"Albert Victor! words of blessingBright with omens of the best,Truly one such names possessingShall be throned among the blest;Albert,—sainted now and glorious,Long time in his heavenly rest;Victor,—everyway victoriousLike our Empress east and west!"Prince! to-day the Court bears witnessHow, thy Royal Sire beside,With due graciousness and fitness,Dignity devoid of pride,Thou (thy gallant kinsman near thee)Dost with homage far and wide,And the praise of all to cheer thee,Humbly meet that glittering tide!"Prince, accept an old man's greeting,Now some threescore and fifteen,Who can testify how fleetingLife and all its joys have been:I have known thy Grandsire's favour,And thy Parents' grace have seen;And I note the same sweet savourIn the Grandson of my Queen!"
"Albert Victor! words of blessingBright with omens of the best,Truly one such names possessingShall be throned among the blest;Albert,—sainted now and glorious,Long time in his heavenly rest;Victor,—everyway victoriousLike our Empress east and west!
"Prince! to-day the Court bears witnessHow, thy Royal Sire beside,With due graciousness and fitness,Dignity devoid of pride,Thou (thy gallant kinsman near thee)Dost with homage far and wide,And the praise of all to cheer thee,Humbly meet that glittering tide!
"Prince, accept an old man's greeting,Now some threescore and fifteen,Who can testify how fleetingLife and all its joys have been:I have known thy Grandsire's favour,And thy Parents' grace have seen;And I note the same sweet savourIn the Grandson of my Queen!"
As this is the Jubilee year, and I may not live to its completion,—forwho can depend upon an hour?—I will here produce what has just occurred to my patriotism as a suitable ode on the great occasion. If short, it is all the better for music, and I humbly recommend its adoption aslibrettoto some chief musical composer.
Victoria's Jubilee: for Music.I.(Major forte.)"Rejoice, O Land! Imperial Realm, rejoice!Wherever round the worldOur standard floats unfurl'd,Let every heart exult in music's voice!Be glad, O grateful England,Triumphant shout and sing, Land!As from each belfried steepleThe clanging joy-bells sound,Let all our happy peopleThe wandering world around,Rejoice with the joy this jubilee brings,Circling the globe as with seraphim wings!"II.(Minor piano.)"Lo, the wondrous story,Praise all praise above!Fifty years of glory,Fifty years of love!Chastened by much sadness,Mid the dark of death,But illumed with gladnessBy the sun of faith:What a life, O Nations,What a reign is seenIn the consummationsCrowning Britain's Queen!"III.(Finale.—Crescendo.)"Riches of Earth, and Graces of Heaven,God in His love hath abundantly given,More by a year than seven times seven,Blessing our Empress, the Queen!Secrets of Science, and marvels of Art,Health of the home, and wealth of the mart,All that is best for the mind and the heart,Crowded around her are seen.Honour, Religion, and Plenty are hers,Peace, and all heavenly messengers,While loyalty every spirit upstirsTo shout aloud, God save the Queen!"
Victoria's Jubilee: for Music.
I.
(Major forte.)
"Rejoice, O Land! Imperial Realm, rejoice!Wherever round the worldOur standard floats unfurl'd,Let every heart exult in music's voice!Be glad, O grateful England,Triumphant shout and sing, Land!As from each belfried steepleThe clanging joy-bells sound,Let all our happy peopleThe wandering world around,Rejoice with the joy this jubilee brings,Circling the globe as with seraphim wings!"
II.
(Minor piano.)
"Lo, the wondrous story,Praise all praise above!Fifty years of glory,Fifty years of love!Chastened by much sadness,Mid the dark of death,But illumed with gladnessBy the sun of faith:What a life, O Nations,What a reign is seenIn the consummationsCrowning Britain's Queen!"
III.
(Finale.—Crescendo.)
"Riches of Earth, and Graces of Heaven,God in His love hath abundantly given,More by a year than seven times seven,Blessing our Empress, the Queen!Secrets of Science, and marvels of Art,Health of the home, and wealth of the mart,All that is best for the mind and the heart,Crowded around her are seen.Honour, Religion, and Plenty are hers,Peace, and all heavenly messengers,While loyalty every spirit upstirsTo shout aloud, God save the Queen!"
Here the words end, as brevity is wisdom. But the music, as a majestic finale, might include touches of Rule Britannia, Luther's Hymn, and the National Anthem.
I have asked my friend Mr. Manns if he will set my words to music, but his modesty declines, as he professes to be mainly a conductor rather than a composer; and he recommends me to apply to some more famous musician, as perhaps Sullivan, or Macfarren, or haply Count Gleichen. All I can say is, nothing would be more gratifying to my muse than for either of those great names to adapt my poetry to his melody.
Suitably enough, I may here insert a page as to my own musical idiosyncrasy as a bit of author-life.
Keble is said to have had no ear for a tune, however perfect as to rhyme and rhythm; and there are those who suppose my tympanum to be similarly deficient, though I persistently dispute it. Living (when at Norwood) within constant free hearing of the best musicin the world, at the Crystal Palace, I ought to be musical, if not always so accredited; but I do penitentially confess to occasional weariness in over long repeated symphonies, where the sweet littlemotifis always trying to get out but is cruelly driven back,—in the endlessness of fugues, and what seems to my offended ear the useless waste of tone and power in extreme instrumentation, and in divers other disinclinings I cannot but acknowledge as to what is called classical music. Accordingly, no one can accuse me of beingfanatico per la musica; albeit I am transported too by (for example) Handel's largo in G, by the Prayer in Mosé in Egitto, the Lost Chord, Rossini's Tell, Weber's Freischutz and Oberon, Tannhauser, Semiramide, and all manner of marches, choruses, ballads, and national airs. In fact, I really do like music, especially if tuneful and melodious, in spite of Wagner's apothegm, but some symphonies might be better if curtailed,—except only Schubert's,—but then his best is the Unfinished, and so the shortest. In my youth I learnt the double flageolet, and could play it fairly.
