Dear Brother Dan's Latest Whisper."'Life unto life!' This was the whispered wordThat from my dying brother's lips I heardFaintly and feebly uttered, in the strifeOf Nature's agony,—'Life—unto—life!'Yea, brother! for thou livest; death is dead,And life rejoiceth unto life instead;No sins, no cares, no sorrows, and no pains,—But deep delights, unutterable gains,Now are thy portion in that higher sphere,The heritage of God's own children hereWho loved their Lord awhile on earth, and nowLive to Him evermore in love—as thou!"
Dear Brother Dan's Latest Whisper.
"'Life unto life!' This was the whispered wordThat from my dying brother's lips I heardFaintly and feebly uttered, in the strifeOf Nature's agony,—'Life—unto—life!'Yea, brother! for thou livest; death is dead,And life rejoiceth unto life instead;No sins, no cares, no sorrows, and no pains,—But deep delights, unutterable gains,Now are thy portion in that higher sphere,The heritage of God's own children hereWho loved their Lord awhile on earth, and nowLive to Him evermore in love—as thou!"
And in this connection I will print here a psychological poem of mine, not to be found in any other of my books:—
Memory.I."When the soul passes Eternity's portal,In that Hereafter of Being Elsewhere,When this poor earthworm becomes an Immortal,Risen to Life Incorruptible There;If in some semblance of spirit and feature,Still to be recognised one and the same,Not in its entity quite a new creature,But as a growth of the world whence it came,—II."Oh, what a river of gladness or sadnessThen must gush out from quick memory's well,Infinite ecstasy, uttermost madness,As the quick conscience greets Heaven—or Hell!Whilst he reviews old scenes and past travels,Grained in himself and engraved on his soul,As the knit robe of his timework unravelsAnd his whole life is unmeshed to its goal.III."Yea, for within him, far more than without him,Works ever following, evil or good,Happiness, misery, circling about him,Plant a man's foot in the soil where he stood:If he was sensual, sordid, and cruel,Sensual, cruel, and base let him be,If he have guarded his soul as a jewel,Holy and happy and blessed be he!IV."For that the seeds both of Hell and of HeavenDarnel or wheat-corn, crowd memory's mart,And though all sin be repented, forgiven,Yet recollections must live in the heart:Still resurrected each moment's each actionComes up for conscience to judge it again,Joy unto peace or remorse to distraction,Growing to infinite pleasure or pain.V."Thy many sins were the ruin of others,Though the chief sinner's own guilt may be waived:What! shall the doom of those sisters and brothersNot be a sorrow to thee that art saved?Can utter selfishness be God's Nirwana,Blest—with our brethren of blessing bereft?Must not His Heaven seem poorer and vainer,Where one is taken and others are left?VI."Oh, there is hope in His mercy for ever—Yea, for the worst, after ages of woe,Till on this side of the uttermost Never,Even the devils His mercy may know!Punished and purified, Justice and ReasonWell would rejoice if the Judge on His throneGrant His salvation to all in full season,Ruling, in bliss, all His works as His own.VII."Every creature, redeemed and recoveredThrough the One sacrifice offered for all,Where sin and death so fatally hovered,Mercy triumphant in full o'er the fall!Thus shall old memories harmonise sweetlyWith the grand heavenly anthem above,As this sad life that was shattered so fleetly,Then is made whole in the Infinite Love."
Memory.
I.
"When the soul passes Eternity's portal,In that Hereafter of Being Elsewhere,When this poor earthworm becomes an Immortal,Risen to Life Incorruptible There;If in some semblance of spirit and feature,Still to be recognised one and the same,Not in its entity quite a new creature,But as a growth of the world whence it came,—
II.
"Oh, what a river of gladness or sadnessThen must gush out from quick memory's well,Infinite ecstasy, uttermost madness,As the quick conscience greets Heaven—or Hell!Whilst he reviews old scenes and past travels,Grained in himself and engraved on his soul,As the knit robe of his timework unravelsAnd his whole life is unmeshed to its goal.
III.
"Yea, for within him, far more than without him,Works ever following, evil or good,Happiness, misery, circling about him,Plant a man's foot in the soil where he stood:If he was sensual, sordid, and cruel,Sensual, cruel, and base let him be,If he have guarded his soul as a jewel,Holy and happy and blessed be he!
IV.
"For that the seeds both of Hell and of HeavenDarnel or wheat-corn, crowd memory's mart,And though all sin be repented, forgiven,Yet recollections must live in the heart:Still resurrected each moment's each actionComes up for conscience to judge it again,Joy unto peace or remorse to distraction,Growing to infinite pleasure or pain.
V.
"Thy many sins were the ruin of others,Though the chief sinner's own guilt may be waived:What! shall the doom of those sisters and brothersNot be a sorrow to thee that art saved?Can utter selfishness be God's Nirwana,Blest—with our brethren of blessing bereft?Must not His Heaven seem poorer and vainer,Where one is taken and others are left?
VI.
"Oh, there is hope in His mercy for ever—Yea, for the worst, after ages of woe,Till on this side of the uttermost Never,Even the devils His mercy may know!Punished and purified, Justice and ReasonWell would rejoice if the Judge on His throneGrant His salvation to all in full season,Ruling, in bliss, all His works as His own.
VII.
"Every creature, redeemed and recoveredThrough the One sacrifice offered for all,Where sin and death so fatally hovered,Mercy triumphant in full o'er the fall!Thus shall old memories harmonise sweetlyWith the grand heavenly anthem above,As this sad life that was shattered so fleetly,Then is made whole in the Infinite Love."
