1870–1871
A father’s holy teachings — Peaceful death — ‘* Yet speaketh” — - “Songs of Grace and Glory” — How harmony was learnt — Letter on tunes in ‘‘ Havergal’s Psalmody’’ — The ‘‘ hush of praise” — Sympathy — The great transition — The most enjoyable trip to Switzerland — A real Alpine dawn — The Vaudois chaplain — Vivas on the Col de la Seigne — Christmas Day — Waiting, not working.
ANY pictures could be drawn of Frances’
home life at Leamington. Especially did she value the sympathy of her dear father in all her studies. With him she delighted to talk out hard questions; and his classical knowledge, his poetic and musical skill, settled many a point. She would rush down with her new poems or thoughts, awaiting his criticisms. And very charming was it to hear her lively coaxing that he would “just sing,’ as she accompanied his sacred songs; while at other times I have seen her absorbed with his improvised melodies, fugues and intricate progressions, thrilling yet passing. His holy and consistent example, ever holding forth the word of life and sound doctrine, had been as a guiding light on his child’s path; of this Frances writes in “Yet Speaketh.”
“Deep teachings from the Word he held so dear, Things new and old in that great treasure found, A valiant cry, a witness strong and clear, A trumpet with no dull uncertain sound; These shall not die, but live; his rich bequest To that beloved Church whose servant is at rest.”
Another daughter describes him very truthfully; and her lines are also given.
A Tribute to my Father, on his Birthday, 1866,
WHILE we reckon up thy years,
Balancing our hopes and fears,
Praise we our Redeemer’s grace
Shining on thy pilgrim race.
He hath given thee work to do,
And the task to suffer too.
He hath given thee art to twine
Music-chords with song sublime,
Holy chant and choral hymn,
Praise-notes fit for seraphim;
Tuneful voice and ready pen
Charm and teach the souls of men;
And thy God hath given thee skill,
Guiding youth to do His will;
And, as pastor in His fold,
Christ’s salvation to uphold.
Now a time for rest is thine
In the land of Beulah’s shine,
OUR FATHER’S DEATH. Iol
Where the angels come and go,
Bringing help and hope, and low
Sweet echoes of the heavenly chime,
Cheering on the flight of time.
Oh may health and peace be given,
Till the ties of earth be riven,
And this birthday happy be
With the light of heaven on Thee!
J. Miriam CRANE. The shadow of death fell swiftly and stealthily
on our dear father’s path. The care of his devoted wife had, doubtless, warded off many an attack of serious illness. On Easter Even, 1870, he was unusually well and had walked out during the day. Later on he sat down to his harmonium, playing and singing the tune composed by him in the morning.* He rose early, as usual, on Easter Day; but apoplexy ensued; and, after forty-eight hours of unconsciousness, he passed away.
“Yet speaketh!” there was no last word of love, So suddenly on us the sorrow fell; His bright translation to the home above Was clouded with no shadow of farewell; His last Lent evening closed with praise and prayer, And then began the songs of endless Easter there.”
In Astley churchyard, under the fir tree (the place which he had chosen years before), he rests
* No, 163 in ‘‘ Havergal’s Psalmody.”
“till that day.” The epitaph on the white marble tomb is as follows.
The Rev. WILLIAM Henry HaAvercGAt, M.A., Vicar of Shareshill and Hon. Canon of Worcester Cathedral. Died at Leamington, 19th April, 1870, aged 77. Curate 7, and Rector 13 years, of this parish, 1822 to 1843. “A faithful minister in the Lord” (Eph. vi. 21).
Memorial tablets were also placed in Worcester Cathedral, St. Nicholas and Shareshill Churches.