All this (wherein I am but the honest spokesman for many who do not like to confess as much) is introductory in my authorial capacity to this short poem, not long since pencilled in the concert-room and given to Mr. Manns as soon as clearly written. I insert it here very much to give pleasure to one who so continually ministers to the pleasure of thousands; and I hope some day soon to greet him Sir August, as he well deserves a knighthood.
A Music Lesson."Marvellous orchestra! concert of heaven,Mingling more notes than the musical seven,Harmonious discords of treble and baseIn strange combinations of guilt and of grace—O whose is the ear that can hear you aright,And note the dark providence mixt with the light?Where, where is the eye that is swift to discernThis lesson in music the dull ear should learn,—That all, from the seraphim harping on highDown, down to the lowest, fit chords can supplyTo the pæan of praises in every tone,With thunders and melodies circling the Throne!"We are each a brief note in that wonderful hymn,And to us its Oneness is hazy and dim;We hear the few sounds from the viol we play,But all the full chorus floats far and away:Our poor little pipe of an instant is drown'dIn the glorious rush of that ocean of sound;The player hears nothing beyond his own bars,Whilst all that grand symphony reaches the stars:Yet, though our piping seems but little worthIt adds to the Anthem Creation pours forth,And, whether we know it or not, we can giveNot a note more or less in the life that we live."Ah me! we are nothing—or little at best—But duty with greatness the least can invest:One note on the flute or the trumpet may seemA poor petty work for ambition's fond dream,—But what if that note be a need-be to blendAnd quicken the score from beginning to end?To show forth the mind of the Master, who guidesWith baton unerring Time's mixture of tides,The good with the evil, the blessing and bane,The Amazon rushing far into the main,Until, from this skill'd combination of notes,Bound earth to the heavens His overture floats!"
A Music Lesson.
"Marvellous orchestra! concert of heaven,Mingling more notes than the musical seven,Harmonious discords of treble and baseIn strange combinations of guilt and of grace—O whose is the ear that can hear you aright,And note the dark providence mixt with the light?Where, where is the eye that is swift to discernThis lesson in music the dull ear should learn,—That all, from the seraphim harping on highDown, down to the lowest, fit chords can supplyTo the pæan of praises in every tone,With thunders and melodies circling the Throne!
"We are each a brief note in that wonderful hymn,And to us its Oneness is hazy and dim;We hear the few sounds from the viol we play,But all the full chorus floats far and away:Our poor little pipe of an instant is drown'dIn the glorious rush of that ocean of sound;The player hears nothing beyond his own bars,Whilst all that grand symphony reaches the stars:Yet, though our piping seems but little worthIt adds to the Anthem Creation pours forth,And, whether we know it or not, we can giveNot a note more or less in the life that we live.
"Ah me! we are nothing—or little at best—But duty with greatness the least can invest:One note on the flute or the trumpet may seemA poor petty work for ambition's fond dream,—But what if that note be a need-be to blendAnd quicken the score from beginning to end?To show forth the mind of the Master, who guidesWith baton unerring Time's mixture of tides,The good with the evil, the blessing and bane,The Amazon rushing far into the main,Until, from this skill'd combination of notes,Bound earth to the heavens His overture floats!"
A page or two about my connection with the Royal Society may have some small interest. When my father (who had long been a Fellow) died in 1844, I wished to give to the Society his marble bust by Behnes as a memorial of honour to him; but my mother preferred to keep it, as was natural. Meanwhile, however, some of my father's friends, and in particular his old patron, Lord Melbourne, then recently elected, put me up as a candidate, and as I find recorded in my Archive-book, vol. ii., my certificate "was signed by Argyll, Bristol, Henry Hallam, Thomas Brande, Dr. Paris, P.B.C.S., Sir C. M. Clarke, and Sir Benjamin Brodie: in due time I was elected, and on the 8th of May 1845 was admitted by Lord Northampton." At my election occurred this very strange and characteristic incident. There was only one ball against me among twenty-seven for me in the ballot-box; the meetings were then held at Somerset House, the Society on a less numerous scale than at present, and the elections easier and more frequent. When the President announced the result, up jumped Lord Melbourne, begging pardon for his mistake in having dropped his ball into the wrong hole!—an amusing instance of thelaissez-fairecarelessness habitual to that good-humoured Minister.
As I have now been more than forty years a Fellow, I ought to be ashamed to confess that I never contributed a Paper to its learned Proceedings; all of which as they come to me I give appropriately enough to the famous Wotton Library, belonging to my excellent friend Evelyn, heir and successor to the celebrated John Evelyn of the Sylva, one of the Society's founders. That I have seldom even read them is also a pitiful truth; for the mysterious nomenclature of modern chemistry, the incomprehensibility (to my ignorance) of the higher mathematics, the hopeless profundity of treatises on the tides, dynamics, electricity, and microscopic anatomicals, are, I am free to avow, worse to me than "heathen Greek," nay (for Icanin some sort tackle that), more difficult than the clay tablets of Assyria or a papyrus of Rameses II. So I must confess to being an idle drone among the working bees.
Only thrice have I ventured to ask questions of consequence, scarcely yet answered by the pundits. One regards Spectrum Analysis: How can we be sure that the lines indicative of gases and other elements are not mainly due to the emanations from our own globe, swathed as it is by more than forty miles of an atmosphere impregnated by its own salts and acids in aerial solution? May we not be deducing false conclusions as to the varying lights of stars and nebulæ, if all the while to our vision they are as it were clouded by our own smoke? Telescopes have to pierce so thick a stratum of earth's aura and ether that it is expectable they, would show us only our own composites in those of other worlds. The spectra are varied, I know, but so may be our wrappings of atmosphere from one nightto another. Let this ignorant query suffice about Dr. Huggins' great discovery.