It may count as one of my heresies in an orthodox theological sense, but I certainly cling to the great idea of Eternal Hope; and, after any amount of retributive punishment for purifying the "lost" soul, I look for ultimate salvation to all God's creatures. This short and partial trial-scene of ours is not enough to make an end with: we begin here and progress for ever elsewhere. Evil must die out, and good must survive alone for ever.
Among my many fly-leaves, scattered by thousands from time to time in handbills or in newspapers all over the world, those in which I have praised Protestantism and denounced the dishonesty of our ecclesiastic traitors have earned me the highest meed both of glory and shame from partisan opponents. Ever since in my boyhood, under the ministerial teaching of my rector, the celebrated Hugh M'Neile, at Albury for many years, I closed with the Evangelical religion of the good old Low Church type, I have by my life and writings excited against me the theological hatred of High Church, and Broad Church, and No Church, and especially of the Romanizers amongst our Established clergy. Sundry religious newspapers and other periodicals, whose names I will not blazon by recording, have systematically attacked and slandered me from early manhood to this hour, and have diligently kept up my notoriety or fame (it was stupid enough of them from their point of view) by quips and cranks, as well as by more serious onslaughts, about which I am very pachydermatous, albeit there are pasted down in my archive-books all the paragraphs that have reached me. But, even as in hydraulics, the harder you screw the greater the force, so with my combative nature, the more I am attacked the moreobstinately I resist. Hence the multitude and variety of my polemical lucubrations,—mostly of a fragmentary character as Sibylline leaves: some, however, appear in my "Ballads and Poems" (among them a famous "Down with foreign priestcraft," circulated by thousands in the Midlands by an unknown enthusiast),—and Ridgeway of Piccadilly has published in pamphlet form my "Fifty Protestant Ballads and Directorium," which originally appeared in theDaily News, andThe Rock: I have certainly written as many more, and among these one which I will here reproduce as now very scarce, and lately of some national importance: seeing that it was sent by my friend Admiral Bedford Pim to every member of the two Houses of Legislature on the Bradlaugh occasion, and was stated to have turned the tide of battle in that celebrated case.
"So Help Me, God!""'So help me, God!' my heart at every turnOf life's wide wilderness implores Thee stillTo give all good, to rescue from all ill,And grant me grace Thy presence to discern."'So help me, God!' I would not move a yardWithout my hand in Thine to be my guide,Thy love to bless, Thy bounty to provide,Thy fostering wing spread over me to guard."'So help me, God!' the motto of my life,In every varied phase of chance and change,So that nought happens here of sad or strangeBut 'peace' is written on each frown of strife."For Thou dost help the man that honoureth Thee!Ay, and Thy Christian-Israel of this landThat hitherto hath recognised Thy hand,How blest above the nations still are we!"Yet now our Senate schemes to spurn aside(On false pretence of liberal brotherhood)The Heavenly Father of our earthly good,Because one atheist hath his God denied!"What, shall this wrong be done? Must all of usGroan under coming judgment for the sinOf welcoming avowed blasphemers inTo vote with rulers who misgovern thus?"So help us, God! it shall not: England's mightStands in religion practised and profest;For so alone by blessing is she blest,Christian and Protestant in life and light."
"So Help Me, God!"
"'So help me, God!' my heart at every turnOf life's wide wilderness implores Thee stillTo give all good, to rescue from all ill,And grant me grace Thy presence to discern.
"'So help me, God!' I would not move a yardWithout my hand in Thine to be my guide,Thy love to bless, Thy bounty to provide,Thy fostering wing spread over me to guard.
"'So help me, God!' the motto of my life,In every varied phase of chance and change,So that nought happens here of sad or strangeBut 'peace' is written on each frown of strife.
"For Thou dost help the man that honoureth Thee!Ay, and Thy Christian-Israel of this landThat hitherto hath recognised Thy hand,How blest above the nations still are we!
"Yet now our Senate schemes to spurn aside(On false pretence of liberal brotherhood)The Heavenly Father of our earthly good,Because one atheist hath his God denied!
"What, shall this wrong be done? Must all of usGroan under coming judgment for the sinOf welcoming avowed blasphemers inTo vote with rulers who misgovern thus?
"So help us, God! it shall not: England's mightStands in religion practised and profest;For so alone by blessing is she blest,Christian and Protestant in life and light."
To gratify an eminent friend who wished not to exclude Jews and Mahometans from an open profession of godliness as they viewed the question, I altered, in subsequent reprints, the last line, "Christian and Protestant in life and light," to "Loving and fearing God in faith and light:" though personally my sturdy Orangeism inclined to the original. I will in this place give a remarkable extract in a letter to me from Gladstone, to whom my faithfulness had appealed, exhorting him, as I often have done, to be on the right side: we know how he quoted Lucretius on the wrong: against which I wrote a strong protest in theTimes. I like not to show private letters,—but this is manifestly a public one. He says: ... "I thank you for your note, and I can assure you that I believe the promoters of the Affirmation Bill to be already on the side you wish me to take, and its opponents to be engaged in doing (unwittingly) serious injury to religious belief." It is strange to see how much intellectual subtlety combined with interested partisanship can be self-deceived, evenin a man who believes himself and is thought by others thoroughly conscientious.
