Martin Farquhar Tupper - My Life as an Author

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There were also two others afterward, in the jubilate vein; but I spare
my reader, albeit they are curiously prophetic of the wide good-doing
since accomplished.

To the above numerous commendations which indeed might be indefinitely
extended, it is only fair to add that "Proverbial Philosophy" has run
the gauntlet of both hemispheres also in the way of parody, ridicule,
plagiaristic imitation, and in some instances of envious and malignant
condemnation. It has won on each side both praise from the good and
censure from the bad: our comic papers have amused us with its
travesties--as Church Liturgies and Holy Writ have been similarly
parodied,--and some of the modern writers who are unfriendly to
Christian influences have done their small endeavour to damage both the
book and its author through adverse criticism. But their efforts are
vain. They have availed only to advance--from first to last now for some
forty-five years--the world-wide success of "Proverbial Philosophy."

If it is expected, as a matter of impartiality, that I should here print
adverse criticisms as well as those which are favourable, I simply
decline to be so foolish: a caricature impresses where a portrait is
forgotten: the _litera scripta_ in printer's ink remains and is quotable
for ever, and I do not think it worth while deliberately to traduce
myself and my book children by adopting the opinions of dyspeptic
scribes who will find how well I think of them in my Proverbial Essay
"Zoilism;" which, by the way, I read at St. Andrews, before some chiefs
of that university, with A.K.H.B. in the chair.

* * * * *

Accordingly, I prefer now to appear one-sided, as a piece of common
sense; quite indifferent to the charge of vain-gloriousness; all the
good verdicts quoted are genuine, absolutely unpaid and unrewarded, and
are matters of sincere and skilled opinion; so being such I prize them:
the opposing judgments--much fewer, and far less hearty, as "willing to
wound and yet afraid to strike"--may as well perish out of memory by
being ignored and neglected. Here is a social anecdote to illustrate
what I mean. I once knew a foolish young nobleman of the highest rank
who--to spite his younger brother as he fancied--posted him up in his
club for having called him "a maggot;" and all he got for his pains in
this exposure was that the name stuck to himself for life! so it is not
necessary to borrow fame's trumpet to proclaim one's few dispraises.

Moreover, I have thought it only just to the many unseen lovers of
"Proverbial Philosophy" to show them how heartily their good opinions
have been countersigned and sanctioned all over the English-speaking
world by critics of many schools and almost all denominations. It is not
then from personal vanity that so much laudation is exhibited [God wot,
I have reason to denounce and renounce self-seeking]--but rather to
gratify and corroborate innumerable book friends.

* * * * *

If there had been International Copyright in the more halcyon days of my
"Proverbial" popularity, when, as reported (see the _New York World_ on
p. 124), a million and a half copies of my book were consumed in
America, I should have been materially rewarded by a royalty of
something like a hundred thousand pounds: but the bare fact is that all
I have ever received from my Transatlantic booksellers in the way of
money has been some L80 (three thousand dollars) which Herman Hooker of
Philadelphia gave me for the exclusive privilege--so far as I could
grant it--of being my publisher. For aught else, I have nothing to
complain of in the way of praise, however profitless, of kindliness,
however well appreciated, and of boundless hospitality, however fairly
reimbursed at the time by the valuable presence of a foreign celebrity.
No doubt the public are benefited by the cheapness of books unprotected
by copyright, and the author, if he wins no royalty, gains by fame and
pleasure; but the absence of a copyright law is a great mistake,--as
well as an injustice to the authorship of both nations, by starving the
literature of each other, American publishers will not sufficiently pay
their own native bookwrights when they can appropriate their
neighbours' works for nothing; and ours in England probably enriched
themselves as vastly and cheaply by Mrs. Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's
Cabin" as many among the thirty-three States by "Proverbial Philosophy."

* * * * *

As my handsome quarto "Proverbial" has been for two generations a common
gift-book for weddings, and has more than once appeared among the gifts
at royal marriages, it is small wonder that I have often been greeted by
old--and young--married couples as having been a sort of spiritual Cupid
on such occasions. Frequently at my readings and elsewhere ladies
thitherto unknown have claimed me as their unseen friend, and some have
feelingly acknowledged that my Love and Marriage (both written in my
teens) were the turning-points of their lives and causes of their
happiness. These lines will meet the eyes of some who will acknowledge
their truth, and possibly if they like it may write and tell me so: some
of my warmest friendships have originated in grateful letters of a
similar character.

