ELLEN MARY CLERKE
Ellen Mary Clerke, the only sister of Agnes Clerke, whose interest in Astronomy was also keen, was born at Skibbereen on September 26, 1840. She shared her sister’s life, and her devotion to her contributed not a little to the perfect fulfilment of its mission.
Acutely sensitive to the beautiful, and with a rare capacity for enthusiasms,Ellen Clerke was first of all a poet. But she was much besides. She was an accomplished linguist; and the years she spent in Italy were devoted to such study of Italian literature as enabled her later to do excellent original work in connection with it. An admirable article by her in theDublin Reviewfor October 1879, on “The Age of Dante in the Florentine Chronicles,” well deserves remembrance, so full is it of the illumination of wide reading and of careful thinking. Alas! only too many articles by her have passedinto magazine oblivion. Some of these were written in foreign tongues—a sure proof of mastery of them. For instance, in 1869 she published a pamphlet in German with the titleDas Judenthum in der Musik; while, besides many articles and reviews in Italian in the Florentine periodicals, she published in one of these a serial story in Italian, calledSotto le Sette Stelle. She had also a knowledge of Arabic by no means inconsiderable.
Her interest in geographical science was not generally known; but shewas a valued member of the Manchester Geographical Society, and contributed to its Journal.
As regards Astronomy, she has left useful evidence of her warm interest in the subject in two excellent popular monographs, and in various articles.
A list of Ellen Clerke’s works is given at the end of this sketch, but special mention must be made of her work as a journalist. Her friends might regret—as I did for one—that so much of her time was thus spent; but, after all, journalism iswhat the journalist makes it; and it cannot be denied that it is a great and increasing power in our midst.
Assuredly Ellen Clerke always used her opportunities as a journalist for noble ends. For the last twenty years of her life she wrote a weekly leader for theTablet,—usually on subjects connected with the Church abroad; and on several occasions during the temporary absence of the Editor she filled his place at his request.
Many of her literary articles contributed to various periodicals werecritical, and that she was a generous and encouraging as well as a capable critic the following facts pleasingly illustrate.
In theWestminster Reviewfor October 1878 she had an article on “The later Novels of Berthold Auerbach.” It met the eye of the novelist, and he directed to be sent to her a copy of hisLandolin von Reutershöfen, inscribed: “To the Author of the article in theWestminster Review, October 1878, with kind regards of Berthold Auerbach. Berlin, Nov. 14, 1878.”
It is singular that the poems of Ellen Clerke, published in 1881, should not have attracted more attention. The volume is now, I believe, almost, if not entirely, out of print; and partly on this account, partly because of its subject and of its beauty, I give here one of the poems.
NIGHT’S SOLILOQUY
Who calls me dark? for do I not displayWonders that else man’s eye would never see?Waste in the blank and blinding glare of Day,The heavens bud forth their glories but to me.Is it not mine to pile their crystal cup,Drain’d by the thirsty sun and void by day,Brimful of living gems, profuse heap’d up,The bounteous largesse of my royal way?Mine to call o’er at dusk the roll of heav’n,Array its glittering files in order due?To beckon forth the lurking star of Even,And bid the constellations start to view?The wandering planets to their paths recall,And summon to the muster tenant spheres,Till thronging to my standard one and all,They crowd the zenith in unfathom’d tiers?DoInot lure stray sunbeams from the day,To hurl them broadcast as wing’d meteors forth?Strew sheaves of fiery arrows on my way,And blazon my dark spaces in the north?Is not a crown of lightnings mine to wear,When polar flames suffuse my skies with splendour?And mine the homage with the sun to share,His vagrant vassals rush through space to render?Who calls me secret? are not hidden things,Reveal’d to science when with piercing sightShe looks beneath the shadow of my wings,To fathom space and sound the infinite?In plasmic light do I not bid her traceGerms from creation’s dawn maturing slow?And in each filmy chaos drown’d in spaceSee suns and systems yet in embryo?
Who calls me dark? for do I not displayWonders that else man’s eye would never see?Waste in the blank and blinding glare of Day,The heavens bud forth their glories but to me.Is it not mine to pile their crystal cup,Drain’d by the thirsty sun and void by day,Brimful of living gems, profuse heap’d up,The bounteous largesse of my royal way?Mine to call o’er at dusk the roll of heav’n,Array its glittering files in order due?To beckon forth the lurking star of Even,And bid the constellations start to view?The wandering planets to their paths recall,And summon to the muster tenant spheres,Till thronging to my standard one and all,They crowd the zenith in unfathom’d tiers?DoInot lure stray sunbeams from the day,To hurl them broadcast as wing’d meteors forth?Strew sheaves of fiery arrows on my way,And blazon my dark spaces in the north?Is not a crown of lightnings mine to wear,When polar flames suffuse my skies with splendour?And mine the homage with the sun to share,His vagrant vassals rush through space to render?Who calls me secret? are not hidden things,Reveal’d to science when with piercing sightShe looks beneath the shadow of my wings,To fathom space and sound the infinite?In plasmic light do I not bid her traceGerms from creation’s dawn maturing slow?And in each filmy chaos drown’d in spaceSee suns and systems yet in embryo?
