COURTLY AND MUSICAL.
My several royal poems, some twenty in number, may deserve a short and
special notice; though it is far from my intention to detail any
gracious condescensions of a private nature. I may however state, as a
curiosity of literature, that the 35th of my "Three Hundred Sonnets,"
published by Virtue in 1860, is headed "India's Empress," written
certainly twenty years before such a title was thought of, even by Lord
Beaconsfield in his pupa phase of D'Israeli. As very few have the
volume, long out of print, I will here produce that fortunate prophecy;
the "way chaotic" is the Sepoy Mutiny:--
"Our Empress Queen!--Victoria's name of glory
Added as England's grace to Hindostan:
O climax to this age's wondrous story,
Full of new hope to India, and to Man
In heathendom's dark places! For the light
Of our Jerusalem shall now shine there
Brighter than ever since the world began:--
Yet by a way chaotic, drear and gory
Travelled this blessing; as a martyr might
Wrestling to heaven through tortures unaware:
Our Empress Queen! for thee thy people's pray'r
All round the globe to God ascends united,
That He may strengthen thee no guilt to spare
Nor leave one act of goodness unrequited."
Another such curiosity of literature may this be considered: namely,
that the same versifier who in his youth fifty years ago saw the
coronation from a gallery seat in Westminster Abbey, overlooking the
central space, and wrote a well-known ode on the occasion, to be found
in his Miscellaneous Poems, is still in full force and loyalty, and
ready to supply one for his Queen's jubilee,--whereof words for music
will be found anon. Human life has not many such completed cycles to
celebrate, albeit I have lately had a golden wedding; alas! in a short
month after, closed by the good wife's sudden death: "So soon trod
sorrow on the heels of joy!" But I will not speak of that affliction
here and now: my present errand is more cheerful.
With reference, then, to the many verses of mine which I have reason to
hope are honoured by preservation in royal albums, I wish only to say
that if some few have appeared among my other poetries in print, they
shall not be repeated here: though I may record that whatever I have
sent from time to time have been graciously acknowledged, and that I
have heretofore met with palatial welcomes.
Perhaps I may say a word or two about my having for the best part of
half a century occasionally made my duteous bow at Court; which I
thought it right to do whenever some poetic offering of mine had been
received; in particular at the Princess Royal's marriage, when Prince
Albert specially invited me to Buckingham Palace, presenting me kindly
to the heir of Prussia, and bidding, "Wales come and shake hands with
Mr. Tupper" (my genial Prince will recollect it); and above all adding
the honour of personal conversation with Her Majesty.
Of these thus briefly: also I might record (but I forbear) similar
condescensions at Frogmore; as also with reference to my little Masques
of the Seasons, and the Nations--wherein Corbould was pictorially so
efficient, and Miss Hildyard so helpful in the costumes--both at Osborne
and at Windsor. In gracious recognition of these Her Majesty gave me
Winterhalter's engravings of all the royal children, now at Albury, as
well as some gifts to my daughters. The Masques will be found among my
published poems.
At Court I frequently met Lord Houghton, known to me in ancient days as
Monckton Milnes; and I remember that we especially came together from
sympathy as to critical castigation, _Blackwood_ or some other Scotch
reviewer having fallen foul of both of us, then young poets (and
therefore to be hounded down by Professor Wilson), in an article pasted
in an early volume of Archives, spitefully disparaging "Farquhar Tupper
and Monckton Milnes."
Until these days every one wore the antiquated Queen Anne Court suit,
now superseded by modern garments, perhaps more convenient but certainly
not so picturesque. Bagwig and flowered waistcoat, and hanging
cast-steel rapier, and silken calves and buckled shoes,--and above all
the abundant real point lace (upon which Lord Houghton more than once
has commented with me as to the comparative superiority of his or
mine,--both being of ancestral dinginess, and only to be washed in
coffee)--these are ill exchanged for boots and trousers and straight
black sword, and everything of grace and beauty diligently tailored
away. When I last attended at St. James's in honour of Prince Albert
Victor's first reception, I was, among twelve hundred, one of only three
units who paid our respects in the stately fashions of Good Queen Anne:
and I was glad to be complimented on my social courage as almost alone
in those antiquated garments, and on my profusion of snow-white hair so
suitably suggestive of the powdered polls of our ancestors. I remember
my father in powder.
On this last occasion it was, as I have said, especially to pay my
respects to the young Prince at his first _levée:_ both he and his
father with great kindness cordially shaking hands with the author of
the following stanzas. The young Prince stood between his father and his
kinsman, the Duke of Cambridge.
"Albert Victor! words of blessing
Bright with omens of the best,
Truly one such names possessing
Shall be throned among the blest;
Albert,--sainted now and glorious,
Long time in his heavenly rest;
Victor,--everyway victorious
Like our Empress east and west!
"Prince! to-day the Court bears witness
How, thy Royal Sire beside,
With due graciousness and fitness,
Dignity devoid of pride,
Thou (thy gallant kinsman near thee)
Dost with homage far and wide,
And the praise of all to cheer thee,
Humbly meet that glittering tide!
"Prince, accept an old man's greeting,
Now some threescore and fifteen,
Who can testify how fleeting
Life and all its joys have been:
I have known thy Grandsire's favour,
And thy Parents' grace have seen;
And I note the same sweet savour
In the Grandson of my Queen!"
