Place Name
Catherine Maria Fanshawe (July 6, 1765 – April 17, 1834) was a celebrated woman of letters known for her “rare wit and genius” who lived at Midhurst House. Her father was John Fanshawe who held a post in the household of King George III, which is most likely what brought the family to Richmond. Catherine was a close friend of Sir Walter Scott and, according to HM Cundall in Bygone Richmond “belonged to a small select set of people, united by a common love for literature and art.” He adds: “Several of her poems were published, including her best known one entitled A Riddle… [which] was for some time attributed to Byron, and was included in at least two editions of his works. Sir Walter Scott and Mr Browning both spoke highly of her verses. Miss Fanshawe was an artist as well as a poet, and her drawings and etchings met with praise.” Perhaps, but Kathleen Courlander in Richmond was less impressed “Sir Walter Scott admired Catherine’s intellect, but her virtues, enumerated by her friends, indicate that the poetess of the Petersham Road was a prig. She reigned as queen over a literary circle, said to be so exclusive that not even the famous Misses [Mary and Agnes] Berry could penetrate it.” As for Midhurst House, it later became the property of another celebrated woman Lady Caroline Lucy Scott but was demolished in 1938 for road widening. And for the curious this is her celebrated poem:
‘Twas in heaven pronounced – it was mutter’d in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess’d.
‘Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
‘Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion is drown’d.
‘Twill not soften the heart; and tho’ deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah, breathe on it softly – it dies in an hour.
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