* * * * *

It may also be worthy of mention that on this side of the Atlantic as
well as on the other (see especially the case of N.P. Willis) it has
often been taken for granted that the author of "Proverbial Philosophy"
has been dead for generations. No doubt this is due both to the antique
style of the book and to the retiring habits of its author:
comparatively few of my readers know me by sight. I could mention many
proofs of this belief in my non-existence: here is one; a daughter of
mine is asked lately by an eminent person if she is a descendant of the
celebrated Elizabethan author? and when that individual in passing round
the room came near to the Professor, and was introduced to him as her
father, the man could scarcely be brought to believe that his
long-departed book friend was positively alive before him. The Professor
looked as if he had seen a ghost.

* * * * *

Throughout this volume I wish my courteous readers to bear in mind that
the writer excludes from it as much as possible the strictly private and
personal element; it is intended to be mainly authorial or on matters
therewith connected. Moreover, if they will considerately take into
account that as a youth and until middle age I was, from the
speech-impediment since overcome, isolated from the gaieties of society,
as also that I religiously abstained from theatricals at a time before
Macready, who has since purified them into a very fair school of
morals,--to say less of having been engaged in marriage from seventeen
to twenty-five,--I can have (for example) no love adventures to offer
for amusement, nor any dramatic anecdotes such as Ruskin might supply.
The autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini is full of entertaining and
highly coloured incidents which could not be possible to one rather of
the Huguenot stamp than that of the Cavalier, and so I cannot compete
therewith as to any of the spicier records of hot youth: for which
indeed let me be thankful.

If then my reader finds me less lively than he had--shall I say
uncharitably?--hoped for, let him take into account that, to quote the
splendid but sensuous phrase of Swinburne, I have always been stupidly
prone to prefer "the lilies and languors of virtue" to "the roses and
raptures of vice."

I will now proceed with the self-imposed duty of recording my authorial
performances.

CHAPTER XIII.

A MODERN PYRAMID.

In 1839, Rickerby was again my publisher; the new book being "A Modern
Pyramid; to Commemorate a Septuagint of Worthies." In this volume,
commencing with Abel, and ending with Felix Neff, I have greeted both in
verse and prose threescore and ten of the Excellent of the earth.
Probably the best thing in it is the "Vision Introductory;" and, as the
book has been long out of print, I will produce it here as an
interesting flight of fancy, albeit somewhat of a long one. If an author
can be accounted a fair judge of his own writings, this is my best
effort in the imaginative line; and as it is no new brain-child (we
always love the last baby best), but was written little short of fifty
years ago, the impartial opinion of an old judge is probably a correct
one. The sun-dial is still in my garden,--and as I stood by it half a
century since, there grew up to my mind's eye this Vision:--

"I was walking in my garden at noon: and I came to the sun-dial, where,
shutting my book, I leaned upon the pedestal, musing; so the thin shadow
pointed to twelve.

"Of a sudden, I felt a warm sweet breath upon my cheek, and, starting
up, in much wonder beheld a face of the most bewitching beauty close
beside me, gazing on the dial: it was only a face; and with earnest
fear I leaned, steadfastly watching its strange loveliness. Soon, it
looked into me with its fascinating eyes, and said mournfully, 'Dost
thou not know me?'--but I was speechless with astonishment: then it
said, 'Consider:'--with that, my mind rushed into me like a flood, and I
looked, and considered, and speedily vague outlines shaped about,
mingled with floating gossamers of colour, until I was aware that a
glorious living Creature was growing to my knowledge.

"So I looked resolutely on her (for she wore the garb of woman), gazing
still as she grew: and again she said mildly, 'Consider:'--then I noted
that from her jewelled girdle upwards, all was gorgeous, glistening, and
most beautiful; her white vest was rarely worked with living flowers,
but brighter and sweeter than those of earth; flowing tresses, blacker
than the shadows cast by the bursting of a meteor, and, like them,
brilliantly interwoven with strings of light, fell in clusters on her
fair bosom; her lips were curled with the expression of majestic
triumph, yet wreathed winningly with flickering smiles; and the lustre
of her terrible eyes, like suns flashing darkness, did bewilder me and
blind my reason:--Then I veiled mine eyes with my clasped hands; but
again she said, 'Consider:'--and bending all my mind to the hazard, I
encountered with calmness their steady radiance, although they burned
into my brain. Bound about her sable locks was as it were a chaplet of
fire; her right hand held a double-edged sword of most strange
workmanship, for the one edge was of keen steel, and the other as it
were the strip of a peacock's feather; on the face of the air about her
were phantoms of winged horses, and of racking-wheels: and from her
glossy shoulders waved and quivered large dazzling wings of iridescent
colours, most glorious to look upon.

