| Granny's Wonderful Chair|
|by Frances Browne|
|Seven fairy tales, set in an interesting framework in which are related the adventures of the little girl Snowflower and her magical chair at the court of King Winwealth. When Snow-flower, from her nook in the kitchen, said, "Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest banquet hall," "instantly the chair marched in a grave and courtly fashion out of the kitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall." There it told the following stories to the king and queen, the fair lords and ladies, the many fairies, and notable people from other lands: The Christmas Cuckoo, The Lords of the White and Gray Castles, The Greedy Shepherd, The Story of Fairyfoot, The Story of Childe Charity, Sour and Civil, and The Story of Merrymind. Ages 7-10 |
[ix] The writer of "Granny's Wonderful Chair" was a poet, and
blind. That she was a poet the story tells on every page,
but of her blindness it tells not a word. From beginning to
end it is filled with pictures; each little tale has its own
picturesque setting, its own vividly realised scenery. Her
power of visualisation would be easy to understand had she
become blind in the later years of her life, when the
beauties of the physical world were impressed on her mind;
but Frances Browne was blind from infancy. The pictures she
gives us in her stories were created, in darkness, from
material which came to her only through the words of others.
In her work are no blurred lines or
[x] uncertainties, her drawing is done with a firm and vigorous
hand. It would seem that the completeness of her calamity
created, within her, that serenity of spirit which
contrives the greatest triumphs in Life and in Art. Her
endeavour was to realise the world independently of her own
personal emotion and needs. She, who, out of her
darkness and poverty, might have touched us so surely with
her longing for her birthright of light, for her share of
the world's good things, gives help and encouragement to
the more fortunate.
In reading the very few details of her life we feel the
stimulation as of watching one who, in a desperate fight,
wins against great odds.
The odds against Frances Browne were heavy. She was born at
Stranorlar, a mountain village in Donegal, on January 16,
1816. Her great-grandfather was a man of considerable
property, which he squandered; and the younger generation
would seem to have inherited nothing from its ancestor but
his irresponsibility. Frances Browne's father was the
village post-master, and she, the seventh in a family of
twelve children, learning privation
[xi] and endurance from the cradle. But no soil is the wrong one
for genius. Whether or not hers would have developed
more richly in more generous surroundings, it is difficult
to say. The strong mind that could, in blindness and
poverty, secure its own education, and win its way to the
company of the best, the thoroughly equipped and well
tended, gained a victory which genius alone made possible.
She was one of the elect, had no creative achievement
crowned her triumph.
She tells us how she herself learned by heart the lessons
which her brothers and sisters said aloud every evening, in
readiness for the next day's school; and how she bribed them
to read to her by doing their share of the household work.
When the usual bribe failed, she invented stories for them,
and, in return for these, books were read to her which,
while they seemed dull and uninteresting enough to the
readers, built up for the eager listener those enchanted
steps by which she was to climb into her intellectual
Her habit was to say these lessons aloud at night, when
every one else was asleep, to impress
[xii] untiringly upon her memory the knowledge for which she
persistently fought through the day.
There were no
book-shops at Stranorlar, or within three counties of it,
and had there been one, Frances Browne had no pennies for
the luxury of books. But she had friends, and from those
who were richer than herself in possession, she borrowed
her tools. From the village teacher she learned French, in
exchange for those lessons in grammar and geography which
her brothers and sisters had given away to her, in return
for numberless wipings and scrubbings in the kitchen.
Scott's novels marked an era in her mental life; and of
Pope's Iliad—which she heard read when she was about
fifteen—she says, "It was like the discovery of a new
world, and effected a total change in my ideas and thoughts
on the subject of poetry. There was at the time a
considerable MS. of my own production in existence, which of
course I regarded with some partiality; but Homer had
awakened me, and in a fit of sovereign contempt I committed
the whole to the flames. After Homer's, the work that
produced the greatest
im- [xiii] pression on my mind was Byron's 'Childe Harold.' The one had
induced me to burn my first MS., the other made me resolve
against verse-making in future."
Her first poem was written at the age of seven, but after
this resolve of her fifteenth year, she wrote no more for
nearly ten years. Then, in 1840, when she was four and
twenty, a volume of Irish Songs was read to her, and her own
music reawakened. She wrote a poem called "The Songs
of our Land." It was published in the "Irish Penny
Journal," and can be found still in Duffy's "Ballad Poetry
of Ireland." After this her poems grew apace: she wrote
lyrics for the "Athenæum," "Hood's Magazine," and "Lady
Blessington's Keepsake." Her work was much
appreciated, and her poems were reprinted in many of the
She published a complete volume of poems in 1844, and a
second volume in 1848, which she called "Lyrics and
The first use to which she put her literary earnings was
the education of a sister, to be her reader
[xiv] and amanuensis. In Frances Browne's life each step was in
the direction of her goal. From its beginning to its end the
strong mind pressed unhesitatingly forward to its complete
development, seeking the inner light more steadfastly for
the absence of external vision.