Some weeks after, Frances wrote to Elizabeth
Clay:
I was terribly upset last night, and yet not all sadness; one of papa’s chants was gloriously sung at the Westminster Abbey evening service; such a scene and such music!... “I know their sorrows” (Exod. iii. 7) is full of intensest comfort when it zs needed ;-it is the climax in it which has so much struck me as corresponding to’three degrees of sorrow which I suppose all know; anyhow, you do and I do. That sorrow which can be seen is the lightest form really, however apparently heavy; then there is that which is mo¢ seen, secret sorrows which yet can be put into words, and can be told to near friends as well as be poured out to God; but there are sorrows beyond these, such as are never told, and cannot be put into words, and may only be wordlessly laid before God: these are the deepest. Now comes the supply for each: “I have sex” that which is patent and external; “TI have heard their czy,” which is the expression of this, and of as much of the external as is expressible; but this would not go deep enough, “HAVERGAL’S PSALMODY.” 103
so God adds, “I know their sorrows,” down to very depths of all, those which no eye sees or ear ever heard. Is it not a beautiful climax?
It was soon after her father’s death that my sister undertook the preparation for the press of “Havergal’s Psalmody,”’ which afterwards was largely used in connection with the Rev. C. B. Snepp’s Hymnal, “Songs of Grace and Glory,” of which full details will be found in the Appendix.
The preparation for the work of harmonizing she alludes to in a letter to her friend Mary C. in 1866.
How I should like to teach you harmony! I do believe I could make it lucid; you can’t think what exquisite symmetry there is in chords and intervals, so that I always feel, as well as believe, that man by no means invented harmony, but only found out God’s beautiful arrangements in it. As for my own compositions, I am (at some cost of resolution) abstaining entirely. Hiller, of Cologne, recommended me an excellent book, which I got, and determined to write no more till I had gone through it; this I am steadily doing, and enjoy writing the exercises. I suppose, after Hiller’s professional opinion, it would be affectation to say I had no talent, and I certainly do feel I have at least a sort of inherited instinct for seeing into harmonies. The way I studied harmony was rather unique; some years ago (at home) I kept a treatise on harmony in my bedroom, read as much as I could conveniently grasp the last thing, and then worked out the exercises in my head before going to sleep. This I did for several weeks, and suppose I must have taken it in very comfortably under this system, inasmuch as I had some work to persuade Hiller that I had gone through no “academical course!”
Frances writes (1870) of difficulties in the work:
I was so struck this morning with “Thou art the Helper of the fatherless,’ — the very first time one of those special orphan promises has come home tome. I had been puzzling over a tune which papa would have decided about in a minute, and missed him so much, when suddenly this verse flashed upon me brightly. I think that even in music the Lord is my helper now; much more in other things.
When composing some tunes at this time, I selected six about which I felt doubtful, and sent them to Sir Frederic Ouseley, asking him to say if they were all right. This he most kindly did; to my great delight he endorsed them every one, and praised them too.
Very prayerfully did she write several hymns for “Songs of Grace and Glory”; and, when she heard from time to time of their being blessed, she wrote in answer to a friend’s communication:
It does seem wonderful that God should so use and bless my hymns; and yet it really does seem as if the seal of His own blessing were set upon them, for so many testimonies have reached me. Writing is praying with me, for I never seem to write even a verse by myself, and feel like a little child writing; you know a child would look up at every sentence and say “And what shall I say next?” That is just what I do; I ask that at every line He would give me, not merely thoughts and power, but also every word, even the very rhymes. Very often I have a most distinct and happy consciousness of direct answers. As you use “Havergal’s Psalmody” I thought you might be interested to know a little more about my dear father, so will you accept a “Memorial” of him.
Literal “singing for Jesus” is to me, somehow, the most personal and direct commission I hold from my beloved Master; and my opportunities for it are often most curious, and have been greatly blessed; every line in my little poem “Singing for Jesus” is from personal experience.
I was so overwhelmed on Sunday at hearing three of my hymns touchingly sung at Perry Church. I never before realized the high privilege of writing for ‘the great congregation”; especially 633, “I gave My life for thee” to papa’s tune “Baca”; the others were 120 and 921 in “S. G. G.”
(Zo Margaret W — — .)
... Last night they sang “To Him who for our sins was slain,” to my little tune ‘‘ Tryphosa”; it went so deliciously, and choir and congregation really rang out the Alleluias so brightly that it suddenly came over me, as it never did before, what a privilege it is even to have contributed a bit of music for His direct praise. It was a sort of Aush of praise, all alone with Jesus, for His great
‘goodness. I had no idea “‘Tryphosa” was such a pretty jae beforey. aus.
