Martin Farquhar Tupper - My Life as an Author

M >> Martin Farquhar Tupper >> My Life as an Author

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There is, however, one form of advertisement which I have found to
pay,--and that is not praise, but abuse. A certain article, written as I
was told by Alaric Watts, and stigmatising my readers as idiots, and
their author as a bellman, was said to have actually sold off 3000
copies at a run; and Hepworth Dixon's attack in some other paper--I
forget the name--was so lucrative to me in its results that I entreated
him at Moxon's one day to do it again.

Once I took it into my head to collect and publish a page of adverse
criticisms (if I can find a copy it shall be printed here) to excellent
sale-effect as regarded my tales. And I remember hearing at a
publisher's, that when a book didn't sell through puffing, their Herald
of Fame upstairs was directed to abuse it, and in one case a society
novel by a lady of title was prosecuted (by management) for libel, in
order to get off the edition. That publishing-house used to advertise in
"five figures"--that is, upwards of L10,000 a year, and was
professionally antagonistic to another, from which it had sprung
originally. The critical organs of the one house always used to run down
the publications of the other. And I daresay other Sosii are aware of
the like mutual warfare going on even now.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS.

As to my several efforts in print to hinder cruelty to animals, beside
and beyond what a reader may already find in my published books, let me
chiefly mention these two fly-leaves, widely circulated by the Humane
Society in Jermyn Street; to wit, "Mercy to Animals," and my "Four
anti-Vivisection Sonnets." The latter I must preface with an interesting
anecdote. Before Louis Napoleon was Emperor, I accompanied a deputation
from Guernsey to Cherbourg, met him, had pleasant speech with him, and
gave him a book ("Proverbial Philosophy"), thus making his personal
acquaintance; which many years after I utilised as thus. The horrors of
that infernal veterinary torture-house at Alfort, where disabled cavalry
horses were on system vivisected to death, had been known to us by
letters in the _Times_, of course denouncing the criminality: I remember
reading that one poor old horse survived more than threescore
operations, and used to be led in daily strapped with bandages and
plaisters amid the cheers of the demoniacal students!--and this excited
me to make a strong personal effort to stop the outrages at Alfort.
Accordingly I wrote from Albury a letter to the Emperor (if I kept and
can find a copy I will print it here) as from one gentleman to another
fond of his horse and dog, exhorting him to interfere and hinder such
horrors. I told him that I purposely did this in a private way, and not
through any newspaper or minister, because I wished him to cure,
_proprio motu_, a crying evil whereof he was ignorant and therefore
innocent: leaving the issue of my appeal to his own generous feeling and
to Providence, but otherwise not expecting nor requesting any reply. I
therefore got none; but (whether _post hoc_ or _propter hoc_ I do not
know) the result was that vivisection at Alfort was suspended at once,
though how long for is unknown to me. As, after all this, many may like
to see my four sonnets before-mentioned, I have no room to place here
more than one: it is fair to state that they are easily procurable for a
penny at the S.P.C.A. office in Jermyn Street. They were written by me
in the train between Hereford and London, at the request of a lady, the
chatelaine of Pontrilas Court, for a bazaar at Brighton.

"If ever thou hast loved thy dog or horse,
Or other favourite affectionate thing,
If thou dost recognise in God the source
Of all that live, their Father and their King,
Stand with us on this rescue;--for the force
Of sciolists hath legal right to seize
Such innocents to torture as they please,
Alive and sentient, with demoniac skill;
Ungodly men! hot with the lawless lust
Of violating Nature's holiest fane,
Breaking it open at your wicked will,--
Yet shall ye tremble!--for the Judge is just;
To Him those victims do not plead in vain,
On you for aeons crowd their hours of pain."

When I was last at Boston my spirit was stirred by what I have poetised
below: it has only appeared in some American papers, but I hope will be
acceptable here.

_The Omnibus Hack._

"Worn, jaded, and faint, plodding on in the track,
I praise your great patience, poor omnibus hack;
In whose sad gentle eyes my spirit can trace
The gloom of despair in that passionless face,
While way-wearied muscles, strain'd out to the full
And cruelly check'd by the pitiless pull,
With little for food, but of lashes no lack,
Force me to pray for you, omnibus hack!