Amongst other of my recent notorious ballads of the polemic sort, I ought to name a famous couple—"The Nun's Appeal," and "Open the Convents"—which were written at the request of Lord Alfred Churchill, and given to Edith O'Gorman, the Escaped Nun (otherwise the excellent and eloquent Mrs. Auffray), to aid her Protestant Lectures everywhere: she has circulated them over the three kingdoms, and is now doing the like in Australia and New Zealand.
In reply to some excellent members of the Romish Church, who have publicly accused me of maligning holy women and sacred retreats, my obvious answer is that I contend against the evil side both of nunneries and monkeries, whilst I may fairly admit some good to be found in both. My real protest is for liberty both to mind and body, and against coercion of any kind, material or spiritual. Given perfect freedom, I would not meddle with any one's honest convictions: "to a nunnery go" if thou wilt; only let the resolve be revocable, not a doom for ever.
One of my latest publications is that of my "Trilogy of Plays," with twelve dramatic scenes,—issued by Allen & Co., of Waterloo Place. The first of the three, "Alfred," was put upon the stage at Manchester by that ill-starred genius, Walter Montgomery, who was bringing it out also at the Haymarket, a very short time before his lamentable death. He was fond of the play and splendidly impersonated the hero-king, in the opening scene having trained his own white horse to gallop riderless across the stage when Alfred was supposed to have been defeated by the Danes. The vision in act ii. scene i. was thrillingly effective; and the whole five acts went very well from beginning to end, the audience being preternaturally quiet,—which disconcerted me until my theatrical mentor praised the silence of that vast crowd, as the best possible sign of success: they were held enthralled as one man till the end came, and then came thunder. Not thinking of what was expected of me in the way of thanks for the ovation their concluding cheers assailed me with, I got out of the theatre as quick as I could, and was half way to my hotel when two or three excited supers rushed after me with a "Good God, Mr. Tupper, come back, come back, or the place will be torn down!" so ofcourse I hurried to the front—to encounter a tumult of applause; although I must have looked rather ridiculous too, crossing the stage in my American cloak and brandishing an umbrella! However, no one but myself seemed to notice the incongruity, and as I had humbly obeyed the people's will, they generously condoned my first transgression. I ought to record that my heroine Bertha was charmingly acted by Miss Henrietta Hodgson, now Mrs. Labouchere, who will quite recollect her early triumph in Martin Tupper's first play. My best compliments and kindly remembrance I here venture to offer to her.
The second play, "Raleigh," is very differently constructed; for whereas the time of action in "Alfred" was three days,—that of "Raleigh" was sixty years: in fact with the former I dramatised a single conquest, with the latter the varied battles of a long life. I have several times read all my plays before audiences at my readings, and know the points that tell. In "Raleigh" the introduction of Shakespeare, the cloak incident, the trial scene, Elizabeth's death, and the terrible climax of the noble victim's execution on the stage, seemed chiefly to interest and excite the audience.
I wrote "Washington" principally to please my many friends in America, whither I was going for a second time; but it rather damped me to find, when at Philadelphia during its Grand Exhibition, and was giving "Readings out of my own Works" through the Star Company, that myentrepreneurstoutly objected to my proposal to read this new play of mine, with the remark,—"No, sir, our people are tired of George Washington,—he's quite played out: give us anythingelse of yours you like." As he was my financial provider, and paid well, of course I had to acquiesce.
Perhaps the most interesting thing in the play was the account of my discovery of Washington's heraldry: here is part of the passage; the whole being too long to quote: one asks "Coat-of-arms?—what was this coat-of-arms?" and Franklin answers,—
"I'll tell you, friends,I've searched it out and known it for myself,When late in England there, at Herald's CollegeAnd found the Washingtons of WessyngtonIn county Durham and of Sulgrave Manor,County Northampton, bore upon their shieldThree stars atop, two stripes across the fieldGules—that is red—on white, and for the crestAn eagle's head upspringing to the light,It's motto, Latin, "Issue proveth acts."The architraves at Sulgrave testify,And sundry painted windows in the hallAt Wessyngton, this was their family coat.They took it to their new Virginian home:And at Mount Vernon I myself have notedAn old cast-iron scutcheoned chimney-backCharged with that heraldry."
"I'll tell you, friends,I've searched it out and known it for myself,When late in England there, at Herald's CollegeAnd found the Washingtons of WessyngtonIn county Durham and of Sulgrave Manor,County Northampton, bore upon their shieldThree stars atop, two stripes across the fieldGules—that is red—on white, and for the crestAn eagle's head upspringing to the light,It's motto, Latin, "Issue proveth acts."The architraves at Sulgrave testify,And sundry painted windows in the hallAt Wessyngton, this was their family coat.They took it to their new Virginian home:And at Mount Vernon I myself have notedAn old cast-iron scutcheoned chimney-backCharged with that heraldry."
In my first American Journal will be found more about this discovery of mine—in 1851—then quite new even to Americans. Here in London, Mr. Tuffley of Chelsea and Northampton has popularised the original coat-of-arms with a view to ornamental jewellery for our Transatlantic cousins.
Among my twelve dramatic scenes, the most appropriate to mention in this volume of personalia, are the two which detail certain perilous matters affecting the lives of two ancient ancestors, the one on mymother's side, the other on my father's. The latter records the historic incident whereby John Tupper saved the Channel Islands for William and Mary (receiving from them a gold collar and medal, now in our heraldry) and enabling Admiral Russell to win his naval victory at La Hogue. The former shows how nearly an Arthur Devis at Preston paid the penalty of death owing to his strange resemblance to Charles Edward the Young Pretender, for whom the savage Government of the time offered a reward of £30,000 to any one who could catch him alive or dead. My mother's ancestor was thus very nearly murdered in 1745 for his good looks, as a life-sized portrait at Albury, and an ivory miniature here at Norwood, help to prove. If any wish to know more about these matters, I dare say that Messrs. Allen aforesaid haveonecopy left: if not, consult Mudie, that virtuous philanthropist who benefits the reading public at the cost of the private author.
