that when Froude has done what he wants with my Carlyle Papers, you shall
have them to do the like. He thought (as I anticipated) that he could
use but two or three of the Letters, as you will also guess from the
scheme and compass of his Biography, as given in the Letter which I
enclose along with this; but, as I bade him use what he saw good, and
keep the Papers as long as convenient to him, I cannot as yet ask him,
how much, nor how long. When I think I may properly do so, I will: and
shall be very glad that you should have them under like conditions. You
know that they chiefly concern Naseby, which might do for an Episode, or
separate Item, in your Book, though not for Froude's; I should also think
the Letters about that Squire business would be well to clear somewhat
up: but that can scarcely be done unless by vindicating Squire's honesty
at the expense of his sanity: and, as I have no reason to suppose but he
is yet alive, I know not how this can be decently done. Froude says he
cannot see his way into the truth further than Carlyle's printed Article
on the subject goes: but I think Carlyle must have told him his
conviction (whatever it was) some time during their long acquaintance.
Perhaps, however, he was too sick of what he thought an unimportant
controversy to endure any more talk about it. I am convinced, as from
the first, that Squire's story was true; and the fragments of Cromwell's
despatches genuine, though (as Critics pointed out) partially misquoted
by a scatter-brained fellow, ignorant of the subject, and of the Writer.
_To Mrs. Kemble_.
[_August_ 1882].
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I have let the Full Moon go by, and very well she looked too, over the
Sea by which I am now staying. Not at Lowestoft; but at the old
extinguished Borough of Aldeburgh, to which as to other 'premiers Amours'
I revert: where more than sixty years ago I first saw, and first felt,
the Sea; where I have lodged in half the houses since; and where I have a
sort of traditional acquaintance with half the population: Clare Cottage
is where I write from; two little rooms, enough for me; a poor civil
woman pleased to have me in them. . . .
The Carlyle 'Reminiscences' had long indisposed me from taking up the
Biography. But when I began, and as I went on with that, I found it one
of the most interesting of Books: and the result is that I not only
admire and respect Carlyle more than ever I did: but even love him, which
I never thought of before. For he loved his Family, as well as for so
long helped to maintain them out of very slender earnings of his own;
and, so far as these two volumes show me, he loved his wife also, while
he put her to the work which he had been used to see his own Mother and
Sisters fulfil, and which was suitable to the way of Life which he had
been used to. His indifference to her sufferings seems to me rather
because of Blindness than Neglect; and I think his Biographer has been a
little too hard upon him on the Score of selfish disregard of her.
ALDEBURGH. _Sept._ 1. [1882].
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
Still by the Sea, from which I saw The Harvest Moon rise for her three
nights' Fullness. And to-day is so wet that I shall try and pay you my
plenilunal due, not much to your satisfaction; for the Wet really gets
into one's Brain and Spirits, and I have as little to write of as ever
any Full Moon ever brought me. And yet, if I accomplish my letter, and
'take it to the Barber's' where I sadly want to go, and after being
wrought on by him, post my letter, why, you will, by your Laws, be
obliged to answer it. Perhaps you may have a little to tell me of
yourself in requital for the very little you have to hear of me.
I have made a new Acquaintance here. Professor Fawcett (Postmaster
General, I am told) married a daughter of one Newson Garrett of this
Place, who is also Father of your Doctor Anderson. Well, the Professor
(who was utterly blinded by the Discharge of his Father's Gun some twenty
or five and twenty years ago) came to this Lodging to call on Aldis
Wright; and, when Wright was gone, called on me, and also came and smoked
a Pipe one night here. A thoroughly unaffected, unpretending, man: so
modest indeed that I was ashamed afterwards to think how I had harangued
him all the Evening, instead of getting him to instruct me. But I would
not ask him about his Parliamentary Shop: and I should not have
understood his Political Economy: and I believe he was very glad to be
talked to instead, about some of those he knew, and some whom I had
known. And, as we were both in Crabbe's Borough, we talked of him: the
Professor, who had never read a word, I believe, about him, or of him,
was pleased to hear a little; and I advised him to buy the Life written
by Crabbe's Son; and I would give him my abstract of the Tales of the
Hall, by way of giving him a taste of the Poet's self.
Yes; you must read Froude's Carlyle above all things, and tell me if you
do not feel as I do about it. . . . I regret that I did not know what
the Book tells us while Carlyle was alive; that I might have loved him as
well as admired him. But Carlyle never spoke of himself in that way. I
never heard him advert to his Works and his Fame, except one day he
happened to mention 'About the time when Men began to talk of me.'
WOODBRIDGE. _Oct._ 17, [1882].
MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I suppose that you are returned from the Loire by this time; but as I am
not sure that you have returned to the 'Hotel des Deux Mondes' whence you
dated your last, I make bold once more to trouble Coutts with adding your
Address to my Letter. I think I shall have it from yourself not long
after. I shall like to hear a word about my old France, dear to me from
childish associations, and in particular of the Loire, endeared to me by
Sevigne; for I never saw the glimmer of its waters myself. . . .
