Martin Farquhar Tupper - My Life as an Author

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Thus far Addison, a hundred and seventy years ago, and Strada (whoever
he may be, for ordinary biographical dictionaries ignore him), perhaps
fifty before him, and the two unknown experimentalists, perhaps twenty
beyond that, making in all two hundred and forty or fifty years ago as
the date of electrical invention: whereof we see no further mention in
the _Spectator_. But is it not also among the "Century of the Marquis of
Worcester's Inventions"?--as is possible; the scarce volume is not near
me for reference. Let the curious reader who can, turn to it and see.
Meanwhile, how strangely Addison and Strada have anticipated the
dial-plate, and the needles, and the letters, and the short forms for
common words, all so familiar to our telegraphists. Verily there is
nothing new under the sun.

* * * * *

Extract from my Archive-book, No. 8. Date October 15, 1856.

"I was again an electric guest, this time at the Great Albion dinner
(Liverpool) to Mr. Morse, whom I had met at Erith and in America. A day
or two afterwards I sent him a letter of invitation to Albury, enclosing
the sonnet below; and not knowing his London address I posted it to my
brother Charles in London for him to read and forward. Lucky enough that
I did so, for Mr. Morse had just sailed for America: so Charles had both
prose and poetry telegraphed to him in New York,--and the Company would
not charge any money for it! This is perhaps the only time a sonnet
ever travelled by telegraph, and certainly the only time it ever so
travelled gratis."

Here it is, for which I had a very complimentary and grateful note from
"Samuel F.B. Morse, as an ardent admirer," &c. As never in print till
now, I trust it will be acceptable to my readers. Mr. Morse's published
speech was religiously high-minded and true-hearted, as indicated in the
sonnet.

_To Professor Morse, in pleasant memory of October 10, 1856,
at the Albion._

"A good and generous spirit ruled the hour;
Old jealousies were drowned in brotherhood,
Philanthropy rejoiced that skill and power,
Servants to science, compass all men's good;
And over all Religion's banner stood,
Upheld by _thee_, true Patriarch of the plan
Which in two hemispheres was schemed to shower
Mercies from God on universal man.
Yes, this electric chain from East to West
More than mere metal, more than Mammon can,
Binds us together kinsmen, in the best
As most affectionate and frankest bond,
Brethren at one, and looking far beyond
The world in an electric union blest."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE RIFLE: A PATRIOTIC PROPHECY.

There is an extinct pamphlet, now before me, published by Routledge in
1860, entitled "The Rifle Movement Foreshown in Prose and Verse from
1848 to the Present Time,"--from my pen,--which proves that, in
conjunction with my friend Evelyn and a few others, I may justly claim
to have originated that cheap defence of England, at Albury, more than a
dozen years before it was thought of anywhere by any one else. Take the
trouble to read the following longish extract from the fifth edition of
the above, and please not to omit the leash of ballads wherewith it
ends.

"And now, next, about this Rifle pamphlet. Every page carries its date
honestly, and several very curiously. In some of the editions there
appears a rifle ballad of mine, written in 1845, and published in 1846
(in the first issue of my Ballads and Poems--Hall & Virtue) with the
strange title "Rise Britannia, _a Stirring Song for Patriots in the Year
1860_:" an anticipation by fourteen years of the actual date of the
Rifle Movement. In all the editions, the papers on 'Cheap Security'
(being Talks between Naaman Muff (a Quaker), Till (a commercial gent),
Dolt (a philanthropist), Funker (an ordinary unwarlike paterfamilias),
and a certain Tom Wydeawake (patriotic but peculiar)) contain detailed
allusions, though written several years before any definite existence,
to the National Rifle Association, and to exactly such annual prize
gatherings of riflemen as those at Wimbledon Common and Brighton Downs,
and this latest at Blackheath. The discouragements of Tom Wydeawake and
his few compeers were remarkable. He himself might fairly have claimed
the honours of origination, discussed some two or three years ago, but
he left them to others--_Sic vos non vobis_, &c."

"Without mentioning names, several--since distinguished as prominent in
Rifledom--were once, to my certain knowledge, and still to be evidenced
by their extant letters, bitterly opposed to the whole movement,--and I
cannot conclude these remarks better or more appositely than by adding
here, with real dates, the three following ballads, which tell their own
tale briefly and suggestively." I print them here, as they are now to be
found nowhere else.

