Virtuoso, rich in Sun-dry’d Weeds,
The Politician, whom no Mortal heeds,
The silent Lawyer, chamber’d all the Day,
And the stern Soldier that receives no Pay.
But stay — the Mourners shou’d be first our Care,
Let the freed Prentice lead the Miser’s Heir;
Let the young relict wipe her mournful Eye,
And widow’d Husbands o’er their Garlick cry.
All this let my Executors fulfil,
And rest assur’d that this is Mira’s Will;
Who was, when she these Legacies design’d,
In Body healthy, and compos’d in Mind.
Another blog in appreciation (Tom Clark) where you can find comments in the form of appreciative verse about her. I love his choice of image to evoke her
Jean-Baptist-Camille Corot, In a Park
Ellen