Again, I certainly (after some knowledge of strange facts) could have wished that Mr. Crookes's philosophical spiritualism had met with a more patient hearing than Dr. Carpenter or Mr. Huxley offered at the time; and that Faraday's clumsy mechanical refutation of table-turning had not been considered so conclusive. For there really are "more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," &c., than even your omniscience is aware of; and without pinning faith on Madame Blavatsky, or Mr. Hume, or any other wonder-worker from America or Thibet, there doubtless are petty miracles in what is called spiritualism (possibly some form of electricity) that demand more scrutiny than our materialists will have the patience to vouchsafe: I for one believe in human testimony even as to the miraculous.
For a third and last inquiry: justly indignant at the horrors of Continental vivisection, and especially in our own humane England at Dr. Ferrier's red-hot wires thrust into live monkeys' brains, I have often vainly askedcui bonosuch terrible cruelty? The highest authorities are at variance with each other as to the practical utility in human therapeutics of experiments upon agonised brutes; but all must be agreed that, so far as morals are concerned, vivisection only hardens the heart and sears the feelings and conscience of doctors who may surround the dying-bed of our dearest, and very possibly make capital of peculiar symptoms in their patient, by experiments transferred from dogs and rabbits to himself! Single votes are useless against the annual list of selected candidates, or I for one would have at all inconvenience testified both at Oxford andin the Royal Society against the election of a certain Professor whose glory lies in vivisection.
For an appropriate end to these discursive sentences, let me add this poetic morsel in my own vein. Mr. Butler of Philadelphia was quite right in his judgment of myindoles: I "write by impulse on occasion." Here is a very recent instance in point. I had lately visited Mr. Barraud's painted-window works near Seven Dials, and when I told Mr. Herbert Rix, our Assistant-Secretary, of what you may read below, he exhorted me to put it into verse, which I did impromptu, and sent it to him: now thus first printed:—
"I saw the artist in a colour-shopStaining some bits of glass variously shapedTo map the painted window of a church,And marvelled that the tintings all seemed wrong;Red, green, and brown should have been interchangedTo show the colours right. Why did he useHis brush so carelessly, my folly asked.'Wait for the fire,—the fire will make all right,The reds and greens and browns will change again,Fusing harmoniously,' so Knowledge spake;And thus a thought of wisdom came to meTouching the truth, how kindly curativeMust be the pains and cares and griefs of life,For that the furnace of adversity,Melts to its proper good each seeming ill.Again, I noticed how the artist choseNot clear good glass, whether of plate or crown,But common-looking stuff, bubbled and flawed,As if selected for its blemishesRather than for transparent purity.'Why not choose better glass to paint upon?'To this he answered, 'Wouldn't do at all.My faces mustn't look lifeless and dull,But, as instinct with motion, light and life,Not in enamelled uniformity:The sunshine cannot sparkle where all's smooth;I choose the most imperfect panes to makeA perfect, vigorous picture.'—Then I learntHow wonderfully Providence is pleasedTo cause all evil things to help the good;Nay, deeper, to ordain that good itselfCan scarcely be discerned without the harmOf some companion-ill; even as goldIs useless unalloyed; and Very LightUnshadowed kills, as unapproachable;And absolute unmitigated goodAlone is Godhead. Every creature here(In this our human trial-world at least)Is full of faults and spots and blemishes,If only to set off his better self,His talents, graces, excellent good gifts,Burnt in the fire to brighter excellenceAnd fused harmonious into perfect man."
"I saw the artist in a colour-shopStaining some bits of glass variously shapedTo map the painted window of a church,And marvelled that the tintings all seemed wrong;Red, green, and brown should have been interchangedTo show the colours right. Why did he useHis brush so carelessly, my folly asked.'Wait for the fire,—the fire will make all right,The reds and greens and browns will change again,Fusing harmoniously,' so Knowledge spake;And thus a thought of wisdom came to meTouching the truth, how kindly curativeMust be the pains and cares and griefs of life,For that the furnace of adversity,Melts to its proper good each seeming ill.Again, I noticed how the artist choseNot clear good glass, whether of plate or crown,But common-looking stuff, bubbled and flawed,As if selected for its blemishesRather than for transparent purity.'Why not choose better glass to paint upon?'To this he answered, 'Wouldn't do at all.My faces mustn't look lifeless and dull,But, as instinct with motion, light and life,Not in enamelled uniformity:The sunshine cannot sparkle where all's smooth;I choose the most imperfect panes to makeA perfect, vigorous picture.'—Then I learntHow wonderfully Providence is pleasedTo cause all evil things to help the good;Nay, deeper, to ordain that good itselfCan scarcely be discerned without the harmOf some companion-ill; even as goldIs useless unalloyed; and Very LightUnshadowed kills, as unapproachable;And absolute unmitigated goodAlone is Godhead. Every creature here(In this our human trial-world at least)Is full of faults and spots and blemishes,If only to set off his better self,His talents, graces, excellent good gifts,Burnt in the fire to brighter excellenceAnd fused harmonious into perfect man."
I have often thought that our Great Teacher's parables were true pictures of things around Him; He painted from living models, "impulsively and on occasion." The prodigal son, the unjust judge, the rich fool, the camel unladen to pass the narrow tunnel of the needle's eye, the lost sheep, the found piece of money and the like,—all were real incidents made use of by His wisdom, who spake as never man spake, and did all things well.