"Yes I--if I can pity you, omnibus hack,
For nerves all atremble and sinews awrack,
How should not his Maker, the Father above,
Be just to His creature, and grant him His love?
Why may not His mercy give somewhat of bliss
In some better world to compensate for this,
By animal pleasure for animal pain,
Receiving their lives but to give them again?

"And which of us isn't an omnibus hack,
With galls on his withers and sores on his back,--
Buckled to circumstance, driven by fate,
And chain'd on the pole of a oar that we hate--
Yon ponderous Past which we drag fast or slow
On the coarse-mended Present, this dull road we go,
Hard-curb'd on the tongue and no bearing-rein slack,
Ah! who of us isn't that omnibus hack?

"Yet great is the comfort considering thus
That God doth take thought as for him so for us;
That we shall find rest, reward, and relief
Outweighing, outpaying all pain and all grief;
That all things are kindly remembered elsewhere,
The shame and the wrong and the press and the care,
The evils that keep all better aback,
And make one feel now but an omnibus hack.

"An omnibus hack?--and only a drudge?--
Is Duty no more in the eyes of the Judge?
He set thee this toil; His providence gave
These bounds to His freedman; yes, free--not a slave!
And if thou wilt serve Him, content with thy lot,
Cheerfully working and murmuring not,
Be sure, my poor brother--whose skies are so black--
Thou art His dear child, though an omnibus hack!"

My "Mercy to Animals," a simple handbill, has done great good, as it has
prose instructions about loading, harnessing, &c. It also is to be had
for a penny at Jermyn Street aforesaid: here is the first verse:--

"O boys and men of British mould,
With mother's milk within you!
A simple word for young and old,
A word to warn and win you;
You've each and all got human hearts,
As well as human features,
So hear me, while I take the parts
Of all the poor dumb creatures."

For my own part I have done it all my life. Those of my book-friends who
have my Miscellaneous Poems may refer in this connection to verses
therein on "A Dead Dog" and "A Dead Cat," and to those on "Cruelty."
Also in "Proverbial Philosophy," especially as to the "Future of
Animals," and their too shameful treatment in this world, one good
reason for a compensative existence.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

ORKNEY AND SHETLAND.

I took my family to these Northern Isles of the Sea in 1859, sailing
from Aberdeen in a once-a-week steamer; some of our passengers were
notable, as Dasent of the Norse Tales (since Sir George) and his sons,
Day the Oxonian in Norway, Ellicott, now Bishop of Bristol, Biot
Edmondstone, and some others, inclusive of our noble selves. It was a
dark night and a dense fog, and we had perilously to thread our careful
way through the herring-fleet, fog-horns blowing all night, whilst our
distinguished party bivouacked on deck, every cabin having been secured
by folks crowding to the Kirkwall fair; and so we enjoyed a seagoing
experience which, however cold and dark, was warmed and brightened by
the conversation of clever friends all night through.

Next day, jumping into a boat on the top of a wave (it was very rough
weather), I and a few others landed at Wick, and witnessed the
extraordinary scene of a herring harvest being cured. Much as at
Cincinnati they say pigs walk in, and come out at the other end of a
long gallery salted and smoked,--live herrings are within some three
minutes killed, cleaned, pickled, and tubbed by the fishermen's wives
and daughters in their brightest caps and jewellery, for the whole scene
is a fair and a festival.