About coming to hear — — , I see that I shall glorify
Him most by staying away. /vwits of my profession are looked for, and what will be looked for in this case is submission to known wishes and the yielding up of my own. It is sure to be all right. I don’t think He will let me lose the blessing and the help I had looked por coming. YS .-,
’ One result of her own trials was sympathy with others, beautifully expressed in the following letter.
LEAMINGTON, December 10, 1870.
DEAR, DEAR Mrs. SNEPP, —
What can one do but just weep with you! JZ can only guess what this sorrow is. Only, I know it must be the greatest, except ove, which could come to you. That dear little beautiful thing! He looked so sweet and happy when I saw him at the station: no baby face ever haunted me as, somehow, his did. If you could only see him now, how beautiful he must be now that he has. seen Jesus and shines in the light of God. It is even more wonderful to think of that great transition for a baby than for a grown person; one cannot imagine the sudden expansion into such knowledge and conscious joy. I was looking back, early this morning, upon long memories of soul trials, years of groping and stumbling and longing, sinning and sorrowing, of heart weariness and faintness, temptation and failure; all these things which I suppose every Christian must pass through, more or less, at some stage or other on the way home; and the first distinct thought which came through the surprise and sorrow at the sad news was, “that dear little redeemed one is spared all ¢/zs, taken home without any of these roughest roughnesses of the way; he will never fear or doubt or sin, xever grieve the Saviour.” Is it not the very best and kindest thing that tender Saviour could do for him? Only it is not what you meant when you prayed that he might be His own. But defer, for he is with Him at once and for ever, and waiting for you to come home too. Iam only writing all this because my heart is full, and must pour out a little. I know we can’t comfort, only Jesus can; and I shall go and plead long and intensely for this ‘as soon as I have closed my letter. He must be specially “touched” in such a sorrow, for He knows*by actual experience what human love is. Three such great sorrows in one year! how specially He must be watching you in such a furnace!... Yours, with deepest sympathy and love.
In June of 1871 Frances and her friend Elizabeth Clay spent some weeks in Switzerland; with no encumbering luggage, just carpet bags and knapsacks, they often diverged from beaten routes. - Frances always spoke of ¢#zs as the most enjoyable of all her Swiss tours. Walking up the Reuss valley she writes from Geschenen:
“Hurrah! we are ina most exhilarated state of mind, just like children; and, except a little undercurrent of general thanksgiving we don’t feel solemn at all, and have been in the wildest spirits..
From Andermatt we took the diligence to the Furca pass.. It is so early that, in some places, the road lay between walls of snow. We were obliged to take a guide up the Furca horn, as there is no vestige of a track; the snow slopes were most entertaining to cross, and I enjoyed the scramble excessively.
Going up the Aeggischhorn (she continues), an Alpine Clubbist with the guide Fischer was before us, and he afterwards told our guide, Alexander, that he watched us from above, and that I “went up like a chamois!” and he was quite astonished how quickly I got up a difficult climb; but I always had an instinct I should find myself a rather extra good climber. The glissades down are simply delicious.
Bet Avp, July 8. To-day has been the best of all. We secured Anton Walden for the Sparrenhorn, which is nearly 10,000 feet. Another lady, Miss Anstey, joined. Coffee at 3.30, started before 4 a.m.
Now I have seen it at last, a real Alpine dawn and sunrise to perfection! When we came out we saw the “daffodil sky,” which Tyndall describes, in the east a calm glory of expectant light as if something positively celestial must come next, instead of merely the usual sun. In the south west the grand mountains stood, white and perfectly clear, as if they might be waiting for the resurrection, with the moon shining pale and radiant over them, the deep Rhone valley dark and grave-like in contrast below. As we got higher, the first rose flush struck the Mischabel and Weisshorn, and Monte Leon came to life too; it was veal rose-fire, delicate yet intense. The Weisshorn was in its full glory, looking more perfectly lovely than any earthly thing I ever saw. When the tip of the Matterhorn caught the red light on its evillooking rocky peak, it was just like a volcano and looked rather awful than lovely, giving one the idea of an evil angel, impotently wrathful, shrinking away from the serene glory and utter purity of a holy angel, which that Weisshorn at dawn might represent if anything earthly could. The eastern ridges were almost jet, in front of the great golden glow into which the daffodil sky heightened. By 4.30 a.m. it was all over, and thenceforth we devoted ourselves to getting up the Sparrenhorn.