It has several times happened to me, as doubtless to others of my brethren, to find that I have been personated, certainly to my considerable discredit. Take these instances. When at Brighton, a fellow had the effrontery to collect money in my name, and I suppose he somewhat resembled me, as I heard more than once that I had been seen here and there, where I undoubtedly was not, and proved analibi. At Bignor, where I went to see some Roman pavements on the property of a Sussex yeoman of my name (very possibly a German cousin) the owner received me with more than suspicion when I said who I was,—because "the true Martin Tupper had been his guest for a week, and brought him a book he had written," and one of mine then was lying on the table! But I soon made it clear that he had been deceived, and that the real Simon Pure was now before him. Divers other cases might be mentioned; however, perhaps the most curious is this, and I extract the whole statement from one of my scrap-books now before me. It is headed "An anecdote to account for certain slanders," the date being August 1865:—
"I have heard it seriously asserted of me that I am a great pugilist! and very far in conduct and manners from what one might expect, and so forth. Now it hasjust come to my knowledge that a sporting publican and dog-fancier, who called his public-house in the Waterloo Road 'The Greyhound' (my crest), and has my name over the lintel, has claimed to be the author, and is supposed to be myself! Mr. Payne (my publisher) told me about the 'pugilist,' and said he had heard it in the clubs that I was a match for Sayers,—as I conclude my sporting namesake is." In America, too, I found that my double lived at Hardwick, Worcester Co., N.Y., and that another Martin hailed from Buffalo. So, like poor Edgar Poe, who had to suffer from the machinations of a profligate brother, who gave Edgar's name whenever he got into a scrape, I may have sometimes been credited with the sins of strangers. No one is free from this sort of calumny. We all have heard of Sheridan's wicked witticism, in that when taken up in Pall Mall for drunkenness, he gave his name Wilberforce; and it is said that he got drunk on purpose to say so! My venerable friend, Thomas Cooper, the pious and eloquent old Chartist, has been similarly confused with Robert Cooper, the atheist, lecturer; not but that Thomas had once been an atheist too. In this connection, here is a curiously complicated case ofalibi, which I abstractverbatimfrom one of my Archive-books.
"On Sunday, the 17th of September 1848, I was all the afternoon and evening at my house on Furze Hill, Brighton, quietly reading and teaching my children, &c. Next day the 'Rev. J. C. Richmond (an American friend) called with me on the Rev. Mr. Vaughan, and in the course of conversation the latter said to me in a good-natured tone of rebuke: 'Some of my congregation tell me they saw you yesterday afternoon smoking a cigar in a fly on the Marine Parade.' I had hardly timeto deny the soft impeachment, which I might well have done with emphasis, as a loather of cigars, and as little as possible a traveller on Sundays, when Richmond broke out with 'That's impossible; for I saw him myself in Shoreham Church (five miles distant), and noticed that he went away in the middle of the sermon, as I supposed, to get home to Mrs. Tupper.' Mr. Richmond says he could have made oath that I had been there, and that he told several persons after church that I 'had heard part of the sermon in the afternoon.' So, upon human and trustworthy evidence, I could have been proved to have been in three places at once."
My fetch similarly once rescued a young lady from death on Snowdon: at least a stranger in company once came up to me, to thank me for my prowess in having stopped his daughter's pony, which had run away down, the mountain!—in vain I denied it:—and he addressed me by my name, too! Somebody must have given him my card by accident.
And let me here allude (if I can without indelicacy) to another sort of personation of more financial importance to myself. Lately, I have seen some not very refined nor considerate paragraphs in American papers (Mr. Bok, a Brooklyn editor, has told me that more than four hundred repeated them) to the effect that in the battle of life I had—truly enough—suffered reverses, and needed material help from my many professing friends. Moreover I have heard it stated that some sort of collection was volunteered for me. Well, this may have been the case or not; but anyhow the fact is (and it should be announced to those who may have given—and wonder at no acknowledgment of their kindness having come from me) that to this hour Ihave received nothing from America (except a few dollars sent by one lady, and some more from a Transatlantic relative), either on account of my so-called testimonial, or these more recent paragraphs. The annoyance in my own mind, and in the suspicion of some others round me, is the awkward fancy that sundry small collections may have been intercepted. Possibly some other Martin Tupper has the spoil.
Another sort of dishonest personation whereto we are all liable, whether authors or not, is the having imputed to us divers forged or garbled sentiments, even in the immutability of print, I have now before me a Boston copy of my first Proverbial published by one Joseph Dowe in 1840, which, though stated to be "from the London edition," designedly omits all allusion to the Trinity, even my whole essay thereon, for Mr. Dowe as a Unitarian chose to make me one! Also, I have seen my name attached to verses I never wrote, and have been claimed both by Swedenborgians and Freemasons as a brother, while Jesuitry has otherwise traduced me. Artists also as well as authors are similarly misrepresented; my son-in-law, Clayton Adams, for instance, tells me that his name has been added to landscapes he never painted, and that they sold by auction at high prices. Modern society should punish such cheateries severely.
Amongst other memorabilia in no particular order, let me set down a few visits, longer than a mere call, to sundry persons and places of note. As these, for instance. Annually during many years I used to be a guest from Thursday to Monday at Farnham Castle, when the good Bishop's venison was in season. Of course, at such a table I constantly met celebrities, but a mere list of their names would be tedious, and any public record of private hospitalities I hold to be improper. No doubt the kindly and courtly Bishop Sumner held high festival like an ancient Baron, at such a rate (for those were golden times from renewed leases for the see) as no successor with a less unlimited income could well afford. The grandeur of Farnham Castle died with him: and my good friend from boyhood, Bishop Harold Browne, must not be blamed if with less than half his means he cannot compete with him.
I was enabled to gratify Bishop Sumner in a way that touched his heart, as thus. A cousin of mine, De Lara Tupper of Rio Janeiro, a rich merchant prince there, sent me, as a present for my Albury greenhouse, two large bales of orchids, which, however, were practically useless to me, as I had not that expensive luxury, aregular orchid-house. But I knew that the dear Bishop had, and that orchid-growing was his special hobby: accordingly all were transferred to Farnham, and I need not say how gratefully accepted, as many roots proved to be most rare, and some specimens quite unique. The good man gave me,en révanche, a splendid Horace, in white vellum beautifully illustrated, and inscribed by him "Gratiarum actio," now near me in a bookcase. The same South American cousin sent me also a box of pines, oranges, and shaddocks just when Garibaldi was our visitor at Princes Gate,—and I had the gratification of giving many to him, not only because he mainly lived upon fruit, but also because some of the said fruit came from the farm he and his first wife, the well-beloved Anita, had once owned in South America. Later on, Gladstone invited me to meet the hero at a reception in Carlton Gardens, where I took note of Garibaldi, with his hostess on his arm, as he walked in his simple red shirt, through a bowing lane of feathered fashionables, whom he greeted right and left as if he had been always used to such London high life. On that occasion I had the honour of standing between Palmerston and Lord John Russell, who kindly conversed with me, as also did the chief guest, specially thanking me for those pines and oranges.