Her income was a pension of £20, from the Royal Bounty Fund;
and with this, for all security, she set out, in 1847, with
her sister to Edinburgh, determined to make her own way in
the literary world. At leaving her native land she says:
"I go as one that comes no more, yet go without regret;
The summers other memories store 'twere summer to forget;
I go without one parting word, one grasp of parting hand,
As to the wide air goes the bird—yet fare thee well, my land!"
She quickly made friends in Edinburgh, won by her genius and
character, in the circle which included Christopher North.
Her industry was amazing: she wrote essays, reviews,
leaders, lyrics, stories—indeed, she wrote anything she was
asked to write, and under the pressure of her work her
[xv] prose strengthened and developed. But all her energy could
not make her rich. "The waters of my lot," she says, "were
often troubled, though not by angels." Her own health
interfered with her work, and, from the beginning, she, out
of her own poverty, tried to relieve that of her mother.
In 1852 she moved to London, and here, by the gift of £100
from the Marquis of Lansdowne, she was for the time released
from the pressure of daily necessity. She concentrated on a
more important work than she had yet attempted, and wrote a
novel which she called "My Share of the World."
It is written in the form of an autobiography of one
Frederick Favoursham, a youthful struggler through
journalism and tutorship, who wins nothing better, in the
end, than a lonely possession of vast estates. But one
realises fully, in this story, the strength of a mind whose
endeavour is to probe the heart of things, and whose firm
incisive expression translates precisely what the mind
There are in this work, and it is natural it should
[xvi] be so, one or two touches of self-revelation; the only ones,
I think, which she, in all her writing, permitted herself.
She makes her hero say of his mother—"Well I remember her
old blue gown, her hands hard with rough work, her still
girlish figure and small pale face, from which the bloom and
the prettiness had gone so early; but the hard hand had, in
its kindly pressure, the only genuine love I ever knew; the
pale face looks yet on my sleep with a blessing, and the old
gown has turned, in my dreams, to the radiant robe of an
And the delicate sensitive character of Lucy, the heroine,
reads like the expression of the writer's own personality:
into it she has put a touch of romance. In all her work
there is never a word of personal complaint, but the words
she puts into the mouth of her hero, when Lucy commits
suicide, must have been born of her own suffering: "When the
burden outgrows the strength so far that moral as well as
physical energies begin to fail, and there is no door but
death's, that will welcome our weariness, what remains but
to creep into that quiet shelter? I think it had come to
that with Lucy.
[xvii] Her days were threatened by a calamity, the most terrible in
the list of human ills, which the wise Manetho, the last of
the Egyptians, with his brave Pagan heart and large
philosophy, thought good and sufficient warrant for a man's
resigning his place on the earth."
Among other mental qualities, she had, for the fortification
of her spirit, a sense of humour. In this same book she
writes of "a little man of that peculiar figure which
looks as if a not very well filled sack had somehow got
legs"; and commenting on a little difficulty of her hero's
making, she says, "It is rather an awkward business to meet a
family at breakfast whose only son one has kicked overnight."
And how elastic and untarnished must that nature have been
which, after years of continuous struggle for bare
subsistence, could put her money-wise people on to paper and
quietly say of them that, "To keep a daily watch over
passing pence did not disturb the Fentons—it was a mental
exercise suited to their capacities." The turning of that
sentence was surely an exquisite pleasure
[xviii] to its author. And "My Share of the World" is full of
cleverly-turned sentences—"Hartley cared for nobody, and I
believe the corollary of the miller's song was verified in
But we must not linger longer over her novel, its pages are
full of passages which tell of the vigorous quality of her
Frances Browne's poetry is as impersonal as her prose. She
belonged to the first order of artists, if
there be distinction in our gratitude. The material with
which she tried to deal was Life—apart from herself—a
perhaps bigger, and, certainly, a harder piece of work than
the subjective expression of a single personality.
The subjects of her poems are in many lands and periods. The
most ambitious—"The Star of Attéghéi"—is
a tale of Circassia, another is of a twelfth-century monk and the
philosopher's stone, another of an Arab; and another is of
that Cyprus tree which is said to have been planted at the
birth of Christ, and to spare which Napoleon deviated from
his course when he ordered the making of the road over the
"Why came it not, when o'er my life
A cloud of darkness hung,
When years were lost in fruitless strife,
But still my heart was young?
How hath the shower forgot the Spring,
And fallen on Autumn's withering?"
These lines are from a poem called "The Unknown Crown."
The messenger who came to tell Tasso the laureate crown had
been decreed him, found him dying in a convent.
Then she has verses on Boston, on Protestant Union in New
England, on the Abolition of Slavery in the United States,
on the Parliament grant for the improvement of the Shannon.