In due time we arrived at Kirkwall, where we stayed a fortnight, in the
course of which we were soon invited to Mr. Balfour's castle at
Shapinshay. I call to mind in that mediaeval-looking stronghold (but it
is a modern structure) his splendid banqueting-room, lighted by the
illuminated points of twelve stags' heads, each having twelve tynes,
thus 144 of them, ranged on the sides of that baronial hall: the castle,
of grey granite in the Norman style, having its own gasometer, all the
light was gas; this struck me as a remarkable feature inside: on the
outside was one quite as memorable. Those sterile-looking isles of the
North Sea are so swept by stormy winds as to be absolutely treeless:
insomuch that it is jocularly said, that for cutting down a tree at
Kirkwall, the penalty is _death!_ simply because no trees exist there.
Well, the wealthy Baron of Shapinshay conquers nature thus; he has dug
round the castle vast hollow gardens (not a continuous moat) in which
flourishes a profusion of flowers and shrubs and even trees,--till
arboriculture is cut shear off, if it dares to look over the mounds. I
put it thus:--

"When to the storm-historic Orcades
The wanderer comes, he marvels to find there
A stately palace, towering new and fair,
Bedded in flowers, though unbanked by trees,
A feudal dream uprisen from the seas:
And when his wonder asks,--Whose magic rare
Hath wrought this bright creation?--men reply,
Balfour's of Balfour: large in mind and heart,
Not only doth his duteous care reclaim
All Shapinshay to new fertility,
But to his brother men a brother's part
Doing, in always doing good,--his fame
Is to have raised an Orcade Arcady,
Rich in gems of Nature as of Art."

At Kirkwall we could not help noticing what a fine race of men and
women, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, many of these Northerners are; at
St. Magnus Cathedral they trooped in looking like giants, seeming taller
perhaps because the pews are on a dead level with the floor. Of course
we duly did all the sights of the place, in the way of the ruinous
bishop's palace and so forth, and received hearty welcomes from both
high and low, the isolation of those parts conducing to the popularity
of strangers; to say less of any greed for the cash of tourists.

I made there good acquaintance also with Aytoun, the poet of Dundee and
Montrose, of whom it is rememberable that he used to read all through
Scott's novels every year. I thought it a marvellous feat, but at any
rate he told me so. He was sheriff of all those northern regions; and
writer, amongst other things, of "Hints for Authors" in _Blackwood_,
which for their wit and sense ought to be reprinted: but when I urged it
in Princes Street, I found such a booklet was not to be--nor "Firmilian"
either--which is a pity, as both are admirable for humour. He was a
zealous florist and fruitist; the white currants trained by him upon
walls were as large as grapes.

Among these Isles of Thule palpable evidences of the Gulf Stream are
frequent; besides that it warms the northern seas so well that snow and
ice are not too common there as in much lower latitudes they are with
us--it is the fact that most of the seafaring men have for snuff-boxes
the large brown circular beans from Mexico floated on tropical seaweed,
full of hand coral, and found on the island beaches westwardly. Another
notable matter in these Orcades is the strange disproportion between the
sexes, eleven women to one man, as Mr. Hayes, the Lerwick banker, told
me; this being due to the too frequent drowning of whole boat's crews:
hence, one often sees women at the oar. A pleasanter thing to mention is
the Fair Isle hosiery, the patterns whereof in the woven worsted are
distinctly Moorish, just like those at Tangiers; said to be a survival
of some wreck from the Spanish Armada cast upon the shore, with of
course its crew and contents, the local manufacture of said patterns
having been kept up ever since, with dyes derived from seaweeds, and
from flowers. I frequently observed how diligent in knitting the island
women were (reminding me of those notable spinsters of Herodotus)
working the needles all the while they tended cattle, and with the pile
of some costly shawl upon their heads while they fidget at the fringe;
its various devices being of natural unstained wools, white, grey, or
brown. In those interesting islands I can dimly recall many other
noticeable things and people, everywhere having received the warm
welcome which is usually the privilege of a bookwright all the world
over; visiting the Stones of Stennis with Mr. Petrie, the Celtic tower
of Scalloway with Aytoun, and divers similar antiquities, as Maeshow and
other refuges of the Picts and Troglodytes.