Another notable visit of some days, was one to Parham, the ancient—and haunted—seat of my old friend both at Charterhouse and at Christ Church, Robert Curzon, afterwards Lord de la Zouche, the great collector of Armenian and other missals and manuscripts. With him (alas! no more amongst us, and his son hasdropped the "de la") I spent a joyful and instructive time: out of doors we fished in the lake and rode about the park among the antlered deer,—three heads and horns whereof are now in our glass-porch entrance at Albury; indoors, there was the splendid gallery of family armour from feudal days,—several suits of which Curzon told me he had tried to wear on some occasion, but couldn't; most were too small for him, though by no means a tall man; and those which he could struggle into were too heavy. Then there was the interminable companion gallery of full-length portraits, some of whom, probably the wicked ancestors,walked! and I'm sure that when I slept in a tapestried chamber under that gallery, I did hear footsteps—could it be, horrible fancy! in procession? When I told Curzon this, he answered that he had often heard them himself, from boyhood, but that familiarity bred contempt: he said also, with a twinkle in his eye, that therewasa room which was usually set apart for new-married couples, as such would probably not be so much startled as lonely maids and bachelors might be, at the whispered conversations across the bed! Moreover, evil wings (possibly owls or bats, looking after glow-worm candles) occasionally flapped at the casements. But Curzon was a humorist as well as inventive. Perhaps one secret as to ghosts at Parham lay in the fact that in the old thick walls were concealed staircases and "priests' chambers," which possibly might be of use, even now, to vagrant lovers (like Mr. Pickwick at Ipswich), or perhaps sleep-walkers,—or burglarious, thieves. Anyhow, I liked to lock my bedroom door there,—as indeed I do generally elsewhere, if lock and key are in good agreement; for once I couldn't get outwithout the surgical operation of a carpenter, having too securely locked myself in. This shall not happen twice, if I can help it. Curzon's great glory, however, was his library, full of rarities: he showed me, amongst other MSS., his unique purple parchments, with gold letter types, being (if I remember rightly) Constantine's own copy of the New Testament; and, to pass by other curios, some tiny Elzevirs uncut: imagine his horror when I volunteered to cut these open for him!—their chief and priceless wonder being that no eye has ever seen, nor ever can see, the insides of those virgin pages! I know there is such a rabies as bibliomania,—and I have myself, at Albury, a "breeches" Bible, which belonged to a maternal ancestor, a Faulkner, of course valued beyond its worth as a readable volume; and I might name many other instances; but to esteem a book chiefly because it has never been cut open, did strike my ignorance as an abnormal fatuity. Curzon was one of our Aristotelians, as before mentioned.
I am also mindful of a very pleasant week spent long ago at Shenstone's Leasowes, a beautiful estate near Birmingham, now being dug up for coal even as Hamilton is, where in those days some good friends of mine resided, of whom (now departed like so many others) I have most kindly recollections. The hostess, a charming and intelligent lady of the old school, wearing her own white ringlets, used to have many talks with me about Emanuel Swedenborg, a half-inspired genius whom she much favoured; the host, a genial county magnate, did his best to enable me to catch trout where Shenstone used to sing about them, and tried to interest me in farm improvements: but my chief memory of those days is this. Whilst I was there, a splendid testimonial in silver arrived in a fly from Birmingham, well guarded by a couple of police against possible roughs, the result of a zealous gathering from his political supporters; and that Testimonial, "little Testy" as I called it, was a source of care and dilemma to everybody; for care, it was immediately locked away for fear of burglars; and as to dilemma, the white elephant was too tall for the centre of a table, and too short to stand upon the floor. It seemed closely to illustrate to my mind that wise text about a man's life and his possessions. The cheerful spirit of the mansion and its inmates seemed quite subdued by this unwelcome acquisition. When at the Leasowes, I produced some suitable poems which were very kindly received: here is one of them, hitherto unprinted.
An Impromptu Sonnet.Ticked of at the Leasowes, Aug. 24, 1857, as per order."And so you claim a verse of me, good friend,As from the inspiration of the place;Well then,—from pastoral trash may taste defendYour pleasant Leasowes, and the human race!The Gentle Shepherd's day has had an end,Nor even could melodious Shenstone here(False and inflated, we must all allow),Excite one glowing thought or pensive tearUnless indeed of wrath or pity now:Yet dearly can I love these tumbling hillsWith roughly wooded winding glens between,Set with clear trout pools link'd by gurgling rillsAnd all so natural and calm and green,That served to enervate your PoetasterBut only strengthen now their Iron Master."
An Impromptu Sonnet.
Ticked of at the Leasowes, Aug. 24, 1857, as per order.
"And so you claim a verse of me, good friend,As from the inspiration of the place;Well then,—from pastoral trash may taste defendYour pleasant Leasowes, and the human race!The Gentle Shepherd's day has had an end,Nor even could melodious Shenstone here(False and inflated, we must all allow),Excite one glowing thought or pensive tearUnless indeed of wrath or pity now:Yet dearly can I love these tumbling hillsWith roughly wooded winding glens between,Set with clear trout pools link'd by gurgling rillsAnd all so natural and calm and green,That served to enervate your PoetasterBut only strengthen now their Iron Master."
I will also record a hospitable sojourn in old days at Northwood Park,the splendid abode of Isle-of-Wight Ward (grandfather to my school and college friend Ward of the Aristotle class and Oxonian persecution), where I once spent a week in my father's time: and similarly a visit at Lord Spencer's perfect villa near Ryde: and at other pleasant homes, made to me frequently welcome, the chief being Wotton, the classic mansion of one of my oldest friends.
