“My dearest Martin,—­Anything that I could say, or any praise that I could give respecting your last volume would, in my estimation, fall very far short indeed of its merits.  I shall therefore merely say that I look upon your chapter upon Immortality, not only as a most exquisite specimen of fine, sound, and learned composition, but as combating in the most satisfactory manner the wisdom of infidelity, almost perfect.  I only hope that you may receive the just tribute of the literary community:  your own feelings as the author of that chapter must be very enviable.  God bless you, dearest, dearest Martin.—­Believe me, ever your affectionate father and sincere friend,

Martin Tupper.”

I need not say that these are “ipsissima verba,” and that I here insert the letter in full, as the warmest and most honourable palinode I could have received from a man so usually reserved and reticent as was my revered and excellent father.

* * * * *

The brother of my friend Benjamin Nightingale (to be more spoken of hereafter) was so fascinated with the book that he copied it all out in his own handwriting, word for word, and was jocularly accused of pretending to its authorship.  I once met an enthusiast who knew both the two first series by heart,—­and certainly he went on wherever I tried to pose him from the open volume,—­my own memory being far less faithful.  Similarly my more recent friend William Hawkes claims to have read the whole book sixty times; whereof this impromptu of mine is a sort of half proof:—­

    Impromptu.

    “Sixty times, you tell me, friend,
    You’ve read my books from end to end. 
    Perhaps not all my myriad rhymes,
    But all my rhythmics sixty times. 
    Yes, friend, for I have heard you quote
    My old Proverbials by rote
    Page after page, and anywhere
    Have heard you spout them then and there,
    Though I myself had quite forgot
    What I had writ, and you had not.

    “Well, author surely never more
    Was complimented so before;
    For though I knew in years long past
    An amiable enthusiast,
    Who copied out in his MS.
    My whole Proverbial, as for press,
    Until he half believed that he
    Was the real Simon M.F.T.,—­
    Yet thou, my worthy William Hawkes,
    Hast beaten Nightingale by chalks,—­
    And, years ago, your friends for fame
    Have given you Martin Tapper’s name,
    Because you constantly were heard
    Quoting Proverbial word for word! 
    So then, by heart, as by the pen,
    ‘I live upon the mouths of men,’
    Ev’n as Ennius lived of old,
    A life worth more than gems or gold.”