The first, published in newspapers during June 1859 (following several
others of a like character, with my name or without it), was the origin
of the Volunteers' motto--being headed

_Defence not Defiance._

"Nearer the muttering thunders roll,
Blacker and heavier frowns the sky,--
Yet our dauntless English soul
Faces the storm with a steady eye;
Hands are strong where hearts are stout;
Our rifles are ready--look out!

"No one wishes the storm to roll here--
No one cares such a devil to raise,--
And in brotherhood, not in fear,
Only for peace an Englishman prays,--
Yet he may shout in the midst of the rout,
Our rifles are ready--look out!

"Keep to your own, like an honest man,
And here's our hand, and here's our heart,
Let the world see how wisely you can
Play to the end a right neighbourly part,--
But if mischief is creeping about,
Our rifles are ready--look out!

"No defiance is on our lips,
Nothing but kindliness greets you here;
Still, in the storm our dolphin ships
Round the Eddystone dart and steer,--
And on shore--no doubt, no doubt--
Our rifles are ready--look out!

"Not Defiance, but only Defence,
Hold we forth for humanity's sake,--
And, with the help of Omnipotence,
We shall stand when the mountains quake:
Only in Him our hearts are stout;
Our rifles are ready--look out!"

_A Rhyme for Albury Club._

"A rhyme for the Club, for the brave little Club
That stoutly went forward when others held back,
And, reckless of many a sneer and a snub,
Steer'd manfully straight upon Duty's own tack,--
Though quarrelsome peacemongers did their small worst,
In spite of their tongues and in spite of their teeth,
We stood up for England among the few first,
With rifles and targets on Surrey Blackheath!

"Time was when Tom Wydeawake, ten years agone,
Toil'd to arouse dull old Britain betimes,
By example--he shouldered his rifle alone,
By precept--he showered his letters and rhymes,--
With bullets he peppered old Sherborne's hillside,
With ballads and articles worried the Press,--
The more he was sneer'd at, the stronger he tried,
And would not be satisfied short of Success.

"And now is his Fancy the front of the van,
And England an archer, as in the past years,
And stout middle age carries arms like a man,
And all the young fellows are smart Volunteers:
And Herbert, and Elcho, and Spencer, and Hay,
And Mildmay, and all the best names in the land
On a national scale achieve grandly to-day
What Wydeawake schemed with his brave little band!

"Then cheers for the Queen! for the Club! and the Corps!
For Grantley, and Evelyn, and Sidmouth, and all;
With Franklin, and Mangles, and six dozen more,
The first to spring forth at Britannia's call!
And long may we live with all peaceably here--
For olive, not laurel, is Glory's true wreath--
But if the wolf comes, he had better keep clear
Of a Club of crack shots upon Surrey Blackheath!"

_July 1860._

And the third is a small record of our Easter Monday's Review, 1864,
alluding to the present universality of the Rifle Movement contrasted
with its originally small beginnings on the same spot.

_Surrey Blackheath._

"Surrey Blackheath! old scene of beginnings
Humble enough some dozen years back,
Gather to-day's rich harvest of winnings,
Sprung of that sowing in Memory's track;
Reap your revenges in honour and pleasure;--
Thousands of riflemen arm'd to the teeth--
Crowds by ten thousands, in holiday leisure,
Throng the wild beauties of Surrey Blackheath!

"We were the first our rifles to shoulder,
First to wake England (though voted a bore);
First in this nation who roused her, and told her
She must go arm'd to be safe, as of yore!
Those were the days before corps and their drilling,
When the true patriot was check'd with a snub,--
So, on Blackheath, devotedly willing,
Stood your first riflemen--Albury Club!

"Yes, we stood _here_, in spite of their coldness,
Duty's first marksmen--whate'er should betide,--
Conquering Success--the sure fruit of boldness--
World-witnessed now by this field-day of pride!
And though they laugh'd at Tom Wydeawake's fancies,
Olives and laurels combine in his wreath;
For, the world's peace--in England's and France's--
Sprung of that sowing on Surrey Blackheath!"

_March 5, 1864._

Lord Lovelace will remember how much he opposed our rifle-club,--as in
those days illegal, and so the Lord-Lieutenant of Surrey might not
sanction it: but now his Lordship is our leading volunteer. Besides the
three ballads above, I wrote seven others which rang round the land, and
some of them, as "Hurrah for the Rifle," and "In days long ago when old
England was young," have been sung at Wimbledon and other gatherings.