My most literary antiquarianism was an article I wrote for theQuarterly Reviewon Coins, accepted by Lockhart and inserted in one of the Nos. for 1843; he protested that "I could not be the Proverbial Philosopher, as my looks were too like David's,—it must be my father."—No, I replied, it is my father's son. However, when he read and approved my Coin article, he began to be convinced. I give here his letter to me on his acceptance:—
"Sir,—I am at present terribly overburdened with MSS., and know not whether I can send a proof of your paper for some weeks; but I like it much, and it shall be put into type as soon as I can manage. I assure you I am greatly pleased, and sincerely your obliged"J. G. Lockhart."Sussex Place,February 16, 1843."
"Sir,—I am at present terribly overburdened with MSS., and know not whether I can send a proof of your paper for some weeks; but I like it much, and it shall be put into type as soon as I can manage. I assure you I am greatly pleased, and sincerely your obliged
"J. G. Lockhart.
"Sussex Place,February 16, 1843."
I expostulated with him as to divers omissions for space' sake, and for some unauthorised alterations; but editors are nothing if not autocratic, as we all know. My article (I find it noted) was written on the numismatic works of Cardwell and of Akerman, and took me ten days in its composition, I tried Lockhart with a second article on "Ancient Gems," but it failed toplease. I never had an interview with him but once, and then he seemed to me brusque and cynical at first, warming a little afterwards. I have written also on Druidism; and the mystery of Easter Island, which I take to be the remains of a submerged Pacific continent, with its deified statues on the top of an extinct volcano. And I have flung my pen into many otherméléesof discussion both old and new; for it may be stated as a feature in my literary life that I have had, one after another, all the ologies on my brain, and have personally made small collections of minerals, fossils, insects, and the like: special hobbies having been agates picked up in my rambles on every beach from Yarmouth to Sidmouth, and coins at Roman stations wherever I found them; besides a host of numismatic treasures bought at Sotheby's auction-room, but long since sold again, as well as sundry Egyptian and other antiquities. In particular, the Roman discoveries at Farley Heath in the neighbourhood of Albury were mainly due to my juvenile antiquarianism, when as a student along with Harold Browne (now Bishop of Winchester) we used to search for coins there, and found one happy day a Gallienus: all which I recorded years after in a now scarce booklet, "Farley Heath, and its Roman Remains," published, with illustrations, by Andrews, Guildford. Ultimately the finds of coin (from Nero to Honorius), some being rare and finely patinated, as well as several small bronzes, and old British money, were given by Mr. Drummond (who as lord of the manor employed labourers in the search for many months) to the British Museum, where they fill a niche near the prehistoric room.
Some of our finds were very curious,e.g., we were digging in the black mould of the burnthuts round the wall-foundations (all above ground of said hectagonal wall having since been ruthlessly utilised by parochial economists in making a road across the heath), and found amongst other spoil a little green bronze ring,—which I placed on the finger of our guest of the day, Mrs. Barclay of Bury Hill: oddly enough it had six angles exactly like one of gold she wore as her wedding-guard. Again; we had picked up some pieces of pottery decorated with human finger-tips,—just as modern cooks do with pie-crust; a son of mine said, perhaps we shall find a dog's foot on some tile,—and just as he said it, up came from the spade precisely what he was guessing at, the large footprint of dog or wolf stamped fifteen centuries ago on the unbaked clay. Again; I was leaving for an hour a labourer in whose industry and honesty I had not the fullest faith. So in order to employ him in my absence, I set him to dig up an old thorn bush and told him to give me when I returned the piece of money he would find under it. To my concealed but his own manifest astonishment, he gave me when I came back a worn large brass of Nero, saying with a scared face, "However could you tell it was there, sir?" I looked wise, and said nothing.
Among the rarest copper coins was one of Carausius (our English Carew), with two heads on it symbolling the ambition of our native usurper to assert empire over East as well as West, and among more treasure-trove was a unique gold coin of Veric,—the Bericus of Tacitus; as also the rare contents of a subterranean potter's oven, preserved to our day, and yielding several whole vases. Mr. Akerman of numismatic fame told me that out of Rome itself he did not know aricher site for old-world curiosities than Farley; in the course of years we found more than 1200 coins, besides Samian ware, and plenty of common pottery, as well as bronze ornaments, enamelled fibulæ, weapons of war, household implements, &c., both of the old British and the Roman, the Anglo-Saxon, and more recent periods; Farley having been a prætorian station on the Ikenild highway. This is quite a relevant episode of my literary antiquariana. As also is another respecting "My Mummy Wheat," a record of which found its way into print and made a stir many years ago. It grew from seeds given to me by Mr. Pettigrew out of an Amenti vase taken from a mummy pit by Sir Gardiner Wilkinson, and very carefully resuscitated by myself in garden-pots filled with well-sifted mould at Albury; it proved to be a new and prolific species of the semi-bearded Talavera kind, and a longest ear of 8-1/2 inches in length (engraved in an agricultural journal) was sent by me to Prince Albert, then a zealous British farmer.