After many other excursions they went down
into the Italian valleys.
July 28th. CourmMaveur.... I have been writing in a delicious den, under a rock, cool and shady, a discovery of Elizabeth’s. It commands ‘a grand front of Mont Blanc. We had a stiff climb to the shoulder of a mountain whose Courmayeur face is a striking precipice, There is a tolerable path up a gorge, leading to a ride just below the cone of Mont Chétif. From this point we had a face-to-face view of the most precipitous side of Mont Blanc, with the ice fall of the Glacier de Brenva. The summit of Mont Blanc was veiled, but I think that added to the weird sublimity of the view.
One evening the English chaplain and Mrs. Phinn asked us to come to tea, to meet Costabel, the Vaudois missionary pastor stationed here. This was very interesting; he is a nice, simple, good man, and told us a great deal about Vaudois work. Costabel is very isolated here (but Mr. Phinn has quite taken him up), for he has only a few poor Christian friends, and never any superior society unless the English find him out. He told us that the fear of death among the people here is awful, and that he is frequently present at the most painful death scenes. During life and health they leave everything to the priest, and believe that he will make it all right for them; and, except complying with certain forms, do not think or trouble themselves about religion at all. Then, when they are dying they get alarmed, and see that this natural shifting of their religion upon another (the priest) will not do; they lose confidence in him, and have no other; they want peace and have none; they would like to feel assured, but they have no assurance; and they die in agonies of terror. It was terrible to hear Costabel’s description of what he says is the rule as to Romish death beds. “Unto the poor the gospel is preached,” and he says it is so here. Only the poor will listen to him, and those in the outlying villages where no priest ..resides, We find the people here quite different from the Swiss, and not at all so ready to accept Gospels. It is the first place where, on offering any, we have been asked “whether it was a Protestant book”; however they always end by taking them.
Mont Blanc is more than ever supreme to me; it is quite strange what a difference in effect there is between him and Monte Rosa, though this is second in height and only 500 feet lower. Monte Rosa is quite disappointing and unimposing; and, as there are four other mountains round Zermatt very nearly as high, and seven or eight more not much lower, there is nothing of this imperial supremacy which makes Mont Blanc so unmistakable from anywhere.
I think that, either for strong or weak folk, Courmayeuris the very best place I know of for making a long stay at; the walks and excursions are inexhaustible, there are any amount of grand things to do for mountaineers, and lovely little easy walks, as short as you like,
: MOUNTAINEERING CIVILITIES. Ilr EE EE a for mere invalids. Valleys and gorges fork and re-fork in all directions. Another advantage is that it lies on a gentle slope some little height above the noisy, foaming Dora, and so one has not the perpetual roar which I always think the greatest drawback to Swiss enjoyment. If the rivers would but go to sleep at night, what a relief it would be! I,certainly have not been so well for years, and except for some wakeful nights I should
* have done the whole tour without flagging at all.