Also long ago,—see a former page,—I purposely dismissed with only a word our lengthened visits in my father's day at Inveraray Castle with the old Duke of Argyll, and Holkar Hall with Lord George Cavendish, as private domesticities,—whilst a casual other few as at Ardgowan, Rozelle, Herriard, Losely, and the like, gratefully on my memory, shall be thus briefly recorded here: Ardgowan is the magnificent abode of my friend Sir Michael Shaw-Stewart, after whose grandmother as my sponsor I am named Farquhar; Rozelle, the hospitable mansion of Captain Hamilton, where I sojourned many days, meeting theéliteof Ayr, and among them the aged niece of Burns in the poet's own country; Herriard House, my old school-friend Frank Ellis's heritage under his name of Jervoise, and Losely—"of the manuscripts," where I have often visited my late excellent friend James More Molyneux.
Of course, like everybody else who may be lifted a trifle above the crowd, I have experienced, almost annually, the splendid hospitalities of the Mansion House and most of the City Companies: may they long continue, and not be spunged away by Radical meanness! all classes are united and gratified thereby, for the poorest get the luxurious leavings, and the feasts arepaid for by benefactors long departed from the scenes of their successful merchandise. All that seeming prodigality and luxury have good uses. But I will mention (of course without the hint of a name or place) one only instance of excessive splendour, quite needless and to my mind vulgar. A great magnate (not a royalty, I need hardly say) invited four guests to dine with his home party; the four were my father and mother, my brother Dan and myself, humble guests enough; and yet behind each of twelve chairs stood a gorgeous flunkey in powder and bright livery, with my lord's gentleman superadded in undertaker's evening trim, while the Earl himself wore his star and garter! Of course too the buffet and the table were loaded, with resplendent plate. That, scene of ostentation has been on the gray matter of my brain ever since young manhood, and I relieve myself now of the reminiscence for the first and last time. In another page I speak of Prince Astor's pure gold service when I dined with him at New. York; and I have grateful memory of the almost palatial splendour wherewith a rich publisher entertained his guest at his castle under Arthur's Seat; but in every case (and I might name others) my heart's aspiration has been, "Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me." Mr. Vanderbilt was not happy with his millions; neither probably is poor Jack without a shot in his locker.
In such a record of personals as this, it is fortunate both for the author and his readers if he has never been one of those literary lions who are merely histrionic creatures of society. It is a privilege not to have to reproduce the common small-talk of ball-rooms and garden-parties, nor to be obliged to make the most, after a semi-libellous fashion, of after-dinner scandals, or gossip in the smoking-room. Not having heard them he cannot well report racy anecdotes, whereof sundry memoirs have been too full. In the happier condition of a partial anchoritism I have escaped clubs, London seasons, and country mansion gaieties; as a youth and to middle manhood a stammerer, I would not willingly court the humiliations of chattering society, and thereafter, up to to-day, a domestic country gentleman of literary pursuits, I have avoided (as far as possible) fashionable gatherings of every sort, social, theological, or political. Not that I abjure—it is far otherwise—any kind of genial intercourse with my fellows; a few friends are my delight, but I never would belong to a club, though sometimes specially tempted by indulgence as to terms (more than once having been offered a free and immediate entry), nor to any society or charity that expected of me personal publicity or active service,—albeit, once,and once only, I had to figure as a reluctant chairman at Exeter Hall. Privacy has ever been my preference; whence it will clearly be inferred how much I have had to sacrifice in the way of self-denial when forced by circumstances to enact the "old man eloquent" before assembled hundreds, sometimes thousands, as a public reader. People who have made themselves acquainted with my "Proverbial Philosophy" may remember that my Essay on Speaking contrasts the misery of the man who cannot speak with the happiness of the emancipated orator, and I have experienced them both; whilst it may be seen in what I have written about silence and seclusion how cordially and perhaps foolishly, as "wearing my heart on my sleeve," I have shown that I greatly love to be alone, especially in what I am known to call "holy silence;" in fact, as ill-nature may like to put it, I prefer my own quiet company to that disturbed by the talk of other people. So much, then, as to one cause for the scantiness in this self-memoir of expected spicy anecdotes and perilous revelations. Not but that I could make considerable mischief, and perhaps help my publisher in sales, if I chose to make the most of the many celebrities, both American and English, with whom I have had intercourse both at Albury and elsewhere. My humble hospitalities and the constant welcome I have given to strangers, have been like their author, proverbial; but that is no reason why our converse, free and frank as private fellowship commands, should be produced in print; naturally the host was ever generous, and the guest—equally, of course—appreciative.
Perhaps though, not quite always: and I am tempted here to say just one unpleasant word about the only oneof my many American guests, hospitably, nay almost affectionately treated, who wrote home to his wife too disparagingly of his entertainer, his son having afterwards had the bad taste to publish those letters in his father's Life. One comfort, however, is that in "The Memoirs of Nathaniel Hawthorne," that not very amiable genius praises no one of his English hosts (except, indeed, a perhaps too open-handed London one), and that he was not known (any more than Fenimore Cooper, whom years ago I found a rude customer in New York) for a superabundance of good nature. When at Albury, Hawthorne seemed to us superlatively envious: of our old house for having more than seven gables; of its owner for a seemingly affluent independence, as well as authorial fame; even of his friends when driven by him to visit beautiful and hospitable Wotton; and in every word and gesture openly entering his republican and ascetic protest against the aristocratic old country; even to protesting, when we drove by a new weather-boarded cottage, "Ha, that's the sort of house I prefer to see; it's like one of ours at home." That we did not take to each other is no wonder. This, then, is my answer to the unkindly remarks against me in print of one who has shown manifestly a flash of genius in "The Scarlet Letter;" but, so far as I know, it was well-nigh a solitary one.