At Lerwick two of the boatmen who took us to shore from the steamer
surprised me by quotations from my old book--even the common folk being
full of literature. They are so separate from the great world, and have
so little to do, that they cannot help being hard readers,--even of me.
A haberdasher told me that though there are in the short summer plenty
of simple wild-flowers, there is naturally a dearth all the year round
of the brighter and more highly-coloured cultivated kinds; and so these
being scarce and female vanity rather common, there is a large trade in
artificial fuchsias, pinks, and roses, &c., thus constantly making
chapel and church quite gay; the same ladies who so bedizen themselves
on the Sabbath going about all the week carrying burdens of peat,
bare-footed and kilted to the knee on account of the bogs, among which
they have to chase those small shaggy equines, the Shetland ponies. By
the way Mr. Balfour at Oronsay had a special breed of his own, and
showed us a pair of little darlings which he valued at L100 apiece. The
true race, stunted and shaggy from climate, is rare in these days; and I
suspect may be picked up cheaper at Aldridge's than at Shapinshay.

On our return voyage we skirted the whole north of Scotland, having had
the rare chance of the steamer which once a year is chartered to take
back the herring-fishers from Thurso to the Hebrides. But first Sir
George Sinclair most hospitably entertained us at Thurso Castle, whose
grim battlements frown flush over the Arctic Sea: all within the walls
luxurious warmth, and without them wrecks and desolation. So also with
the garden; on one side of the high wall greenhouses and flower-beds in
the Italian style,--on the other, in strange contrast, the desolate wild
ocean, which you see through windows of thick plate-glass let into the
walls. At Thurso town I conversed with the local genius, Robert Dick,
made of world-wide fame since by that kind-hearted and clear-minded
author, Samuel Smiles, the said genius being a noted self-taught
naturalist, who as a small baker struggled with poverty through life, to
be inconsistently rewarded after death by a national monument; his
fellow-townsmen let the living starve to deify him when dead. Cervantes
and his like have met the same fate elsewhere. Leaving Thurso for the
Hebrides, in company with no fewer than 700 Gaelic fishermen, we passed
the magnificent cliffs of Cape Wrath in a pleasant calm,--which next day
when we had reached Stornoway turned to a furious storm: had we
encountered it with those 700 loading the deck it would infallibly have
wrecked us,--as it did many other vessels on that night.

Sir James Matheson was our great host at Stornoway, who treated me and
mine with magnificent hospitality. If I had wished to shoot a buck or to
catch a salmon (the kilted gillie stood ready with his tackle), I might
have done so and welcome; but there was no time to spare for anything
but a visit to the prehistoric temple of Callanish, where the stones
strangely enough are set in the form of a cross instead of the ordinary
circle; and to a Pictish tower, and other antiquities,--which I
preferred to sport.

Sir James's piper always wakes the guests a'mornings, parading round the
terraces with his bagpipes, and after dinner, as usual at the feasts of
Highland magnates, he marches round the table in kilt and flying tartans
with his drone-like dirge or furious slogan,--being rewarded on the spot
with whisky from the chief.

Here I will cease my quick reminiscence of that pleasant northern
travel, though I might recount many noticeable matters about Skye and
its dolomite Cuchullins, Staffa, Iona, and Oban, where The MacDougal
allowed us to see and handle (an unusual honour) the famous brooch of
Lorne, the loss of which saved The Bruce's life, when he broke away from
his captor, the then MacDougal; leaving tartan and shoulder-brooch in
his grasp.

CHAPTER XL.

LITERARY FRIENDS.

