And let me here allude (if I can without indelicacy) to another sort of personation of more financial importance to myself.  Lately, I have seen some not very refined nor considerate paragraphs in American papers (Mr. Bok, a Brooklyn editor, has told me that more than four hundred repeated them) to the effect that in the battle of life I had—­truly enough—­suffered reverses, and needed material help from my many professing friends.  Moreover I have heard it stated that some sort of collection was volunteered for me.  Well, this may have been the case or not; but anyhow the fact is (and it should be announced to those who may have given—­and wonder at no acknowledgment of their kindness having come from me) that to this hour I have received nothing from America (except a few dollars sent by one lady, and some more from a Transatlantic relative), either on account of my so-called testimonial, or these more recent paragraphs.  The annoyance in my own mind, and in the suspicion of some others round me, is the awkward fancy that sundry small collections may have been intercepted.  Possibly some other Martin Tupper has the spoil.

Another sort of dishonest personation whereto we are all liable, whether authors or not, is the having imputed to us divers forged or garbled sentiments, even in the immutability of print, I have now before me a Boston copy of my first Proverbial published by one Joseph Dowe in 1840, which, though stated to be “from the London edition,” designedly omits all allusion to the Trinity, even my whole essay thereon, for Mr. Dowe as a Unitarian chose to make me one!  Also, I have seen my name attached to verses I never wrote, and have been claimed both by Swedenborgians and Freemasons as a brother, while Jesuitry has otherwise traduced me.  Artists also as well as authors are similarly misrepresented; my son-in-law, Clayton Adams, for instance, tells me that his name has been added to landscapes he never painted, and that they sold by auction at high prices.  Modern society should punish such cheateries severely.

CHAPTER XXIX.

HOSPITALITIES—­FARNHAM, ETC.

Amongst other memorabilia in no particular order, let me set down a few visits, longer than a mere call, to sundry persons and places of note.  As these, for instance.  Annually during many years I used to be a guest from Thursday to Monday at Farnham Castle, when the good Bishop’s venison was in season.  Of course, at such a table I constantly met celebrities, but a mere list of their names would be tedious, and any public record of private hospitalities I hold to be improper.  No doubt the kindly and courtly Bishop Sumner held high festival like an ancient Baron, at such a rate (for those were golden times from renewed leases for the see) as no successor with a less unlimited income could well afford.  The grandeur of Farnham Castle died with him:  and my good friend from boyhood, Bishop Harold Browne, must not be blamed if with less than half his means he cannot compete with him.