One further curious illustration of an uncongenial guest is this: Alexander Smith wrote a "Life Drama," full of sparkling poetic gems, which at once made him popular, apparently with justice enough. I asked him down to Albury, made much of him, praised warmly sundrymorceauxof his (which I had marked in my copy), and to my astonishment received the brusquereply, "O, you like those, do you? I shall alter them in next edition:" as I found afterwards he did. He was a common-looking man, with a rough manner, and a squint. As he seemed upset,—though why I could not guess,—I tried in other ways to please him; as, by a ramble in the woods and a drive in the waggonette: but all would not do,—his day came to an end as gloomily as it began. Long after, I stumbled upon the reason. I had then for the first time read Bailey's "Festus," and found some passages therein very similar to Alexander's; thereafter, other little bits from some other poets (I think Tennyson was one) struck me. Little wonder, then, that I heard no more of Smith,—who clearly had thought himself found out,—and so received my first ignorance of his plagiaristic tendency as if I had known all about it: and years after Aytoun had (as I was told) avenged justice by that cleverest of spasmodic poetries, "Firmilian, by Percy Jones"—a burlesque on Alexander Smith, and a book which the world has too willingly let die. Let no one, however, after all this, fancy that I am unaware of Alexander Smith's true merit. He very neatly fitted into his mosaic word-pictures the titbits he had culled in his commonplace-book out of many poets, and so utilised them. A self-made and self-taught man, "elbow to elbow," as he told me, "with Jack, Tom, and Harry in a workshop," as a designer of patterns, he had well and wisely made the most of his scant opportunities of culture, and it is only a pity that he did not allude to something of this in a preface.
It is not for me to recall here much about the inevitable hospitalities of an old country house, to which a not unkindly host often invited English and foreignfriends, whom something to do with authorship had made celebrities. Do I not pleasantly remember the jolly haymaking, when old Jerdan, calling out, "More hay, more hay!" covered Grace Greenwood with a haycock overturned, and had greeted a sculptor guest appropriately and wittily enough with "Here we are, Durham, all mustered!" the "we" being besides others, Camilla Toulmin, George Godwin, and Francis Bennoch? Do I not remember how much surprised we were at the melodies whereof an old piano was capable when touched by Otto Goldsmidt? Can I forget, also, how marvellously a young Canadian, Joseph Macdougall, of Ottawa, extemporised on the same piano as only a genius can (Mr. Assher was another), and sent me afterwards, as a memory, a vast volume of American photographs, whereof he had munificently prepaid the enormous sum of £6, 18s. for postage? And was not our village stirred to its depths by the visit to Albury House of two black gentlemen and a blue,—all in evening dress?
It was President Roberts of Monrovia, attended by his secretary and chief minister; for they came cordially to return thanks to one who had helped a little in slave emancipation, under the influences of Elliott Cresson, Dr. Hodgkin Garrison, and others,—and, moreover, had given a gold medal for African literature, biennially to be competed for by emancipated slaves;—whereof I have heard very little, since (by the volunteered assistance of Mr. Taylor, the seal engraver) I gave it many years ago: the medal was as large as a crown piece. President Benson, also of Liberia, a magnificent ebon specimen of humanity, visited me with his staff, not long before his lamented death—it was said, by murder.
Let me add now a word of kindly memory for some good friends long gone to a better world, but once welcome guests at Albury. There was Benjamin Nightingale, the enthusiastic antiquary; there was hisfidus Achates, Akerman, secretary to the Numismatic, whom I greatly pleased by enabling him to catch a trout near my carriage gate; there was Chief Baron Pollok, head of the Noviomagians: the eloquent Edwards Lester of America, whose speech at a Literary Fund dinner to which I had treated him was hailed by Hallam, Dickens, and others on the spot asthespeech of the Society: and the Warrens of Troy, N.Y., about whose casual visit this singular thing happened. For the first and only time in life I had had the strange luck to catch at Netley Pond three perch of nearly a pound each, and a fine trout of about two: I little knew then the final cause thereof: in those days we could not easily get fish in the country, unless indeed we caught it: now my eminent Transatlantic stranger friends came on a Friday, and proved to be Roman Catholics: could any piscatorial luck have been more timely?
When a few days after I told of my sport to a neighbour (it was Captain Russell of the Cleveland family), a great angler, he, of course, without imputation of my veracity, hinted that he wished I might have such luck again, as he would then come and dine with me. I answered at once, "Come to-morrow, and see what I may have caught." He did,—and I produced from the same old mill-head a three-pound trout,—to his astonishment, as it had been my own to have caught it. I have never had such luck before or since, though always a zealous angler in an unprofessional way.
Let me not forget here also the beautiful "AlburyWaltz," composed in my drawing-room by Miss Armstrong, and published—it must be twenty years ago now—by Robert Cocks, New Burlington Street: wherein by request I originated the idea of song words for the dancers. This singing as you danced has been often done since, but I suppose no one then thought of it but myself since King David. I need say little more about Albury visitors:—for many years there were plenty of them,—but if one put down a tenth part of what even the faithless memory of old age still retains, there would be no end to such inexhaustible recordings.
And here is an Alburian anecdote which may amuse, as illustrative of the mental calibre of some of those myriads of untutored rustics whom our partisan governors have made politically equal with the wisest in the land. Three young friends came to spend a day with us, and for fun brought in their pockets the absurd noses popular at Epsom races. We came upon some turf-diggers, and my visitors mounted their masks to mystify them. The clodpoles looked scared and very quiet, till I went up to one of them who knew me,—of course I was in my natural physiognomy,—and I said to him, "My friend, these are foreigners:" and the poor ignoramus staring at those portentous noses said seriously, "Ees, I sees they be." Clearly he thought all "furriners" were so featured.
Another specimen of agricultural intelligence is this: A labourer in my field one day said to me, "Master, please to tell me where Jerusalem is, because me and my mates have been disputing about it, and I says as its in Ireland, because the Romans goes there!" He meant the Roman Catholics! and he might have heard also that St. John's Pat-mos was in fact an Irish bog,Pat's-moss: many of our legislative constituency being found to believethat.
But not only is the common labourer thus dense: take these two instances of country guests at my table. One whom I had asked to meet two Americans told me of his disappointment at not finding them—red men! And another (this time a provincial parson) wanted me to expostulate with my friend Hatchard (afterwards Bishop of Mauritius) because he meditated in his philanthropy giving a drinking fountain to Guildford. "Only think, a drinking fountain! surely you cannot approve?" The poor man supposed it was one of those pumping apparatuses for spirits presided over by barmaids! It is manifest that the schoolmaster was not so much abroad a few years ago as he has been since board schools have arisen.