Here I will add a very interesting letter to me on the subject from Faraday, the original being pasted among my autographs. It will be seen that he excuses having published my letter to him, and refuses to be called Doctor:—
"Royal Institution,June 11, 1842."My dear Sir,—Your note was a very pleasant event in my day of yesterday, and I thank you heartily for it, and rejoice with you at the success of the crop. It so happened that yesterday evening was the last of our meetings, and I had to speak in the lecture-room. The subject was Lithotint: but I placed the one ear in the library under a glass case, and after my first subject was over read the principal part of your letter—all thatrelated to the wheat: and the information was received with great interest by about 700 persons. Our President, Lord Prudhoe, was in the chair, and greatly desirous of knowing the age of the wheat. You know he is learned in Egyptian matters, and was anxious about the label or inscription accompanying the corn. I hope I have not done wrong, but I rather fear your letter will be published, or at least the wheat part, for a gentleman asked me whether he might copy it, and I instantly gave him leave, but found that he was connected with the press, theLiterary Gazette. I hope you will not object since without thought on my part the matter has gone thus far. The news is so good and valuable that I do not wonder at the desire to have it,—Ever your obliged servant,"M. Faraday."M. F. Tupper, Esq.,&c. &c. &c."P.S.—I am happy to say that I am plain Mr. Faraday, and if I have my wish shall keep so.—M. F."
"Royal Institution,June 11, 1842.
"My dear Sir,—Your note was a very pleasant event in my day of yesterday, and I thank you heartily for it, and rejoice with you at the success of the crop. It so happened that yesterday evening was the last of our meetings, and I had to speak in the lecture-room. The subject was Lithotint: but I placed the one ear in the library under a glass case, and after my first subject was over read the principal part of your letter—all thatrelated to the wheat: and the information was received with great interest by about 700 persons. Our President, Lord Prudhoe, was in the chair, and greatly desirous of knowing the age of the wheat. You know he is learned in Egyptian matters, and was anxious about the label or inscription accompanying the corn. I hope I have not done wrong, but I rather fear your letter will be published, or at least the wheat part, for a gentleman asked me whether he might copy it, and I instantly gave him leave, but found that he was connected with the press, theLiterary Gazette. I hope you will not object since without thought on my part the matter has gone thus far. The news is so good and valuable that I do not wonder at the desire to have it,—Ever your obliged servant,
"M. Faraday.
"M. F. Tupper, Esq.,&c. &c. &c.
"P.S.—I am happy to say that I am plain Mr. Faraday, and if I have my wish shall keep so.—M. F."
An early volume of my so-called "Critica Egotistica" has many letters and printed communications on this subject: but as not being a recognised agriculturist myself, I did not wish it called by my name,—so it is only known in the markets (chiefly I have heard in Essex) as "Mummy Wheat." Talking of declined honours in nomenclature, I may here mention that a new beetle, found by Vernon Wollaston and urged by him to be named after the utterly "unsharded" me (who had however gratified that distinguished entomologist by my poem on Beetles) was respectfully refused the prefix of my name, as scarcely knowing a lepidopt from a coleopt.Ne sutor ultra crepidam.If honour is to be given, let it be deserved.
Authorship reaps honour in these latter days quite as much as it did in the classic times of Augustus with Virgil and Horace for his intimates, and of Petrarch crowned at the Capitol laureate of all Italy during the vacancy of a popedom in the Vatican. Not but that, with or without any titular distinction, authorship is practically the most noticeable rank amongst us. Many will pass by a duke who would have stopped and waited to have looked at a Darwin when he was in this lower sphere; and I am quite sure that the grand presence of Alfred Tennyson would attract more affectionate homage than that of any other ennobled magnate in the land. As to his title, I was glad that his good taste and wisdom elected to be called by his own honourable patronymic rather than haply Farringford or Hazlemere: how can great names consent to be eclipsed in such obscure signatures as Wantage or Esher, Hindlip or Glossop, Dalling or Grimsthorpe? One gets quite at a loss to know who's who.
My letter to theTimesof December 19, 1883, headed "Literary Honours," in praise of Tennyson's elevation to the House of Lords, and showing how in every age all nations except our own have given honours to authors, literally "from China to Peru," elicited plentyboth of approval and of censure from journals of many denominations. As a matter inevitable when Baron Tennyson was gazetted, the less euphonious Tupper was stigmatised in the papers as desiring to be a Baron too,—at all events, theEchosaid so, and theGlobegood-humouredly observed that "he deserved the coronet." They little knew that in the summer of 1863 (as paragraphs in my tenth volume of "Archives" are now before me to show) the same derided scribe was seriously announced as "about to be raised to the peerage" all over England and America: see two available and respectable proofs in theBritish Controversialist(Houlston & Wright) for July 1863, p. 79,—and Bryant'sEvening Postfor September 17, 1863. I name these, as the reverse of comic papers,—and publishing what they supposed true, as in fact was told me by the editors when inquired of. At the time I repudiated the false rumour openly;—with all the greater readiness, inasmuch as I dispute both the justice of hereditary honour and the wisdom of hereditary legislation; to say less of the "res angusta domi" which, in our Mammonite time and clime, obliges money to support rank, even if, as in sundry late cases of raising to the peerage, it does not purchase it.
It is fair also to state as a fact, that when my father for the second time refused his baronetcy, I, as eldest son, gave the casting vote against myself, not to impoverish my four younger brothers,—all now gone before me to the better world,—and that, for reasons mentioned above, I certainly could not take it now. Let this suffice as my reply to some recent sneers and strictures.
