Martin Farquhar Tupper.
This gentleman was born in London in 1810, and educated, first at the Charterhouse school, and afterwards at Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated B.A., M.A., and D.C.L. The author of many works, both in prose and verse, Mr. Tupper has been hardly dealt with by the critics, and the parodists.
They appear to have ignored such of his writings as have any merit, in order to hunt most mercilessly to death his Proverbial Philosophy, which, though it has run through many editions, is inferior to much else that he has written.
The reasons for this perversity on their part cannot here be considered, only the Parodies as they exist can be dealt with.
The following lines, which were written many years ago by “Cuthbert Bede” in his Shilling Book of Beauty, neatly sum up Proverbial Philosophy:—
Thoughts may abide in the brain, yet how few have the wit to extract them;
Many may know of Proverbs, yet could not for worlds have devised them.
All are not gifted the same: there are brains that are stupid and addled;
There are those that are clear as the stream,—the pellucid water that floweth
Under the bridges, that bind the Surrey shore unto London.
Philosophy cannot be taught, unless you can meet with a teacher:
I am the teacher of this the nineteenth century of being.
Philosophy I can expound in a way hitherto undream’d of;
Witness my book of Proverbial Platitudes, and its Editions;
Book beloved by women—women of intellect feeble;
Book that is lauded by old maids, and Evangelical parsons;
Book that by school-girls is worshipped, and ranked with The Pilgrim’s Progress;
That is read by bachelor curates, to maidens at Dorcas meetings;
Designing curates, who choose the chapters on “Love” and “Marriage,”
And read the soft nothings therein, with smirks and murderous gusto.
I have written of Proverbs, turned everything to a Proverb,
Even my name as an author, proverbial is it with many,
Who, in braying derision, call me “Sweet Singer of Beadledom,”
Let those laugh who win! my Proverbs have eighteen editions!
Eighteen editions bring fame, and—what is better—money.
Another old parody may be quoted from the second volume of Punch, (1842).
Punch’s Proverbial Philosophy.
Introductory.
Come along, old fellow; follow me as a friend, from the midnight streets;
Leave awhile the cold and muddy Strand to loiter in the tavern of the Coal Hole.
Come into this quiet box, with hot water in a batter’d pewter jug,
Over whose beer-stain’d table are strewn many particles of crust;
Here, upon this wooden peg, hang up thy hat and Chesterfield,
Order a pint of stout, or a go of grog, and rest for half-an-hour.
Behold! I would stop a short time in this buzzing crowd of visitors,
Though wrapp’d up in a mackintosh, yet are the seams and pockets pervious;
But into the foam of this goodly glass I dip my beak,
And receive its contents as nectar, yet the tap is Barclay’s.
Under its cheerful influence I shall, before long, get loquacious,
And mingle the fashion of my speech with froth-built snatches of philosophy!
Of Gifts.
I had a seeming friend:—I gave him a licking—he was gone!
I had an open enemy:—I stood a pint—and won him!
Common friends require presents; monkeys more kicks than halfpence;
But the scorn of anyone melteth at a barrel of Quin’s oysters.
A foe may get spiteful, and incline to call thee a humbug,
But send him a turbot, and he saith,—“He’s a good fellow, after all!”
Policemen will not oft refuse a drain, if absent the inspector,
And policemen’s friendship should be courted in the event of rows.
The larker, held by the collar, may be released by half-a-crown,
And thy own bed is better than the stone sofas of a station house,
Or, being James Edwards, compelled to call thyself John Brown.
There is not one crusher who is proof against the waistcoat pocket,
And the same font of happiness hath even power over reporters.
I saw a beggar in St. Giles’s, and another beggar punch’d his head,
For the first had collected more coppers at his crossing than the other
His broom fell into the mud, and he swore an oath.
Anon a baked potato-man came up, with a high-pressure can,
And gave him of his store; the first beggar was grateful.
He, poor stricken cadger, picked up his broom with a curse,
And, turning to the potato man, asked what he would take to drink.