Among the many literary men and women of my acquaintance there are some
(for it is not possible to enumerate all) of whom I should like to make
some mention; and, _place aux dames_, let me speak of the ladies first.
In my boyhood I can recollect that astronomical wonder of womankind,
_Mrs. Mary Somerville_, a great friend of my father's; she seemed to me
very quiet and thoughtful, and so little self-conscious as to be humbly
unregardful of her genius and her fame. Strangely enough I first met her
in the same drawing-room in Grafton Street (she lived and died at
Chelsea) where I acted a silent part years after in some private
theatricals with _Miss Granville_ (met during my American visit in her
then phase of a German Baroness), herself an authoress and a cantatrice,
daughter of Dr. Granville, the well-known historian of Spas. I
recollect, too, in those early times, _Mrs. Jameson_, then a celebrated
writer, and a vivacious leader of literary society; and much nearer this
day, _Mrs. Beecher Stowe_, whom I found too taciturn, and as if scared
at the notice she excited, quite to realise one's expectation of a
famous lioness. With her I have since broken a lance in the interest of
Byron, whom I considered maligned in the matter of his "sweet sister,"
and accordingly wrote on his behalf a vindicatory fly-leaf of poetic
indignation. Another lance, too, have I broken in favour of _Ouida_, as
against a newspaper critic who had tried to crush her "Moths;" I had met
her before that, and did my little best in her defence, receiving from
her from Italy a charming letter of acknowledgment. "Ouida" is not
generally known to have been the nursery name of "Louisa" de la Ramenay,
just as "Boz" was of Dickens. Both "Ouida" and _Miss Braddon_, whom also
I have seen as Mrs. Maxwell, remind me of that great and not seldom
unfairly judged genius, Georges Sand. There remains a worthy duplicated
friendship of later years, _Mr._ and _Mrs. Carter Hall_, of whose
geniality and kindness I have often had experience; also _Mr._ and _Mrs.
Grote_, my learned and agreeable neighbours at Albury; also _Lady
Wilde_, admirable both for prose and poetry on Scandinavian subjects,
and her eloquent son _Oscar_, famous for taste all the world over; and
as another duplicate the Gaelic historian and cheerful singer, _Charles
Mackay_, with his charming daughter, the poetess.

* * * * *

Of celebrated men whom I have not previously mentioned in this volume,
there is _Rogers_, the poet, with whom I once had an interview at his
artistic house in St. James's Place; _Carlyle_, of course, well known to
me by books, but personally only in a single visit, when I found him in
Cheyne Row cordially glad to greet me;--after a long talk, taking my
leave with a hearty "God bless you, sir," his emphatic reply, as he saw
me to the door, was, "And good be with you!"

It was a coincidence, proving (as many things do) the narrowness of the
world, that he was living very near to the house where in my young days
I had wooed my cousin.