As for letters of the alphabet attached to one'sname, almost any one nowadays may have any amount of them by paying fees or subscriptions; in particular, America has given me many honorary diplomas. And for the matter of gold medals, who can covet them, when even the creators of baking-powder and sewing-machines are surfeited therewith. My poor Prussian medal looks small in comparison. And then, as for knighthood, that ancient honour has been lately so abused that vanity itself could scarcely desire it, and even modesty now might hesitate in its acceptance.
Albeit I have thus spoken only incidentally and with seeming carelessness about my Prussian medal, I am reminded that it will interest readers if I here extract the Chevalier Bünsen's letter to me on the occasion. It runs thus in its integrity:—
"4 Carlton Terrace,26th September 1844."My Dear Sir,—I owe you many apologies for not having answered earlier your letter of the 2d of August. The fact is that since that time I have been travelling all over England with the Prince of Prussia. As to your work, I laid it myself before the King, who perused it with great pleasure, when I was at Berlin. I am now charged by His Majesty not only to express to you his thanks for having thought of him in sending him a book replete with so much Christian wisdom and experience, but also to present to you, in his Royal name, thegold medalfor science and literature, as a particular sign of regard. The medal will be delivered to you, or a person authorised by you, at the office of the Prussian Legation, any morning from 11 to 1 o'clock, Sunday of course excepted."Allow me to avail myself of this opportunity torenew to you my own thanks and the expression of my high regard, and believe me, yours sincerely,"Bünsen."M. F. Tupper, Esq."
"4 Carlton Terrace,26th September 1844.
"My Dear Sir,—I owe you many apologies for not having answered earlier your letter of the 2d of August. The fact is that since that time I have been travelling all over England with the Prince of Prussia. As to your work, I laid it myself before the King, who perused it with great pleasure, when I was at Berlin. I am now charged by His Majesty not only to express to you his thanks for having thought of him in sending him a book replete with so much Christian wisdom and experience, but also to present to you, in his Royal name, thegold medalfor science and literature, as a particular sign of regard. The medal will be delivered to you, or a person authorised by you, at the office of the Prussian Legation, any morning from 11 to 1 o'clock, Sunday of course excepted.
"Allow me to avail myself of this opportunity torenew to you my own thanks and the expression of my high regard, and believe me, yours sincerely,
"Bünsen.
"M. F. Tupper, Esq."
Accordingly, I called myself and received the medal from the Chevalier, with whom afterwards I had half-an-hour's talk, chiefly about German history, in which by good fortune I was fairly posted, perhaps with a prescience that the ambassador might allude to it.
An author, if he be a good man and a clever, worthy of his high vocation, already walks self-ennobled, circled by an aureola of spiritual glory such as no king can give, nor even all-devouring time, "edax rerum," can take away. He really gains nothing by a title—no, not even Tennyson; as in the next world, so in this, "his works do follow him," and the "Well done, good and faithful" from this lower world which he has served is but the prelude of his welcome to that higher world wherein he hears the same "good and faithful" from the mouth of his Redeemer.
It may be worth a page if I record here sundry inventions of mine, surely bits of authorship, which I found out for myself but did not patent, though others did. As thus:—
1. A simple and cheap safety horse-shoe,—secured by steel studs inserted into the ordinary soft iron shoes.
2. Glass screw-tops to bottles.
3. Steam-vessels with the wheels inside; in fact, a double boat or catamaran, with the machinery amid-ships.
4. The introduction of coca-leaf to allay hunger, and to be as useful here as in Chili.
5. A pen to carry its own ink.
6. The colouring of photographs on the back.
7. Combined vulcanite and steel sheathing.
There were also some other small matters wherein authorial energy busied itself. But although I had models made of some, and wrote about others, no good results accrued to me. 1. As for the horse-shoes, blacksmiths didnotwant to lose custom by steel saving the iron. 2. For the glass-stoppers, I had against me all the cork trade, and the wine-merchants too, who recork old wines. 3. The steamers were never tried on a large scale, and models are pronounced deceptive. 4. The coca loses most of its virtues when in a dried state. 5. The pen (I had it made in silver, a long hollow handle ending with a conical point) either grew clogged if the ink was too thick, or emitted blots when too thin. 6. An establishment in Leicester Square has since worked on this idea. 7. I also troubled the Ordnance Office, and had an interview with Sidney Herbert about two more futile inventions! one a composite cannon missile of quoits tied together: another of a thick vulcanite sheathing for ships, over either wood or iron. I have letters on these to and from the office. Briefly, I did not gain fortune as an inventor: though I urged my horse-shoe at least as a valuable thought, and one worth a trial, to save our poor horses on asphalte pavements and in hard frosts. It is a losing game to attempt to force an invention: so many vested interests oppose, and so many are the competitors: moreover, some one always rushes into the pool of Bethesda before you.
I thought also that there might as well be "essenceof tea," as well as of coffee; but nothing came of it. Also amongst other of my addled eggs of invention, I may mention that in my chemistry days as a youth I suggested to a scientific neighbour, Dr. Kerrison, that glass might be rendered less fragile by being mixed in the casting with some chemical compound of lead,—much as now has come out in the patent toughened glass. Also we initiated mild experiments about an imitation of volcanic forces in melting pounded stone into moulds,—as recently done by Mr. Lindsay Bucknall with slag:—but unluckily we found that the manufacture of basalt was beyond our small furnace power: I fancied that apparently carved pinnacles and gurgoyles might be cast in stone; and though beyond Dr. Kerrison and myself, perhaps it may still be done by the hot-blast melting up crushed granite.