And so the sprat had been set, and the herring had been caught!
A parody of a somewhat more spiteful character appeared in Punch, August 23, 1856, but the circumstances to which it alluded are now forgotten, so that the parody lacks interest: a few verses only need be quoted:—
The Queen of Oude.
(NOT)
By Martin Farquhar Tupper, Esq.
The Queen of Oude,
Which is so proud,
She never will get boozy,
Has crossed the seas,
And, if you please,
Will serve out Lord Dalhousie.
The Queen of Oude,
She cries so loud
For justice, like a Q. C.
And claims her right,
And wants to fight
The Marquis of Dalhousie.
* * * * *
The Queen of Oude
Shall save her gowd,
And this she’d do, me duce,
She’d give a lunch,
To me, and Punch,
And ask my Lord Dalhousie.
The Queen of Oude,
Which is so proud.
Would find her lot adouci,
To hear the wit
That we’d emit.
Me, Punch, and Lord Dalhousie.
Proverbial Philosophy.
By Farthing Tarquhar Mupper, Esq.
Beer, that hath entered my head, and peopled its inner chambers,
The addling outcome of barrels, the dream-inspiring malt and the hop-juice,
Amber-tinged wine of the Briton, with the headache and biliousness after,
Heaven-brewed draught of immortals, oh! sweeter than ever was nectar,
Such extend I unto thee, thou docile child of a pot-house:
Commend thy mouth to the tankard, and grudge not to drink of the liquor,
Nor scorn its yellow flood for the sake of the Bacchus of Cruikshank.
Lo! now, I stand not forth, laying hold on spear and on buckler;
I come, as the cask of pale ale, to comfort thee, and to succour:
With soft and mellowest taste to charm the lips which are eager;
With the balmy breath of fellowship to touch thy heart sympathetic.
Let us drink together as friends, in the happy smoke of tobacco,
Nor judgment take her seat until we are happy as lordlings,
That the fumes of good strong beer may override all argument,
And charity not be a stranger at the board that is spread for brothers.
Anonymous.
In Banter (a comic paper edited by Mr. G. A. Sala) for November 11, 1867, there was a parody of Tupper, entitled Proverbial Philosophy of Sausages, but it was not very amusing; and in the same paper, for November 18, there was a burlesque description of a dinner given to Mr. Tupper, and of an after-dinner speech he delivered in which he explained the dodges and devices he had practised in order to puff his works, and increase the sale of Proverbial Philosophy.
The Fall of Tupper.
We are too often painfully reminded that the best of us are but very frail. A very painful case of moral declension has occurred lately. Martin Farquhar Tupper, the great moral philosopher at whose feet all England has sat so long and learnt so much, that great and good man who had discovered a new species of poetry which was neither rhyme nor reason, but all beautiful pure sentiment, has come down to writing rhyme! Happily he has not yet reached the next stage—he has not fallen so low yet as to incur the suspicion of writing reason. But this abandonment of his principles has been, we fear, the result of bad company, for—our heart breaks almost while we pen the words,—but it is too plain, we cannot shut our eyes to the cruel truth—Martin Farquhar Tupper has fallen into the power of Algernon Charles Swinburne!! He, the purest of philosophers, the chosen minstrel of the Evangelical Church, has been studying the words of the erotic Pagan bard, the laureate of Venus and Faustina!
We are enabled, by a wonderful effort of clairvoyance, to publish a poem which the modest songster of The Rock has held back, the charming domestic interest and true Protestant flavour of which must commend it to all admirers of Martin Farquhar Tupper:—
Going to The Wash.
(Lines written on Monday morning.)
BY M. F. T.
I really must look to my washing this week,
I must watch how my shirts are got up;
For I feel that in matters like this I’m too meek,
And I don’t keep my pluck enough up;
I ought to be brave, and to speak my mind out,
For of sheep, sure the male is a Tup,
And I am a Tupper, so quite to the rout
I must put Mrs. Sarah Hiccup.