"So grew she slowly to my knowledge; and as I stood gazing in a rapture,
again she muttered sternly,--'Consider!'--Then I looked below the girdle
upon her flowing robes: and behold they were of dismal hue, and on the
changing surface fluttered fearful visions: I discerned blood-spots on
them, and ghastly eyes glaring from the darker folds, and, when these
rustled, were heard stifled meanings, and smothered shrieks as of
horror: and I noted that she stood upon a wreath of lightnings, that
darted about like a nest of young snakes in the midst of a sullen cloud,
black, palpable, and rolling inwards as thick smoke from a furnace.

"Then said she again to me, 'Dost thou not know me?'--and I answered
her,--'O Wonder, terrible in thy beauty, thy fairness have I seen in
dreams, and have guessed with a trembling spirit that thou walkest among
fears; are thou not that dread Power, whom the children of men have
named Imagination?'--And she smiled sweetly upon me, saying, 'Yea, my
son:' and her smile fell upon my heart like the sun on roses, till I
grew bold in my love and said, 'O Wonder, I would learn of thee; show me
some strange sight, that I may worship thy fair majesty in secret.'

"Then she stood like a goddess and a queen, and stretching forth her
arm, white as the snow and glittering with circlets, slowly beckoned
with her sword to the points of the dial. There was a distant rushing
sound, and I saw white clouds afar off dropping suddenly and together
from the blue firmament all round me in a circle: and they fell to the
earth, and rolled onwards, fearfully converging to where I stood; and
they came on, on, on, like the galloping cavalry of heaven; pouring in
on all sides as huge cataracts of foam; and shutting me out from the
green social world with the awful curtains of the skies.--Then, as my
heart was failing me for fear, and for looking at those inevitable
strange oncomings, and the fixt eyes of my queenlike mistress, I sent
reason from his throne on my brow to speak with it calmly, and took
courage.

"So stood I alone with that dread beauty by the dial, and the white
rolling wall of cloud came on slowly around with suppressed thunderings,
and the island of earth on which I stood grew smaller and smaller every
moment, and the garden-flowers faded away, and the familiar shrubs
disappeared, until the moving bases of those cold mist-mountains were
fixed at my very feet. Then said to me the glorious Power, standing in
stature as a giant,--'Come! why tarriest thou? Come!'--and instantly
there rushed up to us a huge golden throne of light filigree-work, borne
upon seven pinions, whereof each was fledged above with feathers fair
and white, but underneath they were ribbed batlike, and fringed with
black down: and all around fluttered beautiful winged faces, mingled and
disporting with grotesque figures and hideous imps. Then she mounted in
her pomp the steps of the throne, and sat therein proudly. Again she
said to me, 'Come!'--and I feared her, for her voice was terrible; so I
threw myself down on the lowest of the seven golden steps, and the
border of her dark robe touched me. Then was I full of dread, hemmed
about with horrors, and the pinions rustled together, and we rushed
upward like a flame, and the hurricane hastened after us: my heart was
as a frozen autumn-leaf quivering in my bosom, and I looked up for help
and pity from the mighty Power on her throne; but she spurned me with
her black-sandalled foot, and I was thrust from my dizzy seat, and in
falling clutched at the silver net-work that lay upon the steps as a
carpet,--and so I hung; my hands were stiffly crooked in the meshes like
eagle's talons, my wrists were bursting, the bones of my body ached, and
I heard the chill whisper of Death (who came flitting up to me as a
sheeted ghost) bidding my poor heart be still: yet I would live on, I
would cling on, though swinging fearfully from that up-rushing throne;
for my mind was unsubdued, and my reason would not die, but rebelled
against his mandate. And so the pinions flapped away, the dreadful
cavalcade of clouds followed, we broke the waterspout, raced the
whirlwind, hunted the thunder to his caverns, rushed through the light
and wind-tost mountains of the snow, pierced with a crash the thick sea
of ice, that like a globe of hollow glass separates earth and its
atmosphere from superambient space, and flying forward through the
airless void, lighted on another world.