It may be worth while, seeing the ballads are hopelessly out of print,
if I here transcribe a few stanzas from divers other staves I penned in
the early days of Rifledom. First, from "Rise, Britannia," before
mentioned, which was "written and printed in 1846, and then headed, by a
strange anticipation, a stirring song for patriots in the year 1860:"
reproduced in my now extinct "Cithara," in 1863: I wrote it to be sung
to the tune of "Wha wouldna fecht for Charlie:" even as afterwards I
adapted my "In days long ago when old England was young" to "The
roast-beef of old England," published with my own illustration by Cocks
& Co.:--

"Rise! ye gallant youth of Britain,
Gather to your country's call,
On your hearts her name is written,
Rise to help her, one and all!
Cast away each feud and faction,
Brood not over wrong nor ill,
Rouse your virtues into action,
For we love our country still,
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Raise that thrilling shout once more,
Rise, Britannia! rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore!"

After three stanzas which I will omit, the last is

"Rise then, patriots I name endearing,--
Flock from Scotland's moors and dales,
From the green glad fields of Erin,
From the mountain homes of Wales,--
Rise! for sister England calls you,
Rise! our commonweal to serve,
Rise! while now the song enthrals you
Thrilling every vein and nerve,--
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Conquer, as thou didst of yore;
Rise, Britannia! rule, Britannia!
Over every sea and shore!"

Another noted alarum, sounded in January 1852, commences thus:--

"Englishmen, up! make ready your rifles!
Who can tell now what a day may bring forth?
Patch up all quarrels, and stick at no trifles,--
Let the world see what your loyalty's worth!
Loyalty?--selfishness, cowardice, terror
Stoutly will multiply loyalty's sum,
When to astonish presumption and error
Soon the shout rises--the brigands are come!"

After four stanzas of happily unfulfilled prognostication, the last is--

"Up then and arm! it is wisdom and duty;
We are too tempting a prize to be weak:
Lo, what a pillage of riches and beauty,
Glories to gain and revenges to wreak!
Run for your rifles, and stand to your drilling;
Let not the wolf have his will, as he might,
If in the midst of their trading and tilling
Englishmen cannot--or care not to--fight!"

One only stanza more, the last of another also in 1852.

"Arm then at once! If no one attack us
Better than well, for the rifle may rust;
But if the pirates be coming to sack us,
Level it calmly, and God be your trust!
Only, while yet there's a moment, keep steady;
Skilfully, duteously, quickly prepare,--
Then with a nation of riflemen ready,
Nobody'll come because no one will dare!"

In those days of a generation back, so great was the scare everywhere of
Napoleon's rabid colonels a-coming that I remember my brother Arthur
counselling me to sink our plate down a well for safety; and Mr.
Drummond in a pamphlet exhorted the creation of refuges round the coast
by getting the owners of mansions to fortify them as strongholds,
filling the windows with grates and mattresses, and loopholing
garden-walls for shots at marauders on the roads!

Yet, so sleepy was the British Lion that neither Drummond nor I, nor
even the _Times_, which I invoked, could wake him up for many years: and
the Volunteer movement did not take effect till Louis Napoleon kindly
urged Palmerston to check his rabid colonels by a bold front of
preparation.

I am minded to finish with a mild anecdote which carries its moral. Now,
understand that I never pretended to be a crack shot, though I did make
fair practice through "the Indian twist," the sling supporting one's
arm; if I hit the target occasionally, I was satisfied. But it once
happened (at Teignmouth, where I was a casual visitor) that, seeing a
squad of volunteers practising at a mark on the beach, I went to look
on, and was courteously offered a shot, being not unknown by fame to
some of them. The target was at some 500 yards (say about a third of a
mile), so it was not likely I could hit it, with a chance rifle, perhaps
carelessly sighted; yet, when I did let fly, to the loud admiration of
the others and to my own astonishment (which of course I did _not_
reveal), the marker signalled for a bull's eye! Entreated to do it
again, this prudent rifleman modestly declined, for he remembered Sam
Slick's lucky shot at the floating bottle; it was manifestly his wisdom
not to risk fame won by a fluke. So the moral is, don't try to do twice
what you've done well once.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

AUTOGRAPHS AND ADVERTISEMENTS.