Let me see; five fine shirts as ever was seen,
Five collars (not paper) to match,
With four pairs of socks, some blue and some green,
Will make up a beautiful batch;
Then of handkerchiefs seven seem semblant to see,
And two or three neckties so white!
Every clear starcher’s soul will be strangled with glee,
When on my sacred things they set sight.
Stop, I’ve nearly forgotten two jerseys (quite thin),
And two flannel shirts too I vow!
In this weather its right to wear flannel next skin,
At least I do truly so trow;
One nightshirt, if modesty lets me to add,
In my list I must also include,
I would mention my nightcap, but soberly sad,
Society sneers that it’s rude.
Mrs. Sarah Hiccup now I hope will take care,
And return all the things that I send;
But trumpets of treachery tickle the air
Till I know not where Treason will end!
What if Ritualist robbers should recklessly join
My shirts, to make copes with, to seize;
Or the pattering Papist my parcel purloin
His priests so prehensile to please?
The Tomahawk. August 22, 1868.
The following excellent parody has been ascribed to Mr. Andrew Lang:—
Mr. Tupper in the Clouds.
I, the proverbial philosopher, sing of “electrical storage,”
As discovered by Thompson (Sir William), a philosopher whose name is also proverbial.
Pride is a horrible sin, and I am no sinner;
So I do not hesitate to extend my hand in greeting to Sir William,
Trusting that he will not overmuch presume on my affability.
Hitherto I have been sorely flouted not only by eagles,
But also by that ridiculous creature the gnat—in Latin ’tis called culex pipiens.
Laughter was good for the gods of Homer; but we are not gods nor Homeric,
And laughter too audibly laughed betrays the void mind of the laugher.
Therefore, instead of cachinnating, I smile with supernal sarcasm
To think that a gnat should dare to flout the stringer of proverbial pearls
On silken threads of verse, strengthened and made indestructible
By wax from philosophy’s beehive warmed in the sun of experience;
But oh! Raptorial Bird! oh, vilest of all the culicides!
Emblems both of the critics, carnivorous and sharp-stinging reviewers,
I will be even with you now. I’ll fly, but not on waxen wings like silly Icarus—
Not in a balloon, or in anything on the levitation principle:
That was all very well for Mr. Green and M. de Montgolfier,
But I say that levitation is all my eye and my elbow.
(Proverb that verges on slang, but its uses hath slang, like adversity).
No levitation for me; but force like that of a cannon-ball.
Not that I mean to be shot out of a twelve-pounder like Zazel at the Aquarium,
But to be propelled by tame gunpowder. “How shall I tame it?”
Have you never heard of Carter the Lion King, or of Myn Heer Van Amburg?
Did not they tame furious mammalia? And did they tell you how they did it?
So shall I not tell you how I intend to tame this “villanous saltpetre.”
But I’ll do it, or have it done for me by “our mechanicians,”
They shall invent a machine to be loaded with domesticated gunpowder
(I patenting the discovery, of course, as the author of the suggestion),
That shall enable me to reign in the blue empyrean and complete the subdual of the planet
Which is and has been for ever so long my heritage.
Wo, then, wo to the gnats! wo to the Jewish-nosed eagle!
I put the least first and the greatest last, partly to snub the King of the Falconidæ,
And partly because it better suits my rhythm—
I will not say my metre because I condemn all trammels,
Pouring out my soul in lines of unequal lengths occasionally relieved by hexameters.
Wo, wo, wo! to the eagle! Now you see I reverse things again,
Vice-versa-ing my apostrophe—’tis a common trick of versemen and orators—
Soon the eagle of song will soar ever so much higher than the eagle who can’t sing;
And he won’t like that—the other eagle I mean, of course:
So he’ll let himself fall into the sea like a thunderbolt.
(That last idea is not mine, but a Mr. Tennyson’s; have you heard of him?)
While as for the gnats—they are the critics, as I hinted just now, you know.
Sting for sting, my hearties, then! buzz for buzz! bite for bite!
And, as of course I am ever so much bigger than you are,
I’ll shrike you as the humming-bird shrikes the honey-bee—that I will.