Who calls me dark? for do I not displayWonders that else man’s eye would never see?Waste in the blank and blinding glare of Day,The heavens bud forth their glories but to me.
Who calls me dark? for do I not display
Wonders that else man’s eye would never see?
Waste in the blank and blinding glare of Day,
The heavens bud forth their glories but to me.
Is it not mine to pile their crystal cup,Drain’d by the thirsty sun and void by day,Brimful of living gems, profuse heap’d up,The bounteous largesse of my royal way?
Is it not mine to pile their crystal cup,
Drain’d by the thirsty sun and void by day,
Brimful of living gems, profuse heap’d up,
The bounteous largesse of my royal way?
Mine to call o’er at dusk the roll of heav’n,Array its glittering files in order due?To beckon forth the lurking star of Even,And bid the constellations start to view?
Mine to call o’er at dusk the roll of heav’n,
Array its glittering files in order due?
To beckon forth the lurking star of Even,
And bid the constellations start to view?
The wandering planets to their paths recall,And summon to the muster tenant spheres,Till thronging to my standard one and all,They crowd the zenith in unfathom’d tiers?
The wandering planets to their paths recall,
And summon to the muster tenant spheres,
Till thronging to my standard one and all,
They crowd the zenith in unfathom’d tiers?
DoInot lure stray sunbeams from the day,To hurl them broadcast as wing’d meteors forth?Strew sheaves of fiery arrows on my way,And blazon my dark spaces in the north?
DoInot lure stray sunbeams from the day,
To hurl them broadcast as wing’d meteors forth?
Strew sheaves of fiery arrows on my way,
And blazon my dark spaces in the north?
Is not a crown of lightnings mine to wear,When polar flames suffuse my skies with splendour?And mine the homage with the sun to share,His vagrant vassals rush through space to render?
Is not a crown of lightnings mine to wear,
When polar flames suffuse my skies with splendour?
And mine the homage with the sun to share,
His vagrant vassals rush through space to render?
Who calls me secret? are not hidden things,Reveal’d to science when with piercing sightShe looks beneath the shadow of my wings,To fathom space and sound the infinite?
Who calls me secret? are not hidden things,
Reveal’d to science when with piercing sight
She looks beneath the shadow of my wings,
To fathom space and sound the infinite?
In plasmic light do I not bid her traceGerms from creation’s dawn maturing slow?And in each filmy chaos drown’d in spaceSee suns and systems yet in embryo?
In plasmic light do I not bid her trace
Germs from creation’s dawn maturing slow?
And in each filmy chaos drown’d in space
See suns and systems yet in embryo?
Miss Clerke specially enjoyed romantic subjects; and the sea and shipping appealed to her strongly. Her ballad onThe Flying Dutchmanlegend is one of the finest treatments of the subject I have met with, and it is to be regretted that it is not better known, for it would lend itself well both to the reciter and to the musician.
The volume of poems gave evidence of a special gift which in later years the author cultivated with great success,—that of verse translation. Her delightful and valuable book,Fable and Song in Italy, is illustrated throughout with her own versions; and although I do not pretend to have compared each version with its original, I venture to say that the translations are, as a whole, wonderfully faithful, and that when the number of them, and the variety of subjects and of measures, are considered, the verse part aloneof the work is a notable achievement. The prose part is more than a mere setting; it is full of touches of illuminating thought, and many little-known facts are brought together suggestively, while many of the descriptive passages are wonderfully vivid. In Dr. Garnett’sHistory of Italian Literaturethe English versions selected by him from Boiardo and some other poets were by Ellen Clerke.
Ellen Clerke’s literary style was lighter and more spontaneous than her sister’s.
Like her sister she was highly musical, and her instrument was the guitar. A pupil of Madame Pratten, she had through the practice of many years acquired a mastery of the instrument unusual in an amateur, managing it with great skill, and arranging for it many an accompaniment. To the last almost, her singing to the guitar was full of charm; and in earlier years when the sisters sang together to her guitar accompaniment the performance was delightful.
A devoted and exemplary Catholic,Ellen Clerke was untiring in her zeal for all good works. Unselfish and loving, she was a devoted daughter, sister, and friend. Fonder of society than her sister, it was perhaps natural that she did not pursue literary work in the same persistent way. And it fell in with her sociability that she pulled a good oar and enjoyed riding.
These sisters were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were but little divided. Ellen Clerke died after a short illness on March 2, 1906.