A word or two about autographs, surely a topic suitable to this book: in
fact, I have sometimes preferred to spell it authorgraphs: most public
men are troubled nowadays with this sort of petty homage, and I more
than suspect that some collectors make merchandise of them; "my valuable
collection" being often the form in which strangers solicit the
flattering boon. Once I had a queer proof as to the money value of my
own,--as thus: I went quite casually into an auctioneer's in Piccadilly,
to a book-sale; a lot of some half-dozen volumes were just being knocked
down for next to nothing (such is our deterioration in these newspaper
days) when the wielder of Thor's fateful hammer, dissatisfied at the
price, asked for the lot to look at,--and coming amongst others to a
certain book with handwriting in it, said, "Why, here's one with Martin
Tupper's autograph,"--on which a buyer called out, "I'll give you
eighteenpence more for that,"--suggestive to me of my auction value,--as
I have sometimes said. If, however, the more than hundreds (thousands) I
have been giving for these fifty years, really have so easily gratified
friends known or unknown, I am glad to be in that way so much a gainer.
Americans in particular ask frequently, and sometimes with wisely
enclosed stamped and addressed envelopes, which is a thing both
considerate and praiseworthy; but a very different sort and not easily
to be excused are those who send registered albums by post for one's
handwriting, expecting to have them returned similarly at no small cost.
Longfellow told me of this kind of young lady taxation, and mentioned
that he once had to pay twelve shillings for a registered return quarto.
I dare say that our popular Laureate has had similar experiences.

The most "wholesale order" for my signature was at New York in 1851,
when at a party there my perhaps too exacting hostess put a large pack
of plain cards into my hand, posted me at a corner table with pen and
ink, and flatteringly requested an autograph for each of her 100 guests!
of course, even this was graciously conceded,--though rather too much of
a good thing, I thought.

There is wisdom (some have hinted to me) in preferring a card to a sheet
of paper; not only because "I promise to pay" might possibly be written
_ab extra_ over one's signature, but also because (and far more
probably) any special "fad," political, social, or religious, might be
added above--to all seeming--your written approbation: _e.g._, I was
told in America that my autographed opinion in favour of Unitarianism
had been so seen at Boston. Some zealots for a "cause" even go so far as
that. My safe course is to write "the handwriting of so-and-so," where
from total ignorance of my correspondent I cannot honestly say "I am
truly yours."

Other forms of authorial homage are to be met with in the way of
complimentary photographs, and oil or water-colour portraits. Like all
other book celebrities, I have had to stand for minutes or sit for days,
dozens of times; and seeing that, wherever I have been on my Reading
Tours, on this side of the Atlantic or the other, photographic "artists"
have continually "solicited the honour," the result has been that I used
to keep "a book of horrors," proving how variously and oftentimes how
vulgarly one's features come out when the impartial sun portrays them.
As with the contradictory critiques about one's writings, so also is it
with the conflicting apparitions of comeliness or ugliness in the
heliotyped exploits of different--some of them
indifferent--photographers. Several, however, have succeeded well with
me; as Sarony in New York, Elliott & Fry of Baker Street and Brighton,
Negretti & Zambra at the Crystal Palace, and divers others; but one need
not reckon up "our failures," as Brummell's valet has it.

As to the several oil portraitures of me, there is extant a splendid
full-length of myself and my brother Dan, with large frilled collars and
the many-buttoned suits of the day, when we were severally ten and nine
years old, now hanging at Albury, painted by my great-uncle, Arthur
William Devis, the celebrated historical painter: this has been
exhibited among works of the British old masters in Pall Mall. Also,
there is one by T.W. Guillod, in my phase as an author at twenty-seven;
another is by the older Pickersgill, so dark and lacking in Caucasian
comeliness that the engraving therefrom in one of my books makes me look
like a nigger, insomuch that some Abolitionists claimed me as all the
more their favourite for my black blood! On the other hand, Mr. Edgar
Williams has made me much too florid; while recently that rising young
artist, Alfred Hartley, has caught my true likeness, and has depicted me
aptly and well, as may now be seen in the picture-gallery of the Crystal
Palace. Then Mr. Willert Beale (Walter Maynard by literary _nom de
pinceau et de plume_, for he is both a painter and an author) has lately
portrayed me in crayons, life-sized, an unmistakable likeness; and years
ago Monsieur Rochard, in a large water-coloured drawing, made me look
very French, quite a _petit-maitre_, in which disguise I was engraved
for some book of mine: all the above, except Rochard's, having been done
complimentarily. In America Mr. Pettit's life-sized oil portrait is the
most noticeable.

