North of England Tractates No. 15, (1874)
In memoriam of the Death of
Mark Philips, Esq.
A Blank Verse Poem
Born November 4th, 1800, at The Park, Prestwick; Member of Parliament for
Manchester from December 13th, 1832, to July 23rd, 1847; High pheriff of
Warwickshire in 1851; Died at Welcombe House, Stratford-on-Avon, December
23rd, 1873, Æ 73; interred beneath the chancel of Snitterfield Church, January
2nd, 1874.
“The decease of MARK PHILIPS, of Snitterfield, has brought forth respect from all
parts of the United Kingdom. The following eloquent tribute is from the pen of
MR. GEORGE MARKHAM TWEDDELL, the author of Shakspear, his Times and
Contemporaries,—who was guest of MR. PHILIPS during the past summer. MR.
TWEDDELL has kindly asked us to insert it, and to this request we gladly
accede.”—The Royal Leamington Spa Courier, January 3rd, 1874.
A merchant and manufacturer in Manchester, Philips was a supporter of S
ocial Reform.
On the Death of Mark Philips, Esq.
Ask not why I am sad this Christmas-tide,
When other hearts are gay; why the tears start
Into mine eyes, like streams that burst their bounds;
For stretch’d upon his bier a friend is laid,
Who, in the love of his large heart, had room 5
For a poor bard like me.
My friends are few,—
So few, that losing one makes a dread void
Not easy to be fill’d. That “Friendship form’d
With moderation, for the human race
Are most expedient, and not such as to pierce 10
The marrow of their souls: with the same ease
As they the sacred cords entwine, they ought
To slacken them at will,” was glibly said,
In ancient Greece, long, long ago, but one* 15
Who could not do it; for the human heart,
(Using that term to designate thereby
The seat of feeling, though it be the brain,)
Can form a friendship that will never die,
From bloom, unwither’d through eternity. 20
And such, I ween, was ours.
Death at all times,
And under every circumstances we know,
Is solemn: whether in the poor man’s cot
Or rich man’s mansion he may whet his scythe;
Whether he cutteth down the infant grass 25
Before it well has flower’d, or reaps the grain
That hangs its ripen’d head ready for harvest;
Solemn is Death, whate’er the time or place;
And hearts while they are human feel the pang
Of parting from the friend whom they have loved. 30
Hence—thou devoutly I do thank my God,†
(With whom do live the spirits of all of those
Departed in the Lord—with Whom the souls
Of all the faithful, after they are freed
From fleshly burdens, in felicity 35
Unknown to earthly wayfarers, enjoy
The rich reward of lives well-spent on earth.
That it has pleased Him to deliver us from
The miseries of this our sinful world,
My dear old friend—yet I were less than man 40
If I could part from him without a tear.
I know the gain is his, the loss is ours;
And I would not recall again to life
That worn-out body if I had the power.
The heart that now has ceased to beat, 45
When last I saw him, pump’d with too much power.
Ten million times it has forced the crimson tide
Through the remotest alleys of that frame
Which low lies colder that the marble bust
In his own hall: for Death soon levels down 50
Peasant and prince alike into the grave.
Then happiest they who in their souls possess
Treasures which Death can never take away.
My friend was not a fool when flattery pleased
When in the flesh, frail though all flesh may be; 55
Nor must his disembodied spirit now
Look down on fulsome funeral elegy,
All full of falsehood as it lacks in feeling.
No, honest MARK! There needeth not for thee
That we should rack invention how to say 60
Or sing fine things we mean not in thy praise.
Before I met thee, one whose soul is truth
Had told me how he wish’d I saw his face,
For ’t was so manly that it did one good
To look upon it: hence I was prepared 65
To see that honest open countenance
Which the dark tomb will hide now from my view.
But little could I dream that one so far
Removed above me by those social bars
Which separate too much on honest man
From his dear brother—honest too, though poor—
Should be kick’d by, as rather poles i’ the way
Of an advancing giant. So oft thy guest,
Truth prompts me to bear witness I ne’er met
A man more humble in those walks of life 75
Where weekly wages recompense the toil
Of lowliest labour. Practical
As I am dreamy, how such opposites
Delighted in each other, I wot not,—
Save that both loved the true and hated shams 80
That came forth cloked to prey the unwary‡
And, as we’ve stroll’d together o’er the grounds
Where SHAKSPERE oft had rambled—with delight
Have view’d the landscape circling Stratford round,
And traced the gentle Avon’s winding stream, 85
Calling up all their histories—I have faith
To fancy that we both may meet again,
In place e’en pleasanter than our loved Welcombe,
Where we shall part no more: and ’mong the good
And gifted we shall meet. Great SHAKSPERE’s shade 90
Will give us welcome there.
Rest then, O rest!
(I cannot say “perturbed spirit,” as
The Princely Dane did to his father’s ghost,)
For after life so well-spent, rest is there,
Or we believe in vain! In parliament 95
For fifteen years thou gave thy best of life,—
Not always with unfailing blest,
For thou wert human; but though labour’d well
For sacred rights of conscience. For just laws
’Tween man and man, and all thou thought would lend 100
To England’s greatness. And well were it, I ween,
If all our merchant-princes and the sons
Of Commerce kept their souls as pure as thine.
And thou, too, didst then Alms, without the sound
Of trumpet blaring forth the holy deed; 105
And some have broke thy bread who never knew
Whose bounteous hand it was their wants supplied.
But more thou loved to see the honest hands
Of useful industry win their own bread
By their own labour; and, from early life, 110
Fought for the freedom of the country’s trade,
Until we conquer’d.