Her mind compelled externals to its use.
A love of nature was in her soul, a perception of the beauty
of the world. She, with her poet's spirit, saw all the green
and leafy places of the earth, all its flowery ways—while
they, may be, were trodden heedlessly by those about her
with their gift of sight.
"Sing on by fane and forest old
By tombs and cottage eaves,
And tell the waste of coming flowers
The woods of coming leaves;—
The same sweet song that o'er the birth
Of earliest blossoms rang,
And caught its music from the hymn
The stars of morning sang."
("The Birds of Spring.")
"Ye early minstrels of the earth,
Whose mighty voices woke
The echoes of its infant woods,
Ere yet the tempest spoke;
How is it that ye waken still
The young heart's happy dreams,
And shed your light on darkened days
O bright and blessed streams?"
"Words—words of hope!—oh! long believed,
As oracles of old,
When stars of promise have deceived,
And beacon-fires grown cold!
Though still, upon time's stormy steeps,
Such sounds are faint and few,
Yet oft from cold and stranger lips
Hath fallen that blessèd dew,—
That, like the rock-kept rain, remained
When many a sweeter fount was drained."
Many and many such verses there are which might be quoted, but
her work for children is
wait- [xxi] ing.—For them she wrote many stories, and in their employ
her imagination travelled into many lands. The most popular
was "Granny's Wonderful Chair," published in 1856. It was
at once a favourite, and quickly out of print, and,
strangely enough, was not reprinted until 1880. Then new
editions were issued in 1881, '82, '83, '84, '87, and '89.
In 1887, Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett published it, with a
preface, under the title "Stories from the Lost Fairy
Book," re-told by the child who read them. "The Lost
Fairy Book" was "Granny's Wonderful Chair."
One has not far to read to discover the secret of its
popularity with children. It is full of word-pictures, of
picturesque settings. Her power of visualisation is shown in
these fairy-tales more, perhaps, than in any other of her
writings. Truly, she was fortunate in having the Irish
fairies to lead her into their gossamer-strewn ways, to
touch her fancy with their magic, and put upon her the glamour
of their land. When the stories are of them she is,
perhaps, at her best; but each story in the book makes a
complete picture, each has enough
[xxii] and no more of colour and scene. And the little pictures are
kept in their places, pinned down to reality, by delightful
touches of humour. Of the wonderful chair, Dame Frostyface
says in the beginning of the story, "It was made by a
cunning fairy who lived in the forest when I was young, and
she gave it to me because she knew nobody would keep what
they got hold of better."
How did a writer who never saw a coach, or a palace, or the
picture of a coach or a palace, tell of the palace and the
people and the multitudes, of the roasting and boiling, of
the spiced ale, and the dancing?
Whence came her vision of the old woman who weaved her own
hair into grey cloth at a crazy loom; of the fortified city
in the plain, with corn-fields and villages; of floors of
ebony and ceilings of silver; of swallows that built in the
eaves while the daisies grew thick at the door?
Had her descriptions been borrowed, the wonder of them would
cease. But her words are her own, and they are used
sparingly, as by one who sees too vividly what she is
describing to add one
unneces- [xxiii] sary or indistinct touch. She seems as much at home under
the sea, among hills of marble and rocks of spar,
as with the
shepherds on the moorland or when she tells of the spring,
and the budding of the topmost boughs.
The enrichment of little Snowflower, by the King's gifts,
links these stories together as artistically as the telling
of the princess's raiment in that beautiful book, "A Digit
of the Moon"; and right glad we are when the poorly clad
little girl takes her place among the grand courtiers, and
is led away to happiness by the Prince.
Frances Browne's list of contributions to children's
literature is a long one. In reading these books one is
surprised by the size of her imaginative territory; by the
diversity of the knowledge she acquired.
One, "The Exile's Trust," is a story of the French
Revolution, in which Charlotte Corday is introduced; and in
it are descriptions of the scenery of Lower Normandy;
another, "The First of the African Diamonds," is a tale of
the Dutch and the banks of the Orange River. Then, in
[xxiv] Foresters," she conducts her young heroes to Archangel, to
see the fine frost and clear sky, the long winter nights,
and long summer days, to adventure with wolves in the
forest, and with pirates by sea.
In "The Dangerous Guest" she is in the time of the Young
Pretender, and in "The Eriksons," "The Clever Boy," and
"Our Uncle the Traveller," she wanders far and wide.
In reviewing her subjects one realises afresh the richness
of the world she created within her own darkness.
A wonderful law of Exchange keeps safe the precious things
of Life, and it operates by strange and unexpected means. In
this instance it was most beautifully maintained; for
Frances Browne, the iron of calamity was transmuted to gold.
Thus it has been, and thus it shall be; so long as the world
shall last, circumstance shall not conquer a strong and
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