* * * * *

Two queer anecdotes I must give about another form of author-worship to
which we poor vain mortals are occasionally exposed, viz., what Pope
called in Belinda's case "The Rape of the Lock." I can remember (as once
by Lady---- in London) more than one such ravishment attempted if not
accomplished; but most especially was I in peril at the Philadelphian
Exhibition when three duennas who guarded some lady exhibitors (too
modest to ask themselves) pursued a certain individual, scissors in
hand, like Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, in vain hope of sheared
tresses; had they been, like many of our American sisters, both juvenile
and lovely, very possible success might have crowned their daring; or,
instead of the three seductive graces, had they posed as three
intellectual muses, I might have succumbed; but a leash of fates obliged
a rapid retreat. And for a second queer anecdote take this: a 'cute
negro barber had persuaded me to have my hair cut, to which suggestion,
as it was hissing hot weather, I agreed. He had a neat little shop close
to a jeweller's; next morning I passed that shop and noticed my name
placarded there, surrounded by gold lockets, for that cunning nigger and
his gilded friend were making a rich harvest of my shaved curls. Sambo
can be as sharp as Jonathan, when a freeman, if he likes.

"Interviewing" is another sort of homage nowadays to popular authorship;
in America it is very rife,--and I never came to any city but,
immediately on arrival, two or three representatives of opponent editors
would call, and very courteously request to be allowed to turn me inside
out, and then to report upon me: I only remember one or two cases (which
I will not specify) wherein my inquisitor was not all I could have
wished, or treated his patient victim more unkindly than perhaps a
venial native humour might make necessary. Almost always the scribes
were fair and gentlemanly. And in next morning's papers it was a
pleasing excitement to find that one's extorted opinions on all manner
of topics--social, religious, and political--were published by tens of
thousands in conflicting newspapers, which took partisan views of the
_obiter dicta_ of an illustrious being. I have many of these recorded
conversations and comments thereon pasted down in the scrap-books
aforesaid. In England, also, one does not escape; and indeed the
pleasure of being examined for publication is here less mixed; for on
this side of the Atlantic it has been found dangerous to report what
might be damaging to a man socially or financially; although, however,
no judicial notice is taken of ridicule or false criticism; and therein
an author (however little he may care for it) can be libelled to any
extent and without all remedy. Not but that some of the society papers
have treated my unworthiness generously enough,--in particular, Edmunds'
_World_, which, with too great severity and too little justice, has been
taught to tell all truths charitably, if smartly,--and therefore I was
glad to welcome his pleasant accredited interviewer, Mr. Becker, a year
or two ago at Albury, who compliments me, not quite accurately perhaps,
on "good looks and a passion for heart's-eases." Also, the gentleman who
represents the _Glasgow Mail_ did his work wisely and kindly: and Mr.
Meltzer of the _New York Herald_; and I might name some others, not
excepting my Sydenham friend, Mr. Leyland, who lately wrote a very
pleasant paper about me at Norwood for a Philadelphian journal.

As to Advertising.

A word about advertisements, surely an authorial topic. The absurdly
extravagant profusion in which thousands of pounds are now being
continually flung away in advertising, is one which was never approved
by me, and as long as my books remained in print, at my suggestion they
all got sold without it. At present there are almost none in the market
except Proverbial Philosophy, my Poems, Stephan Langton, and Dramas, and
these still live and sell as before, after a silent life of many years.
I suppose advertising must answer, or it would not be persisted in; and
certainly the newspapers (that chiefly live thereby) exhort all to crowd
their columns, if they wish to win fortune: but how the perpetual and
reiterated obtrusion of such single words as Oopack, or Syndicates, or
Beecham's Pills, or Argosy Braces, or Grateful and Comforting, &c. &c.,
can prove seductive baits, I do not see nor feel: the shameless amount
of space they fill in our newspapers, and especially the impertinent way
in which they intrude upon us while reading, as interleaved into books
and magazines, so entirely disgusts me that I have often declared I
would rather go without "tea, coffee, tobacco, or snuff" (this is a
phrase, for the two latter I abominate) than deign to patronise those
persistent advertisers A, B, C, D, or E. And yet I do know a splendid
church at Eastbourne wholly built of pills,--and Professor Holloway's
ointment has produced a palatial institute, and another wholesale
advertiser tells me he spends L30,000 a year on notices and paragraphs,
to gain thereby L50,000,--and so one cannot but acquiesce in Carlyle's
cynical dictum, so cruelly alluded to by Dean Stanley in his funeral
sermon at Westminster, that there are in our community "26,000,000,
mostly fools," otherwise how can folks be weak enough to be forced to
pay for "goods," or "bads," merely by dint of reiteration?

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