St. James’s Gazette. June 27, 1881.
WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
By David Mallet. Born, 1700. Died, 1765.
’Twas at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost,
And stood at William’s feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.
So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.
But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime;
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek—
She died before her time.
Awake! she cried, thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave:
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.
This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.
Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?
How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break.
Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,
And every charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
But hark! the cock has warned me hence;
A long and last adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies,
Who died for love of you.
The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red;
Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.
He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret’s body lay;
And stretched him on the green-grass turf
That wrapped her breathless clay.
And thrice he called on Margaret’s name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!
A Latin version of this ballad was written by Mr. Vincent Bourne, entitled Thyrsis et Chloe. It can readily be found in his works, but the following anonymous French translation is not so well known:—
“L’Ombre de Marguerite.”
Dans la nuit, à l’heure effrayante
Où l’airain frémit douze fois,
Des spectres la famille errante
Sort des tombeaux à cette voix.
Edmond, que le remords agite,
Cherchait le sommeil, qui le fuit:
L’ombre pâle de Marguerite
Vient s’asseoir au pied de son lit.
Regarde, Edmond, c’est moi, dit-elle,
Moi qui t’aimais, que tu trompas,
Moi dont la tendresse fidèle
Vit encore apprès le trépas.
J’en ai cru ta fausse promesse,
Je t’ai fait maître de mon sort;
Hélas! pour prix de ma tendresse
Fallait-il me donner la mort?
Jadis de la rose naissante
J’avais l’éclat et la fraîcheur:
Pourquoi sur sa tige brillante
Ton souffle a-t-il séché la fleur?
Mes yeux brillaient de tant de charmes,
Ingrat, alors que tu m’aimais;
Pourquoi donc les noyer de larmes,
Pourquoi les fermer à jamais.
Hier dans un palais superbe,
Aujourd’hui dans un noir cercueil;
Mon asile est caché sous l’herbe,
Et ma parure est un linceul.
De quel forfait suis-je victime?
J’aimai, j’ai cru l’être mon tour;
Qui me punit d’un pareil crime?
L’objet même de mon amour.
De ton inconstance cruelle
Le jour fut à tous deux fatal;
Quand ton cœur devint infidèle,
Edmond, il se connaissait mal:
Tu m’abandonnes, je succombe;
Mais enchaîné par le destin,
Le remords vient d’ouvrir ma tombe;
Tu dois y descendre demain.
J’entends le coq; sa voix encore
Pour nous est un signal d’effroi;
Je ne dois plus revoir l’aurore,
Et c’est la dernière pour toi!
Adieu. Celle qui te fut chère
Te plaint, te pardonne, et t’attend…
L’ombre à ces mots perce la terre,
Et disparaît en gémissant.
Edmond immobile, en silence,
A vu ce prodige effrayant:
De son lit soudain il s’élance,
Défiguré, pâle et tremblant.
Il court, il cherche Marguerite;
Sa voix s’échappe en cris aigus;
Sur sa tombe il se précipite;
On le relève: il n’était plus!
Dr. Johnson’s Ghost.[4]
’Twas at the solemn hour of night,
When men and spirits meet,
That Johnson, huge majestic sprite,
Repaired to Boswell’s feet.
His face was like the full-orb’d moon
Wrapt in a threatening cloud,
That bodes the tempest bursting soon,
And winds that bluster loud.
Terrific was his angry look,
His pendent eyebrows frown’d;
Thrice in his hand he waved a book,
Then dashed it to the ground.
“Behold,” he cry’d “perfidious man!
This object of my rage:
Bethink thee of the sordid plan
That form’d this venal page.
“Was it to make this base record
That you my friendship sought;
Thus to retain each vagrant word,
Each undigested thought?
“Dar’st thou pretend that, meaning praise,
Thou seek’st to raise my name;
When all thy babbling pen betrays
But gives me churlish fame?
“Do readers in these annals trace
The man that’s wise and good?