Among these small matters of an author's natural inventiveness, I will preserve here a few of the literary class:e.g., (1.) I claim to have discovered the etymology of Punch, which Mark Antony Lower in his Patronymica says is "a name the origin of which is in total obscurity." Now, I found it out thus,—when at Haverfordwest in 1858 I saw over the mantel of the hostelry, perhaps there still, a map of the Roman earthwork called locally Punch Castle; and considering how that the neighbouring hills are named Precelly (Procella, storm) as often drawing down the rain-clouds,—that Caer Leon is Castrum Legionis, and that there is a Roman bridge over the little river there still styled Ultra Pontem—I decided at once that Pontii Castellum was the true name for Punch Castle. Of course, Pontius Pilate and Judas appear in the mediæval puppet-playsas Punch and Judy,—while Toby refers to Tobit's dog, in a happy confusion of names and dates. The Pontius of the Castle was Prater of the Second Legion. (2.) Similarly, I found out the origin of "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall," &c., to refer to the death of William the Conqueror (L'homme qui dompte), who was ruptured in leaping a burnt wall at Rouen; being very stout,—"he had a great fall," and burst asunder like Iscariot, while "all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't set Humpty Dumpty up again." We must remember that the wise Fools of those days dared not call magnates by their real names,—nor utter facts openly: so accordingly (3) they turned Edward Longshanks into "Daddy Longlegs,"—and (4) sang about King John's raid upon the monks, and the consequent famine to the poor, in "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," &c.,—the key to this interpretation being "a dainty dish to set before the king," John being a notorious glutton. My friends at Ledbury Manor, where there is a gallery full of my uncle Arthur's Indian pictures, will remember how I expounded all this to them some years ago. In this connection of literary discovery, let me here give my exposition of the mystic number in Revelations, 666,—which, "more meo" I printed thus on a very scarce fly-leaf, as one of my Protestant Ballads not in any book:—
"Here is wisdom—Let him that hath understanding count the number of the Beast—for it is the number of a Man—and his number is six hundred threescore and six."—Rev. xiii. 18."Count up the sum of Greek numeral letters'Kakoi Episkopoi'—bishops all ill;Strangely I note that those mystical fettersBind in their number this mystery still—Six hundred threescore and six is the total,Spelling the number and name of a man,Chief of bad bishops and lies sacerdotal,That of all wickedness stands in the van."Antichrist! what? can a feeble old creature,Pope though they style him, be rank'd in his placeAs the Goliath in fashion and featureWarring gigantic with God and His grace?Is he so great—to be dreaded, abhorrèd,Single antagonist, braving God's wrath,Bearing foul Babylon's seal on his forehead,Chosen Triumvir with Sin and with Death?"Yea; the presumption of priestly successionMake theall onea whole Popedom of Time,So that each head for his hour of possessionWears the tiara of ages of crime:Rome is infallible, Rome is eternal,Rome is unchangeable, cruel, and strong,Leagued with the legions of darkness infernal,Crushing all right and upholding all wrong."Note.—The value of the Greek letters, as numerals, in the two words above, is as follows:—The three kappas = 60, the three omicrons = 210, the three iotas = 30, the two pis = 160, the one sigma = 200, the one epsilon = 5, and the one alpha = 1; in all exactly making 666. This is "a private interpretation" of the writer's own discovery, not to be found elsewhere, and quite as convincing as Lateinos and the inscription on St. Peter's.
"Here is wisdom—Let him that hath understanding count the number of the Beast—for it is the number of a Man—and his number is six hundred threescore and six."—Rev. xiii. 18.
"Count up the sum of Greek numeral letters'Kakoi Episkopoi'—bishops all ill;Strangely I note that those mystical fettersBind in their number this mystery still—Six hundred threescore and six is the total,Spelling the number and name of a man,Chief of bad bishops and lies sacerdotal,That of all wickedness stands in the van."Antichrist! what? can a feeble old creature,Pope though they style him, be rank'd in his placeAs the Goliath in fashion and featureWarring gigantic with God and His grace?Is he so great—to be dreaded, abhorrèd,Single antagonist, braving God's wrath,Bearing foul Babylon's seal on his forehead,Chosen Triumvir with Sin and with Death?"Yea; the presumption of priestly successionMake theall onea whole Popedom of Time,So that each head for his hour of possessionWears the tiara of ages of crime:Rome is infallible, Rome is eternal,Rome is unchangeable, cruel, and strong,Leagued with the legions of darkness infernal,Crushing all right and upholding all wrong."
"Count up the sum of Greek numeral letters'Kakoi Episkopoi'—bishops all ill;Strangely I note that those mystical fettersBind in their number this mystery still—Six hundred threescore and six is the total,Spelling the number and name of a man,Chief of bad bishops and lies sacerdotal,That of all wickedness stands in the van.
"Antichrist! what? can a feeble old creature,Pope though they style him, be rank'd in his placeAs the Goliath in fashion and featureWarring gigantic with God and His grace?Is he so great—to be dreaded, abhorrèd,Single antagonist, braving God's wrath,Bearing foul Babylon's seal on his forehead,Chosen Triumvir with Sin and with Death?
"Yea; the presumption of priestly successionMake theall onea whole Popedom of Time,So that each head for his hour of possessionWears the tiara of ages of crime:Rome is infallible, Rome is eternal,Rome is unchangeable, cruel, and strong,Leagued with the legions of darkness infernal,Crushing all right and upholding all wrong."