"Then triumphed my reason, for I stood on that silent shore, fearless
though alone, and boldly upbraided the dread Power that had brought me
thither,--'Traitress, thou hast not conquered; my mind is still thy
master, and if the weaker body failed me, it hath been filled with new
energies in these quickening skies: I am immortal as thou art; yet shalt
thou fear me, and heed my biddings: wherefore hast thou dared--?' but my
wrathful eye looked on her bewitching beauty, and I had no tongue to
chide, as she said in the sobriety of loveliness,--'My son, have I not
answered thy prayer? yet but in part; behold, I have good store of
precious things to show thee:' with that, she kissed my brow, and I
fell into an ecstasy.

"I perceived that I was come to the kingdom of disembodied spirits, and
they crowded around me as around some strange creature, clustering with
earnest looks, perchance to inquire of me somewhat from the world I had
just left. Although impalpable, and moving through each other,
transparent and half-invisible, each wore the outward shape and seeming
garments he had mostly been known by upon earth: and my reason whispered
me, this is so, until the resurrection; the seen material form is the
last idea which each one hath given to the world, but the glorified body
of each shall be as diverse from this, yet being the same, as the
gorgeous tulip from its brown bulb, the bird of paradise from his
spotted egg, or the spreading beech from the hard nut that had
imprisoned it.--Then Imagination stood with me as an equal friend, and
spake to me soothingly, saying, 'Knowest thou any of these?'--and I
answered, 'Millions upon millions, a widespread inundation of shadowy
forms, from martyred Abel to the still-born babe of this hour I behold
the gathered dead; millions upon millions, like the leaves of the
western forests, like the blades of grass upon the prairie, they are
here crowding innumerable: yet should my spirit know some among them, as
having held sweet converse with their minds in books; only this boon,
sweet mistress, from yonder mingled harvest of the dead, in grace cull
me mine intimates, that I may see them even with my bodily eyes.' So she
smiled, and waved her fair hand: and at once, a few, a very few, not all
worthiest, not all best, came nearer to me with looks of love; and I
knew them each one, for I had met and somewhile walked with each of
them in the paths of meditation; and some appeared less beatified than
others, and some even meanly clad as in garments all of earth, yet I
loved them more than the remainder of that crowded world, though not
equally, nor yet all for merit, but in that I had sympathy with these as
my friends. And each spake kindly to me in his tongue, so that I stood
entranced by the language of the spirits. Then said my bright-winged
guide, 'Hast thou no word for each of these? they love thy greeting, and
would hear thee.' But I answered, 'Alas, beautiful Power, I know but the
language of earth, and my heart is cold, and I am slow of tongue: how
should I worthily address these great ones?'--So with her finger she
touched my lips, and in an inspiration I spake the language of spirits,
where the thoughts are as incense to the mind, and the words winged
music to the ear, and the heart is dissolved into streams of joy, as
hail that hath wandered to the tropics: in sweetness I communed with
them all, and paid my debt of thanks.

"And behold, a strange thing, changing the aspect of my vision. It
appeared to me, in that dreamy dimness, whereof the judgment inquireth
not and reason hath no power to rebuke it, that while I was still
speaking unto those great ones, the several greetings I had poured forth
in my fervour,--being as it were flowing lava from the volcano of my
heart,--became embodied into mighty cubes of crystal; and in the midst
of each one severally flickered its spiritual song, like a soul, in
characters of fire. So I looked in admiration on that fashioning of
thoughts, and while I looked, behold, the shining masses did shape up,
growing of themselves into a fair pyramid: and I saw that its eastern
foot was shrouded in a mist, and the hither western foot stood out
clear and well defined, and the topstone in the middle was more glorious
than the rest, and inscribed with a name that might not be uttered; for
whereas all the remainder had seemed to be earthborn, mounting step by
step as the self-built pile grew wondrously, this only had appeared to
drop from above, neither had I welcomed the name it bore in that land of
spirits; nevertheless, I had perceived the footmarks of Him, with whose
name it was engraved, even on the golden sands of that bright world, and
had worshipped them in silence with a welcome.