As this is the Jubilee year, and I may not live to its completion,--for
who can depend upon an hour?--I will here produce what has just occurred
to my patriotism as a suitable ode on the great occasion. If short, it
is all the better for music, and I humbly recommend its adoption as
_libretto_ to some chief musical composer.
_Victoria's Jubilee: for Music._
I.
(_Major forte._)
"Rejoice, O Land! Imperial Realm, rejoice!
Wherever round the world
Our standard floats unfurl'd,
Let every heart exult in music's voice!
Be glad, O grateful England,
Triumphant shout and sing, Land!
As from each belfried steeple
The clanging joy-bells sound,
Let all our happy people
The wandering world around,
Rejoice with the joy this jubilee brings,
Circling the globe as with seraphim wings!"
II.
(_Minor piano._)
"Lo, the wondrous story,
Praise all praise above!
Fifty years of glory,
Fifty years of love!
Chastened by much sadness,
Mid the dark of death,
But illumed with gladness
By the sun of faith:
What a life, O Nations,
What a reign is seen
In the consummations
Crowning Britain's Queen!"
III.
(_Finale.--Crescendo._)
"Riches of Earth, and Graces of Heaven,
God in His love hath abundantly given,
More by a year than seven times seven,
Blessing our Empress, the Queen!
Secrets of Science, and marvels of Art,
Health of the home, and wealth of the mart,
All that is best for the mind and the heart,
Crowded around her are seen.
Honour, Religion, and Plenty are hers,
Peace, and all heavenly messengers,
While loyalty every spirit upstirs
To shout aloud, God save the Queen!"
Here the words end, as brevity is wisdom. But the music, as a majestic
finale, might include touches of Rule Britannia, Luther's Hymn, and the
National Anthem.
I have asked my friend Mr. Manns if he will set my words to music, but
his modesty declines, as he professes to be mainly a conductor rather
than a composer; and he recommends me to apply to some more famous
musician, as perhaps Sullivan, or Macfarren, or haply Count Gleichen.
All I can say is, nothing would be more gratifying to my muse than for
either of those great names to adapt my poetry to his melody.
Suitably enough, I may here insert a page as to my own musical
idiosyncrasy as a bit of author-life.
* * * * *
Keble is said to have had no ear for a tune, however perfect as to rhyme
and rhythm; and there are those who suppose my tympanum to be similarly
deficient, though I persistently dispute it. Living (when at Norwood)
within constant free hearing of the best music in the world, at the
Crystal Palace, I ought to be musical, if not always so accredited; but
I do penitentially confess to occasional weariness in over long repeated
symphonies, where the sweet little _motif_ is always trying to get out
but is cruelly driven back,--in the endlessness of fugues, and what
seems to my offended ear the useless waste of tone and power in extreme
instrumentation, and in divers other disinclinings I cannot but
acknowledge as to what is called classical music. Accordingly, no one
can accuse me of being _fanatico per la musica_; albeit I am transported
too by (for example) Handel's largo in G, by the Prayer in Mosé in
Egitto, the Lost Chord, Rossini's Tell, Weber's Freischutz and Oberon,
Tannhauser, Semiramide, and all manner of marches, choruses, ballads,
and national airs. In fact, I really do like music, especially if
tuneful and melodious, in spite of Wagner's apothegm, but some
symphonies might be better if curtailed,--except only Schubert's,--but
then his best is the Unfinished, and so the shortest. In my youth I
learnt the double flageolet, and could play it fairly.
All this (wherein I am but the honest spokesman for many who do not like
to confess as much) is introductory in my authorial capacity to this
short poem, not long since pencilled in the concert-room and given to
Mr. Manns as soon as clearly written. I insert it here very much to give
pleasure to one who so continually ministers to the pleasure of
thousands; and I hope some day soon to greet him Sir August, as he well
deserves a knighthood.
_A Music Lesson._
"Marvellous orchestra! concert of heaven,
Mingling more notes than the musical seven,
Harmonious discords of treble and base
In strange combinations of guilt and of grace--
O whose is the ear that can hear you aright,
And note the dark providence mixt with the light?
Where, where is the eye that is swift to discern
This lesson in music the dull ear should learn,--
That all, from the seraphim harping on high
Down, down to the lowest, fit chords can supply
To the pæan of praises in every tone,
With thunders and melodies circling the Throne!
"We are each a brief note in that wonderful hymn,
And to us its Oneness is hazy and dim;
We hear the few sounds from the viol we play,
But all the full chorus floats far and away:
Our poor little pipe of an instant is drown'd
In the glorious rush of that ocean of sound;
The player hears nothing beyond his own bars,
Whilst all that grand symphony reaches the stars:
Yet, though our piping seems but little worth
It adds to the Anthem Creation pours forth,
And, whether we know it or not, we can give
Not a note more or less in the life that we live.
"Ah me! we are nothing--or little at best--
But duty with greatness the least can invest:
One note on the flute or the trumpet may seem
A poor petty work for ambition's fond dream,--
But what if that note be a need-be to blend
And quicken the score from beginning to end?
To show forth the mind of the Master, who guides
With baton unerring Time's mixture of tides,
The good with the evil, the blessing and bane,
The Amazon rushing far into the main,
Until, from this skill'd combination of notes,
Bound earth to the heavens His overture floats!"