1799–1888

Introduction

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Born: March 12, 1799, Cole­ford, Glou­ces­ter­shire, Eng­land.

Died: Jan­ua­ry 30, 1888, Rome, It­aly.

Buried: Cam­po Ces­tio, Cit­tà Me­tro­po­li­ta­na di Ro­ma Ca­pi­ta­le, La­zio, It­aly.

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Biography

Howitt was born at her par­ents’ tem­po­ra­ry re­si­dence while her fa­ther, Sam­uel Botham, a pros­per­ous Quak­er of Ut­tox­eter, Staf­ford­shire, was look­ing af­ter some min­ing pro­per­ty.

Her mo­ther was Anne Wood, a des­cend­ant of An­drew Wood, the pa­tent­ee (at­tacked by Swift in the Dra­pier Let­ters).

Mary was edu­cat­ed at home, and soon read wide­ly for her­self in ma­ny to­pics, and be­gan writ­ing verse at a ve­ry ear­ly age.

On Ap­ril 16, 1821, she mar­ried Will­iam How­itt at Ut­tox­eter, and be­gan a ca­reer of joint au­thor­ship with her hus­band. Their li­ter­ary pro­duct­ions at first con­sist­ed chief­ly of po­et­ic­al and oth­er con­tri­bu­tions to an­nu­als and pe­ri­od­ic­als.

Mary’s life was com­plete­ly bound up with that of her hus­band. She was se­pa­rat­ed from him on­ly dur­ing the pe­ri­od of his Aus­tra­li­an jour­ney (1851–54).

On mov­ing to Esh­er, Sur­rey, in 1837, Mary be­gan writ­ing her well known tales for child­ren, a long ser­ies of books which met with sig­nal success. She is the au­thor of the fa­mous po­em The Spi­der and the Fly.

While liv­ing in Hei­del­berg in 1840, her at­ten­tion was di­rect­ed to Scan­di­na­vi­an li­te­ra­ture, and with her friend Ma­dame Schoultz, she set her­self to learn Swed­ish and Dan­ish.

She af­ter­ward trans­lat­ed Fred­ri­ka Bre­mer’s no­vels (1842–63, 18 vol­umes), works, and was the first to make them known to Eng­lish read­ers. She al­so trans­lat­ed ma­ny of Hans Chris­tian An­der­sen’s tales. The Li­ter­ary Aca­de­my of Stock­holm lat­er award­ed her a sil­ver me­dal.

Botham ed­it­ed for three years the Draw­ing-Room Scrap Book, con­trib­ut­ing, among oth­er ar­ti­cles, Bio­graph­ic­al Sketch­es of the Queens of Eng­land.

She al­so ed­it­ed the Pic­to­ri­al Cal­en­dar of the Sea­sons and con­trib­ut­ed to The Li­te­ra­ture and Ro­mance of North­ern Eur­ope, 1852.

On April 21, 1879, she was award­ed an an­nu­al ci­vil list pen­sion of £100.

In the de­cline of her life, Both­am joined the church of Rome, and was one of the Eng­lish de­pu­ta­tion re­ceived by Pope Leo XIII on Jan­ua­ry 10, 1888.

Works

Poem

The Spider and the Fly

Will you walk into my parlour? said a spider to a fly;
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to shew when you are there.

Oh no, no! said the little fly, to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.

I’m sure you must be weary, with soaring up so high,
Will you rest upon my little bed?
said the spider to the fly.
There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.

Oh no, no! said the little fly, for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!

Said the cunning spider to the fly, Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome—will you please to take a slice?

Oh no, no! said the little fly, kind sir, that cannot be,
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.

Sweet creature! said the spider, you’re witty and you’re wise.
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.

I thank you, gentle sir, she said, for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew, the silly fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner, sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the fly.
Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple—there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue—
Thinking only of her crested head, poor foolish thing!—At last
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour—but she ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counselor, close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

Mary Botham Howitt
The New Year’s Gift and Juvenile Souvenir, 1829

Sources

Lyrics