No!—rather one of savage race,
Illib’ral, fierce, and rude:
“A traveller, whose discontent
No kindness can appease;
Who finds for spleen perpetual vent
In all he hears and sees:
“One whose ingratitude displays
The most ungracious guest;
Who hospitality repays
With bitter, biting jest.
“Ah! would, as o’er the hills we sped,
And climb’d the sterile rocks,
Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead,
Or steeple, spar’d by Knox!
“Thy adulation now I see,
And all its schemes unfold:
Thy av’rice, Boswell, cherish’d me,
To turn me into gold.
“So keepers guard the beasts they show,
And for their wants provide;
Attend their steps where’er they go,
And travel by their side.
“O! were it not that, deep and low,
Beyond thy reach I’m laid,
Rapacious Boswell had e’er now
Johnson a mummy made.”
He ceased, and stalk’d from Boswell’s sight
With fierce indignant mien,
Scornful as Ajax, sullen sprite,
By Sage Ulysses seen.
Dead paleness Boswell’s cheek o’erspread,
His limbs with horror shook;
With trembling haste he left his bed,
And burnt his fatal book.
And thrice he called on Johnson’s name,
Forgiveness to implore!
Then thrice repeated—“Injured fame!”
And word—wrote never more.
The following ballad, which was once very popular among the lower orders, is said to be founded on “William and Margaret”:—
Giles Scroggin’s Ghost.
Giles Scroggin courted Molly Brown,
The fairest wench in all our town,
Fol de riddle lol, de riddle lido.
He bought her a ring with a posy true,
If you loves me, as I loves you,
No knife can cut our loves in two.
Fol de riddle, etc.
But scissors cuts, as well as knives,
And quite unsartain’s all our lives,
Fol de riddle, etc.
The day they were to have been wed,
Fate’s scissors cut poor Giles’s thread,
So they could not be mar—ri—ed.
Fol de riddle, etc.
Poor Molly laid her down to weep,
And cried herself quite fast asleep,
Fol de riddle, etc.
When standing fast by her bed-post,
A figure tall her sight engrossed,
It cried, “I be Giles Scroggin’s ghost,”
Fol de riddle, etc.
The ghost it said all solemnly,
“Oh! Molly, you must go with I,
Fol de riddle, etc.
All to the grave your love to cool.”
Says she, “Why, I’m not dead, you fool,”
Says the ghost, says he, “Vy, that’s no rule.”
Fol de riddle, etc.
The ghost then seized her all so grim,
All for to go along with him,
Fol de riddle, etc.
“Come, come,” said he, “e’er morning beam.”
“I von’t,” says she, and screamed a scream,
Then she awoke, and found she’d dream’d a dream.
Fol de riddle, de riddle lido.
A Polished Version.
Young Giles the fair Maria wooed;
Flower of the village maidenhood;
Heigho, alack, and well-a-day!
His pledge this legend bore inlaid,—
Love, that two hearts hath mutual made,
Defies the knife of keenest blade;
Heigho! &c.
But keen, alas! as knives are shears
And dubious all our fleeting years,
Heigho! &c.
The morn that should have made them one,
Fate’s shears the bridegroom’s thread outspun,
Sever’d; and bridal there was none,
Heigho! &c.
Maria sought her couch to weep;
Till grief, exhausted, sank in sleep:
Heigho! &c.
When stood, her lonely pillow nigh,
A figure more than mortal high;
And cried—“Behold, my love, ’tis I”
Heigho! &c.
All solemnly the spirit said,
“Away with me unto the dead,”
Heigho! &c.
“To cool thy passion in the tomb!”
—“What, ere my days of earthly doom?”
“No matter!” cried the shape of gloom,
Heigho! &c.
Grimly the phantom clutch’d the fair,
To death’s dark realm his prize to bear,
Heigho! &c.
“Hence! hence!” he cried, “ere morning’s light;”
“Begone!” she shriek’d, and with the fright
Woke. ’Twas a vision of the night.
Heigho! &c.
Punch. April 13, 1844.