Husbandry in thee,
When Cincinnatus-like thou sought to plough,
Found a good patron; and thy cottagers
Loved thee when living, and will now deplore 115
With me the loss of a warm-hearted friend.
Full well I know their feelings; more than once
Together we have met them; but no more
Shall we address them at the social board,
Thy tongue is silent now for them and me; 120
But thy example, like the words thou spoke,
Being manly, truthful, wise, and eloquent,
Will speak to us through life, although thy face
With genial smile no more will beam upon us.
Rest then, dear friend, after thy well-spent years; 125
For thou hast labour’d hard from early life,
And died in harness. Idleness ne’er seized
Upon thee. And temperate too wert thou
In thought and action. Calm as thou wert strong,
Ambition could lure thee with her wiles; 130
And when heredity honours were
Proffer’d unto thy good old sire§ and thee
Ye both the glitt’ring bauble could reject,
Which weaker minds would sell their souls to gain.
Honour enough for thee to represent 135
The first commercial city of the world,
Free-chosen by its people, and unsway’d
By smiles or frowns from what thou deem’d to right,
Men like thee help to make England’s greatness,
Not as mere money-bags, but men with souls 140
Worthy to live beyond the grave.
Dear friend, for a brief space!—Farewell for thou hast cross’d
In Charon’s boat a little time before us.
The Styx of Death is yet for us to pass,
But Christian light can brighten that dark stream, 145
And thy example nerve us for the voyage,—
Hoping to meet thee in that heavenly land
“Where the wicked cease from trembling, and
The weary are at rest.”
Stokesley -
George Markham Tweddell
I think Tweddell would have met Mark Phillips while he was head of the Ragged School in Bury and visited Phillips when Tweddell visted Stratford. They both had involvement in the Anti Corn Lawe League and reform movements.
"The Manchester Guardian, a newspaper with a radical agenda, was established shortly afterwards. In 1832, following the Great Reform Act, Manchester elected its first MPs since the election of 1656. Five candidates, including
William Cobbett stood and Liberals
Charles Poulett Thomson and
Mark Philips were elected. The Great Reform Act led to conditions favourable to municipal incorporation. Manchester became a Municipal Borough in 1837, and what remained of the manorial rights were later purchased by the town council."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Manchester
Further info on Mark Phillips
Also
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Philips_(politician)
http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/PRphilipsM.htm
http://www.thewelcombehills.co.uk/?page_id=101
http://cross-street-chapel.org.uk/index.php?page=before-the-welfare-state
Notes by GMT / Paul Tweddell
NOTES
*EURIPIDES, the great Greek dramatist, put these words into the mouth of the
Nurse, in his tragedy of Hippolytus,—more than two thousand three hundred
years ago.
† This passage is designed as a paraphrase of a beautiful part of the Church
Burial Service.
‡ “The wise-hearted, as well as wise-headed man, knew mankind, and was
my friend: this is my only answer to such as are not.” The Confessions of
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
§ The late ROBERT PHILIPS, of The Park, Prestwich, Esq., one of the
merchant-princes of Manchester, “who dared be honest in the worst of
times,” was born April 3rd 1760, and descended from the ancient race of
Staffordshire squires,—one of whom first introduced the manufacture of
Tape into this country from Holland, to employ the poor people of his parish
during the Winter months; for benevolence has long run in the blood of the
Philipses. Having glutted the home market for miles around his manors of
Upper Teyne, Nether Teyne, and Checkley, he was under necessity either to
discontinuing that mode of employing those poor people whom he had
always deemed it his duty to see provided for, or to open out fresh markets
for their wares. Though he had never sought any pecuniary profit from his
laudable undertaking, he was exceeding loath to give it up, and thus throw his
little community out of employment: he therefore prevailed on one of his
sons to go to Manchester, and open a warehouse for the more extensive sale
of Philipses Tape. In order to make the warehouse self-supporting, and the
thing grew, by God’s blessing on the good judgement and strict integrity with
which it was conducted; and the Philipses Warehouse is to this day one of the
widest known and most prosperous of the institutions of Manchester. “And so
you see, TWEDDELL,” said the subject of this poem, as he narrated the brief
history to me over a cigar after dinner, one of my pleasant visits to him at his
hospitable seat in Snitterfield Park, “in endeavouring to do good to the people
of his parish, he was laying the foundation of the future prosperity of his own
family, without ever expecting to do so!” Verily, the Chronicles of
Commerce—if faithfully and fully written—would be more interesting than
those of War.
ROBERT PHILIPS walked worthily in the footsteps of his fathers. Upright and
charitable in all the transactions of life—though often pelted in the streets of
Manchester for his peaceable adherence to Constitutional Reform, and
regarded as little less than a traitor by sundry purblind politicians of that
period because he was wise enough to oppose the infamous war which
deservedly lost us our fine American Colonies—he was most dearly loved by
those who knew him best. He married, August 2nd 1798, ANNIE the daughter
of MATTHEW NEEDHAM, of Nottingham, Esq.; and it was from her motherly
teaching at the Park that my friend derived that intense love of flowers and
rural life, which never forsook him to the last. On the passing of the Reform
Bill, the government offered ROBERT PHILIPS a Baronetcy which was
exemplified in constant practice rather than in noisy profession, he died in
March 1844, and was buried on the 20th of that month at the Unitarian Chapel
at Stand,—nearly midway between Manchester and Bury, the important
places for which his sons have had the high honour to sit in Parliament,
without soliciting the vote of a single elector.
The ancient Druids offer’d to their gods
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