Amongst other specialities of ancient Albury House, which has 1561 on a weathercock and 1701 on a kitchen wing, is the same peculiarity which Tennyson told me at Farringford vexes him in his own less ancient dwelling,—and which Pindar of old declared to be the privilege of poets. We are, and have been for generations, a very house-hive of bees: the whole front of two gables has them under its oak floors and panelled walls throughout,—and when guests sleep in certain rooms they have to be forewarned that the groans at midnight are not those of perturbed spirits, but the hum and bustle of multitudinous bees. We cannot drive them away, nor destroy them utterly,—as often has been attempted; and if we did, the worry would be only worsened, as in that case hornets would come and succeed to the sweet heritage of bee-dom. When the stuccoed front of our house was demolished, to show the oakenpattern (but it had to be re-roughcast to keep out the weather), there were pailsful of honey carried off by the labourers, of course not without wounds and strife: but in ordinary times it is a strange fact that our bees never sting their hosts; be careful only to remain quiet, and there is no war between man and bee. Two years ago a great comb was built outside an eaveboard, probably because there was no room for more comb inside. It is curious that it should have survived two hard winters. Is not all this apposite, as suited (let Pindar and Tennyson bear witness) to a poet's home?
In this zoological connection (for bees are zoa) let me record that there is a legend of a fox having been killed in our drawing-room (on the ground-floor with French windows) during some tenancy in my absence,—only fancy the havoc of such a strife! but all had been cleared up before our return. Also, it is memorable (and I saw it myself) that a hard-pressed stag from Sir Gilbert Heathcote's hunt took refuge in our harness-room,—to the extreme horror of a gardener's boy, who thought it was a mad donkey,—and no wonder, for as those brave barbarian sportsmen get the antlers sawn off for fear of wounds to themselves or their nobler dogs, the poor scared creature with its uncrowned head and loppity ears is very donkey-like.
Let me give another like homely anecdote of past days.
We are all now so wrapt in security as country dwellers, guarded by the rural police everywhere, that the following ludicrous incident may seem hardly worth a word; but in the good old days, when poor Jack was such a highway brigand that my nurses feared to take the children off the premises, and when burglars werenot infrequent callers at remote residences, what happened long ago, on a certain dark winter's night, at Albury, may amuse. Long after all had gone to bed, we heard with trepidation stealthy steps crunching the snow round the house, andsomethingthat now and then touched the ground-floor doors and windows, as if quietly trying to get in: at lastitfumbled at the ancient hanging handle of the outside kitchen-door! Now was the time for Paterfamilias to show his pluck, in the universal scare; so, armedcap-a-pied, with candles held in the rear by the terrified household, he valorously drew the bolts and flung open the heavy oaken door,—to greet—his children's donkey, escaped somehow from its stable, and trying to get indoors that cold night for warmth. Laugh as we might, and as you may, the test of courage was all the same; and if this donkey story is pounced upon by some critic or comic as a weak link in my chain of autobiography, I only hope he will behave as bravely if a real ruffian tries his doors and windows by night; by no means an improbable hypothesis in these days of communistic radicalism.
The old house itself may deserve a word. It came to me as a—shall I say?—matrimony, from my mother; if patrimony means from a father, why not matrimony from a mother? her great-uncle, Anthony Devis, having bought it in 1780. He was a remarkable man in his way and before his age; a good landscape painter (as Pilkington avouches), a collector of pictures and curiosities,—mostly sold by executors at his death, aged eighty-nine, though a full gallery remains at Albury; a carver too, and a constructor of cabinets,—whereof two fine specimens (inlaid with brecciated jaspers, and madeof ebony and cedar from his own turning-lathe) decorate our large drawing-room; and the oldest folk in our village still remember the good old gentleman who always had gingerbread in his pockets for them as children, and who was known by them as the "man mushroom," seeing he was the first who ever had an umbrella in the place! There was, however, another and a better reason for this name, inasmuch as he built for himself an outer painting-room on a hilltop near which he called Mushroom Hall, because it was just like one (as a picture in our drawing-room testifies), being a circular turret surmounted by a flat broad dome, with overshadowing eaves all round. This strange summer-house has long vanished.
Anthony came of a good old stock paternally, as the civic archives of Preston, in Lancashire, testify; and his mother was Ann Blackburne, of Marrick Abbey, Yorkshire,—the title-deeds whereof, old slip parchments and maps from Henry II. to Henry VIII., I found in a chest at Albury, and years after transmitted them to Lord Beaumont, the present owner; albeit, as a boy, I had been allowed to cut off the seals and paste them in a copy-book! All these deeds, and the history thereof, I had printed in Nichols's Antiquariana.
The prominent feature of our village, so far as religion is concerned, has for nearly fifty years been the fact of its being the headquarters of the party originated by Edward Irving,—a full history whereof, impartially and ably written by Mr. Miller of Bicester (whose hospitality I have enjoyed for some days at Kineton), will be found at Kegan Paul's, if any wish to read it. I have always lived on kindly terms with my neighbours, though notquite of their faith; excellent are many of them, and I am glad to number such among my friends, specially as on neither side we meddle with each other's peculiar opinions. I have known nearly all their twelve apostles, men of mark and learning (especially John Tudor, a great Hebraist, and who was skilled even in Sanscrit and the arrow-headed characters), and eleven of them are among the dead, one only surviving in a vigorous old age to meet (may it be so) the Lord at His coming.
My American Ballads, perhaps after "Proverbial Philosophy," the chief cause of my Transatlantic popularities, had their origin at Albury. The first of these and the most famous, as it induced several friendly replies from American poets, was one whereof this below is the first stanza. I wrote it in 1850, and read it after dinner to four visitors from over the Atlantic to their great delectation, and of course they sent MS. copies all over the States. It begins—