"Thus then stood before me the majestic pyramid of crystal, full of
characters flashing heavenly praise; and I gloried in it as mine own
building, hailing the architect proudly, and I grew familiar with those
high things, for my mind in its folly was lifted up, and looking on my
guide, I said, 'O Lady; were it not ill, I would tell my brethren on
earth of these strange matters, and of thy favour, and of the love all
these have shown me; yea, and I would recount their greetings and mine
in that sweet language of the spirits.'--But the glorious Wonder drew
back majestic with a frown, saying, 'Not so, presumptuous child of man;
the things I have shown thee, and the greetings thou hast heard, and the
songs wherewith I filled thee, cannot worthily be told in other than the
language of spirits: and where is the alphabet of men that can fix that
unearthly tongue,--or how shouldst thou from henceforth, or thy fellows
upon earth, attain to its delicate conceptions? behold, all these thine
intimates are wroth with thee; they discern evil upon thy soul: the
place of their sojourn is too pure for thee.'

"Then was there a peal of thunder, like the bursting of a world,
whereupon all that restless sea of shadows, and their bright abode,
vanished suddenly; and there ensued a flood of darkness, peopled with
shoaling fears, and I heard the approach of hurrying sounds, with
demoniac laughter, and shouts coming as for me, nearer and louder,
saying, 'Cast out! Cast out!' and it rushed up to me like an unseen
army, and I fled for life before it, until I came to the extreme edge of
that spiritual world, where, as I ran looking backwards for terror at
those viewless hunters, I leaped horribly over the unguarded cliff, and
fell whirling, whirling, whirling, until my senses failed me--

"When I came to myself, I was by the sun-dial in my garden, leaning upon
the pedestal, and the thin shadow still pointed to twelve.

"In astonishment, I ran hastily to my chamber, and strove to remember
the strains I had heard. But, alas! they had all passed away: scarcely
one disjointed note of that rare music lingered in my memory: I was
awakened from a vivid dream, whereof the morning remembered nothing.
Nevertheless, I toiled on, a rebel against that fearful Power, and
deprived of her wonted aid: my songs, invita Minerva, are but bald
translations of those heavenly welcomings: my humble pyramid, far from
being the visioned apotheosis of that of a Cephren, bears an unambitious
likeness to the meaner Asychian, the characteristic of which, barring
its presumptuous motto, must be veiled in one word from Herodotus
(2-136),--alas! for the bathos of translation, the cabalistic--[Greek:
phelikos], 'built up of mud.'

"Was not Rome lutea as well as marmorea? and is not beautiful Paris
anciently Lutetia, with its tile-sheds for Tuileries, and a Bourbe-bonne
for its Sovereign?"

All these sonnets, with others, were published by me elsewhere, as I
state further on. The volume also contains some of my less faulty
translations, as from Sappho, AEschylus, Pythagoras, Virgil, Horace,
Dante, Petrarch, &c. And here I will give a chance specimen out of my
"Septuagint of Worthies," to each one of whom I have appropriated a page
or two of explanatory prose besides his fourteen lines of poetry. Take
my sonnet on "Sylva" Evelyn:--

"Wotton, fair Wotton, thine ancestral hall,
Thy green fresh meadows, coursed by ductile streams,
That ripple joyous in the noonday beams,
Leaping adown the frequent waterfall,
Thy princely forest, and calm slumbering lake
Are hallowed spots and classic precincts all;
For in thy terraced walks and beechen grove
The gentle, generous Evelyn wont to rove,
Peace-lover, who of nature's garden spake
From cedars to the hyssop on the wall!
O righteous spirit, fall'n on evil times,
Thy loyal zeal and learned piety
Blest all around thee, wept thy country's crimes,
And taught the world how Christians live and die."

The sonnet is a form of metrical composition which has been habitual
with me, as my volume "Three Hundred Sonnets" will go to prove; and I
have written quite a hundred more. The best always come at a burst,
spontaneously and as it were inspirationally. A laboured sonnet is a
dull piece of artificial rhyming, and as it springs not from the heart
of the writer, fails to reach the heart of the reader. If the metal does
not flow out quick and hot, there never can be a sharp casting. Good
sonnets are crystals of the heart and mind, perfect from beginning to
end, and are only unpopular where poetasters make a carnal toil of them
instead of finding them a spiritual pleasure. But one who knows his
theme may write reams about sonneteering; for instance, see that
striking article on Shakespeare's sonnets in a recent _Fortnightly_ (or
was it a _Contemporary_?) by Charles Mackay, himself one of our literary
worthiest, who has so well worked through a long life for his country
and his kind: my best regards to him.

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