An American poet and prose-writer, sister of Alice; born in Cincinnati, O., Sept. 4, 1824; died in Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. She contributed numerous sketches to various periodicals; and with her sister published many books, among which are “Poems and Parodies” (1854), and “Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love.”

Personal

  It breaks my heart to remember how hard Phœbe tried to be “brave” after Alice’s death, as she thought her sister would wish to have her; how she opened the windows to let in the sunlight, filled her room with flowers, refused to put on mourning because Alice had requested her not to do so, and tried to interest herself in general schemes and plans for the advancement of women. But it was all of no use. She simply could not live after Alice was gone. “I do not know what is the matter with me,” she said to me on one occasion; “I have lain down, and it seems, because Alice is not there, there is no reason why I should get up. For thirty years I have gone straight to her bedside as soon as I arose in the morning, and wherever she is, I am sure she wants me now.” Could one think of these words without tears?

  During Elmina’s decline it had been the custom of Alice and Phœbe to meet the first thing in the morning by her bed, to ask the dear one how she rested, and to begin the communion of the day. From her death it was the habit of Phœbe to go directly to Alice as soon as she arose. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, each would tell the story of her night, though it was Alice who, being very wakeful, really had a story of pains and thoughts and dreams to tell. I spent the summer, autumn, and a part of the winter of 1869 with them, and the memories of those days are as unique as they are precious. “We three” met each morning at the breakfast table, in that pleasant, pictured dining-room, which so many remember. The same dainty china which made Sunday evening teas so appetizing, made the breakfast table beautiful; often with the addition of a vase full of fresh flowers, brought by Phœbe from market. If Alice was able to be there at all, she had been able before coming down to deck her abundant locks with a dainty morning cap, brightened with pink ribbons, and, in her white robe and breakfast shawl, with its brilliant border, never looked lovelier than when pouring coffee for two ardent adorers of her own sex. She was always her brightest at this time. She had already done work enough to promise well for the rest of her day. She was glad to see us, glad to be able to be there, ready to tell us each our fortune anew, casting our horoscope afresh in her teacup each morning. Phœbe, in her street dress, just home from market, “had seen a sight,” and had something funny to tell. More, she had any amount of funny things to tell. The wittiest Phœbe Cary that ever made delightful an evening drawing-room was tame, compared with this Phœbe Cary of the breakfast table, with only two women to listen to her, and to laugh till they cried and had strength to laugh no longer, over her irresistible remarks, which she made with the assumed solemnity of an owl.

General

  Writes with vigor, and a hopeful and genial spirit, and there are many felicities of expression, particularly in her later pieces. She refers more than Alice to the common experience, and has perhaps a deeper sympathy with that philosophy and those movements of the day, which look for a nearer approach to equality, in culture, fortune, and social relations.

  Sister of the preceding [Alice], and usually named with her, though their poetical genius differs, as a double star, when viewed by a telescope, which makes the two distinctly visible, shows different colours of light. The elder sister is superior in genius to the younger, whose light seems to be rather a reflexion of the other’s mental power, than an original gift of poetic fancy. The sympathies of the younger have made her a poet.

  Though she had been widely known as the author of good newspaper prose, as well as far more verse, I think the critical public was agreeably surprised by the quality of her “Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love,” recently issued by Hurd & Houghton. There are one hundred pieces in all, covering two hundred and forty-nine pages; and hardly one of the hundred could well be spared, while there surely is no one of them which a friend would wish she had omitted from the collection. There are a buoyant faith, a sunny philosophy evinced throughout, with a hearty independence of thought and manner, which no one ever succeeded in affecting, and no one who possesses them could afford to barter for wealth or fame.

  Perhaps the utterances of her soul which have most deeply impressed others, and by which she will be longest remembered, are her religious poems. They are among the rarest in the English tongue, as felicitous in utterance as they are devout and helpful in spirit. It is the soul of their melody, more than the melody itself, which makes us glad. It is the faith in the good, visible and invisible; the lark-like hope that soars and sings so high with such spontaneity of delight; the love brooding over the lowliest things, yet yearning out towards God’s eternities, resting in his love at last, which make the inspiration of all these hymns.

  Both carolled as simply as the birds that gladdened their sweet-briar, but the verse of the younger has the keener edge.

  No singer was ever more thoroughly identified with her own songs than was Phœbe Cary. She has been called the wittiest woman in America, but her wit left no sting behind the laughter which it evoked.

  Phœbe Cary’s hymn, “One Sweetly Solemn Thought,” has become one of the treasured possessions of religious spirits in all the English-speaking world.