Note.—The value of the Greek letters, as numerals, in the two words above, is as follows:—The three kappas = 60, the three omicrons = 210, the three iotas = 30, the two pis = 160, the one sigma = 200, the one epsilon = 5, and the one alpha = 1; in all exactly making 666. This is "a private interpretation" of the writer's own discovery, not to be found elsewhere, and quite as convincing as Lateinos and the inscription on St. Peter's.
My friend Evelyn contributed to the perfection of the discovery. It was he who suggested Kakoi to Episcopoi, to make up the number. There are also some who say that our eccentric Premier's name sums up ominously to the same three sixes.
My several royal poems, some twenty in number, may deserve a short and special notice; though it is far from my intention to detail any gracious condescensions of a private nature. I may however state, as a curiosity of literature, that the 35th of my "Three Hundred Sonnets," published by Virtue in 1860, is headed "India's Empress," written certainly twenty years before such a title was thought of, even by Lord Beaconsfield in his pupa phase of D'Israeli. As very few have the volume, long out of print, I will here produce that fortunate prophecy; the "way chaotic" is the Sepoy Mutiny:—
"Our Empress Queen!—Victoria's name of gloryAdded as England's grace to Hindostan:O climax to this age's wondrous story,Full of new hope to India, and to ManIn heathendom's dark places! For the lightOf our Jerusalem shall now shine thereBrighter than ever since the world began:—Yet by a way chaotic, drear and goryTravelled this blessing; as a martyr mightWrestling to heaven through tortures unaware:Our Empress Queen! for thee thy people's pray'rAll round the globe to God ascends united,That He may strengthen thee no guilt to spareNor leave one act of goodness unrequited."
"Our Empress Queen!—Victoria's name of gloryAdded as England's grace to Hindostan:O climax to this age's wondrous story,Full of new hope to India, and to ManIn heathendom's dark places! For the lightOf our Jerusalem shall now shine thereBrighter than ever since the world began:—Yet by a way chaotic, drear and goryTravelled this blessing; as a martyr mightWrestling to heaven through tortures unaware:Our Empress Queen! for thee thy people's pray'rAll round the globe to God ascends united,That He may strengthen thee no guilt to spareNor leave one act of goodness unrequited."
Another such curiosity of literature may this beconsidered: namely, that the same versifier who in his youth fifty years ago saw the coronation from a gallery seat in Westminster Abbey, overlooking the central space, and wrote a well-known ode on the occasion, to be found in his Miscellaneous Poems, is still in full force and loyalty, and ready to supply one for his Queen's jubilee,—whereof words for music will be found anon. Human life has not many such completed cycles to celebrate, albeit I have lately had a golden wedding; alas! in a short month after, closed by the good wife's sudden death: "So soon trod sorrow on the heels of joy!" But I will not speak of that affliction here and now: my present errand is more cheerful.
With reference, then, to the many verses of mine which I have reason to hope are honoured by preservation in royal albums, I wish only to say that if some few have appeared among my other poetries in print, they shall not be repeated here: though I may record that whatever I have sent from time to time have been graciously acknowledged, and that I have heretofore met with palatial welcomes.
Perhaps I may say a word or two about my having for the best part of half a century occasionally made my duteous bow at Court; which I thought it right to do whenever some poetic offering of mine had been received; in particular at the Princess Royal's marriage, when Prince Albert specially invited me to Buckingham Palace, presenting me kindly to the heir of Prussia, and bidding, "Wales come and shake hands with Mr. Tupper" (my genial Prince will recollect it); and above all adding the honour of personal conversation with Her Majesty.
Of these thus briefly: also I might record (but Iforbear) similar condescensions at Frogmore; as also with reference to my little Masques of the Seasons, and the Nations—wherein Corbould was pictorially so efficient, and Miss Hildyard so helpful in the costumes—both at Osborne and at Windsor. In gracious recognition of these Her Majesty gave me Winterhalter's engravings of all the royal children, now at Albury, as well as some gifts to my daughters. The Masques will be found among my published poems.
At Court I frequently met Lord Houghton, known to me in ancient days as Monckton Milnes; and I remember that we especially came together from sympathy as to critical castigation,Blackwoodor some other Scotch reviewer having fallen foul of both of us, then young poets (and therefore to be hounded down by Professor Wilson), in an article pasted in an early volume of Archives, spitefully disparaging "Farquhar Tupper and Monckton Milnes."
Until these days every one wore the antiquated Queen Anne Court suit, now superseded by modern garments, perhaps more convenient but certainly not so picturesque. Bagwig and flowered waistcoat, and hanging cast-steel rapier, and silken calves and buckled shoes,—and above all the abundant real point lace (upon which Lord Houghton more than once has commented with me as to the comparative superiority of his or mine,—both being of ancestral dinginess, and only to be washed in coffee)—these are ill exchanged for boots and trousers and straight black sword, and everything of grace and beauty diligently tailored away. When I last attended at St. James's in honour of Prince Albert Victor's first reception, I was, among twelve hundred, one of only three units who paid our respects in the stately fashionsof Good Queen Anne: and I was glad to be complimented on my social courage as almost alone in those antiquated garments, and on my profusion of snow-white hair so suitably suggestive of the powdered polls of our ancestors. I remember my father in powder.
On this last occasion it was, as I have said, especially to pay my respects to the young Prince at his firstlevée:both he and his father with great kindness cordially shaking hands with the author of the following stanzas. The young Prince stood between his father and his kinsman, the Duke of Cambridge.