Near at hand also (in Cheyne Walk) I have visited _Haweis_, the eloquent
preacher of St. James's, Marylebone; he lives in the picturesque
old-fashioned house that was Rossetti's, and when I called there last
Mr. Haweis showed me the strangest and most unwieldy testimonial that
any public man surely ever received, in the shape of a ton-weight bell
hung in its massive frame and placed in his sanctum, which, when
touched, gave out melodious thunder. This giant-gift had been sent to
him from Holland in recognition of his musical genius, especially in the
matter of campanology. And this word "musical" reminds me of Mr.
Haweis's noble self-sacrifice in giving up his idolised violin that he
might concentrate all his energies on religious teaching; when I asked
to see his famous "Straduarius," worth three hundred guineas, and found
it unstrung, I expressed my disappointment at not having had the chance
of hearing its dulcet tones drawn out by himself, but it lies dumb,
though he is eloquent. Of course I have visited the great _Tennyson_ at
Farringford, and remember him showing me the tree overhanging his garden
fence, which "Yankees" climb to have a look at him. _Browning_ also,
_tantum vidi_, I met at Moxon's, a grandly rugged poet; contrasted with
the Laureate he seems to me as Wagner is to Mendelssohn. _Mortimer
Collins_ has given us "a happy day" at Albury, coming in _a pied poudre_
on one of his dusty walks through Surrey, as recorded in his book; how
he enjoyed his tumbler of cool claret and the ramble with my son through
the Albury woods as a most genial Bohemian! _Dickens_ I have met several
times, and he gave me good hints on my first American visit; a man full
of impulsive kindliness and sincerely one's friend. His son _Charles_
also I have occasionally met, the worthy successor to his illustrious
father: I may here state that many of the articles and poems in
_Household Words_ are from the pen of my youngest daughter. _Richard
Owen_, too, now worthily K.C.B., our most famous comparative anatomist,
I am privileged to number among my true friends; he was one of those who
stood sponsor to me when I was to receive a civil service pension. Also
I knew for many years my late Surrey neighbour, _Godwin Austen_, the
geologist; and I have met _Pengelly_, with whom I searched Kent's
Cavern; and _Dr. Bowerbank_, the great authority as to sponges, and my
then hobby choanites; he gave me certain microscopic plates of Bacilli
which I was glad to transfer to my worthy and eminent friend, _Stephen
Mackenzie_, Physician and Lecturer to the London Hospital. _Matthew
Arnold_ also, with whose celebrated father I was in early youth nearly
placed as a pupil, I have sometimes encountered; and _Shirley Brooks_,
_Albert Smith_, and _Mark Lemon_, once a chief of _Punch_, who acted
Falstaff without padding; and the genial _John Tenniel_, our most
exquisite limner in outline; the venerable _Thomas Cooper_ also, now in
his old age the zealous preacher of a faith he once as zealously
attacked: an excellent man, and vigorous both in prose and verse. My old
friend from boyhood, _Owen Blayney Cole_, must not be forgotten; year
after year for some forty of them he has sent me reams of his poetry.
_Edmund Yates_, than whom a kindlier, cleverer, and better-hearted man
does not exist, I have known for years; his father and mother having
been frequent guests at our house in Burlington Street; and I
sympathised indignantly with him in his recent editorial trouble wherein
he was used so hardly. I remember also how he dropped in upon me at
Albury one morning just as I happened to be pasting into one of my
Archive-books a few quips and cranks anent my books from _Punch_: he
adjured me "_not_ to do it! for Heaven's sake, spare me!" covering his
face with his hands. "What's the matter, friend?" "_I_ wrote all these,"
added he, in earnest penitence, "and I vow faithfully I'll never do it
again!" "Pray, don't make so rash a promise, Edmund, and so unkind a one
too: I rejoice in all this sort of thing,--it sells my books,
besides--'I'se Maw-worm,--I likes to be despised!'" "Well, its very
good-natured of you to say so; but I really never will do it again:" and
the good fellow never did--so have I lost my most telling advertisement.
I must also not forget to praise that humorous novelist, the late _Frank
Smedley_,--a remarkable instance of the triumph of a strong and cheerful
mind over a weak and crippled body, with whom I have many reminiscences
as a brother author. It was wonderful to see how he enjoyed--from his
invalid chair--"the dances and delights" he could not take part in; and
one day I remember finding him unusually exhilarated, as he was just
come from a wedding-breakfast,--"rehearsing, rehearsing," he laughingly
shouted. Poor fellow,--the victim of an accident in infancy, he lived
strapped and banded with steel springs,--but as a gracious compensation
Heaven gave him a seeming unconsciousness of his helpless condition, and
added the happy mind to make the best of this world while looking
forward to a better. And let me not neglect to record, however
slightly, a few more recent authorial friendships much valued by me
among my Norwood neighbours. I will begin with _J.G. Wood_, perhaps our
best naturalist, especially in matters entomological. Never were there
more humorous no less than instructive lectures than his, illustrated
admirably as they are by his own graphic chalk-sketches on the spot: and
if any one wishes to be convinced that animals have souls, let him read
the said Rev. J.G. Wood's "Man and Beast." Next will I mention _Dr.
Cuthbert Collingwood_, famous as a naturalist and voyager among the
China seas, a poet also, well proved by his "Vision of Creation," and a
thoughtful writer on religion and metaphysics. There is _Dr. Zerffi_,
too, whose varied orations on history and other topics have filled our
Crystal Palace with his advanced wisdom for fifteen years. There is
_Birch_ the sculptor, author of the "Godiva" and "The Last Call,"
exhibited here, and well appreciated by me as another _Durham_,--really
a metempsychosis of character. Among literary ladies here I may mention
as my friends _Madame Zerffi_, _Miss Mary Hooper_, and _Miss Ellen
Barlee_,--all noted in their several departments, the first as an
eloquent lecturer like her husband, the second known by her domestic
essays, and the third for religious writings. I will add as casually
encountered by me hereabouts _George MacDonald_, whose magnificent
presence in the pulpit is as memorable as his conversation at the
dinner-table, and the interest of his books; and _Lord Ronald Gower_,
creator of that finest group of modern statuary "the Apotheosis of
Shakespeare," exhibited at the Crystal Palace, where, as well, as by
correspondence, I have had with him much pleasant intercourse.

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