Martin Farquhar Tupper - My Life as an Author

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"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.

CHAPTER XXV.

HONOURS--INVENTIONS.

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 the _Times_ of 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 plenty both 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, the _Echo_ said so, and the _Globe_ good-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 the _British Controversialist_ (Houlston &
Wright) for July 1863, p. 79,--and Bryant's _Evening Post_ for 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's name, 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 Buensen'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, the _gold medal_ for 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 to renew to you my
own thanks and the expression of my high regard, and believe me,
yours sincerely,

"Buensen.

"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.

Inventions.

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
did _not_ want 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 "essence of 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 mediaeval
puppet-plays as 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 fetters
Bind 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 place
As the Goliath in fashion and feature
Warring gigantic with God and His grace?
Is he so great--to be dreaded, abhorred,
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 succession
Make the _all one_ a whole Popedom of Time,
So that each head for his hour of possession
Wears 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

COURTLY AND MUSICAL.

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 glory
Added as England's grace to Hindostan:
O climax to this age's wondrous story,
Full of new hope to India, and to Man
In heathendom's dark places! For the light
Of our Jerusalem shall now shine there
Brighter than ever since the world began:--
Yet by a way chaotic, drear and gory
Travelled this blessing; as a martyr might
Wrestling to heaven through tortures unaware:
Our Empress Queen! for thee thy people's pray'r
All round the globe to God ascends united,
That He may strengthen thee no guilt to spare
Nor leave one act of goodness unrequited."

Another such curiosity of literature may this be considered: 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 I forbear) 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, _Blackwood_ or 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 fashions of 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 first _levee:_ 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.

"Albert Victor! words of blessing
Bright with omens of the best,
Truly one such names possessing
Shall be throned among the blest;
Albert,--sainted now and glorious,
Long time in his heavenly rest;
Victor,--everyway victorious
Like our Empress east and west!

"Prince! to-day the Court bears witness
How, 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 fleeting
Life 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 savour
In the Grandson of my Queen!"

As this is the Jubilee year, and I may not live to its completion,--for
who 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 as
_libretto_ to some chief musical composer.

_Victoria's Jubilee: for Music._

I.

(_Major forte._)

"Rejoice, O Land! Imperial Realm, rejoice!
Wherever round the world
Our 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 steeple
The clanging joy-bells sound,
Let all our happy people
The 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 gladness
By the sun of faith:
What a life, O Nations,
What a reign is seen
In the consummations
Crowning 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 upstirs
To 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 music in 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 little _motif_ is 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 being _fanatico per la musica_; albeit I am transported
too by (for example) Handel's largo in G, by the Prayer in Mose 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 base
In 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 discern
This lesson in music the dull ear should learn,--
That all, from the seraphim harping on high
Down, down to the lowest, fit chords can supply
To the paean of praises in every tone,
With thunders and melodies circling the Throne!

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