Saturday, 5.30 p.m. Cuapiu. We have got off at Jast; it was not at all hopeful yesterday, and I began the day rather anxiously (as I should really have been in a fix if we could not have left till Monday), and there was the clearest, most transparent, dawn sky imaginable; not a cloud; and a delicious north wind, which is an infallible sign of first-rate weather. We got off exactly at five, in great spirits, as the views must be first-rate on such a morning, and the cool wind would make walking very easy. As we passed our old hotel, we found a caravan of about eighteen mules and nearly as many guides, as all the Italians pensioning there were going up the Col de la Seigne for the day. We hastened on, as we of course did not want to be mixed up, and succeeded in keeping ahead the whole way, five hours, though we were alternately on foot and they all riding, and got to the top just before them. We chose our spot to lunch, and they camped at a little distance with many bows and “Bon appetits!” and other small foreign civilities, as they passed us. When we had finished and were moving off, they shouted to us to stay, and all rose and came to us offering us wine and fruit, and saying they wished to propose a toast and drink with us before we left. It was far too gracefully done to refuse; so red wine was poured, and all raised a most cordial “Vive l’Angleterre!” with great enthusiasm and clinking of glasses, to which we responded with a “Viva l’ Italia!” which seemed to please them. Then an old priest said, “Mesdemoiselles, €tes vous catholiques? Viva Roma!” to which I replied in Italian, “We can at least say, Viva Roma capitale @’ ftalia!” which response he quite understood and said, “Ah well, ah well, viva Christianity,” to which we of course responded com amore. Then two or three more (probably freethinkers, I’m afraid) said, “‘ Oui bien, but no more Popery”; and two or three similar exclamations, at which we were very much astonished, as at least three priests were in the party. Then we were allowed to depart, with no end of hat wavings and good wishes. We were so taken by surprise with the whole thing, and all passed so quickly, and so many rapid exclamations and vivas firing off in Frenth and Italian, that I was quite sorry afterwards that I had not recollected all quite distinctly. It was such a curious little episode, and occurring too at such a superb spot, and close to the cross which marks the boundary and bears on one side “France” and on the other “Italia.” We reached Chapiu at two, having only been eight hours in actual progress, as we stayed nearly an hour on the col, as we hoped it might be possible to put on steam and get over the Col de Bonhomme this afternoon, and thereby be yet able to do Chamounix. But we found that, owing to the great snow, it would take five hours from Chapiu, and that a//7 on foot, as a mule could not go at all; so we were obliged to give it up, (though feeling quite equal to it,) as the guide said we could not do it before dark, and it would not do to risk that. So we have put up here for Sunday, at a funny little inn, many miles from any village.
It has been a glorious day, as clear as crystal, almost too clear, as it rather takes from the sublimity, the summits look so near. We passec the Lac de Combat, an exquisitely soft-tinted lake, pearly blue (but less intense than Geneva), reflecting a grand and lovely group of snow summits and ridges, more like a fairy fancy than a reality in its unique loveliness. That lake was red in Napoleon’s days, and a wretched garrison was kept freezing there four whole winters, guarding the pass at the boundary. The ruins of their rough fortifications are reflected in one corner, a melancholy contrast. The col is 8450 feet high, but the ascent was unusually gradual, and we were as fresh when we got to the top as when we started. But then we had ignominiously descended to having a mule between us: so it was only two hours and a half walking for each. ‘There is no post at all here, but any chance guide or traveller takes letters on to Bourg St. Maurice!
We pass on to Christmas Day of this year,
1871; which was spent at Leamington, and in
connection with which she writes to her old friend
as follows.
(Zo E. C.)
re Christmas has as much of pain as of joy in it
now, more perhaps, and yet ome would not blot out the
memories which cause the pain. I have found this second return home after my dear father’s death fully asetrymg as the first.-. “. *. — One or’ two pet schemes are defeated; but let me rather dwell on Christmas mercies, and much that can infinitely satisfy one’s cravings.
Subsequent ill health obliged Frances to give up much pleasant work, and especially the training of the St. Paul’s voluntary choir, which had been committed to her. But (she writes) “when a disappointment comes in that way it must be His appointment!”
(Jo M. W.)
.. Lam stopped in every attempt at consecutive - work. It has for years been special discipline to me, because I am naturally fond of going through with a thing, and have always had a strong yearning for definite settled work. Yet I have never been permitted anything but desultory work; either ailments or something beyond my own control has always interfered ever since I was about twenty.... Margaret, is it that He cannot trust me with any work for Him, even after all these years? Ihave been feeling very down, and I hope really humbled; it seemed rather marked, His not letting me write at all this year; and, now, taking away all work from me seems another sentence of the same lesson. I feel such a “cumberer,” every one doing more and: better than myself. .Pray for me, that I may really learn a Heisteachingme .. ,.
(Ti 0 the same.)
I am always getting surprises at my own stupidity! Why could not I have seen that lovely trio of texts? This only confirms my strong belief that if I am to write to any good, a great deal of ving must go toa very little writing, and that this is why I have always been held back from writing a tithe of what I wanted
to write; and I see the wisdom of it.