It seems to me (but I believe it seems so every year) that our trees keep
their leaves very long; I suppose, because of no severe frosts or winds
up to this time. And my garden still shows some Geranium, Salvia,
Nasturtium, Great Convolvulus, and that grand African Marigold whose
Colour is so comfortable to us Spanish-like Paddies. I have also a dear
Oleander which even now has a score of blossoms on it, and touches the
top of my little Green-house; having been sent me when 'haut comme ca,'
as Marquis Somebody used to say in the days of Louis XIV. Don't you love
the Oleander? So clean in its leaves and stem, as so beautiful in its
flower; loving to stand in water which it drinks up so fast. I rather
worship mine.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
WOODBRIDGE. _October_ 20/82.
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
Pray let me hear how you and yours are after your Summer Holyday. I have
been no further for mine than Aldeburgh, an hour's Rail distance from
here: there I got out boating, etc., and I think became the more hearty
in consequence: but my Bosom friend Bronchitis puts in a reminder every
now and then, and, I suppose, will come out of his Closet, or Chest, when
Winter sets in. . . .
When I was at Aldeburgh, Professor Fawcett . . . came to see Aldis Wright
who was with me there for a Day. When Wright was gone, the Professor
came to smoke a Pipe (in his case a Cigar) with me. What a brave,
unpretending Fellow! I should never have guessed that a notable man in
any way. 'Brave' too I say because of his cheerful Blindness; for which
I should never have forgiven my Father and his Gun. To see him stalking
along the Beach, regardless of Pebble and Boulder, though with some one
by his side to prevent his going quite to Sea! He was on the Eve of
starting for Scotland--to fish--in the dear Tweed, I think; though he
scarce seemed to know much of Sir Walter.
_To S. Laurence_.
LITTLEGRANGE, WOODBRIDGE.
_Nov._ 8/82.
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
It is long since I have heard from you: which means, long since I have
written to you. But do not impute this to as long forgetfulness on my
part. My days and years go on one so like another: I see and hear no new
thing or person; and to tell you that I go for a month or a week to our
barren coast, which is all the travel I have to tell of, you can imagine
all that as easily as my stay at home, with the old Pictures about me,
and often the old Books to read. I went indeed to London last February
for the sole purpose of seeing our Donne: and glad am I to have done so
as I heard it gave him a little pleasure. That is a closed Book now. His
Death {337} was not unexpected, and even not to be deprecated, as you
know; but I certainly never remember a year of such havock among my
friends as this: if not by Death itself, by Death's preliminary work and
warning. . . . I wonder to find myself no worse dealt with than by
Bronchitis, bad enough, which came upon me last Christmas, hung upon me
all Spring, Summer, and Autumn; and though comparatively dormant for the
last three wet weeks (perhaps from repeated doses of Sea Air) gives
occasional Signs that it is not dead, but, on the contrary, will revive
with Winter. Let me hear at least how you have been, and how are; I
shall not grudge your being all well.
Aldis Wright has sent me a very fine Photo of Spedding done from one of
Mrs. Cameron's of which a copy is at Trinity Lodge. It is so fine that I
scarce know if it gives me more pleasure or pain to look at it. Insomuch
that I keep it in a drawer, not yet able to make up my mind to have it
framed and so hung up before me.
My good old Housekeeper has been (along with so many more) very ill,
bedded for five or six weeks; only now able to get about again. I have
this morning been scolding her for sending away a woman who came to do
her work, without consulting me beforehand: she makes out that the woman
wanted to go: I find the woman is very ready to return. 'These are my
troubles, Mr. Wesley,' as a Gentleman said to him when the Footman had
put too much coal on the fire.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
WOODBRIDGE. [1882.]
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
. . . The Book which has really, and deeply, interested me, and quite
against Expectation, is Froude's Carlyle Biography; which has (quite
contrary to expectation also) not only made me honour Carlyle more, but
even love him, which I had never taken into account before. In the
Biography, Froude seems to me to treat his man with Candour and Justice:
even a little too severe in attributing to systematic Selfishness what
seems to me rather unreflecting neglect, Carlyle's relations to his Wife,
whom, so far as we read, he loved. Of his Love for his own Family, his
Generosity to them, and his own sturdy refusal of help from others, one
cannot doubt.
_To C. E. Norton_.
WOODBRIDGE. _Dec._ 20, [1882].
MY DEAR NORTON,
. . . You may have read somewhere of an 'Ajax' at our Cambridge over
here. Thirty years ago did I tell the Greek Professor (now Master of
Trinity), 'Have a Greek Tragedy in (what you call) your Senate-house.'
But I was not sufficiently important to stir up the 'Dons.' Cowell
invited me to see and hear 'Ajax'; but I remained here, content to snuff
at it from the Athenaeum of England, not of Attica. And on the very day
that Ajax fretted his hour on the stage, my two old Housekeepers were
celebrating their Fiftieth, or Golden, wedding over a Bottle of Port wine
in the adjoining room, though in that happier Catastrophe I did not
further join.
Now, to end with myself; I have hitherto escaped any severe assault from
my 'Bosom-Enemy,' Bronchitis, though he occasionally intimates that he is
all safe in his Closet, and will reappear with the Butterflies, I dare
say. 'Dici Beatus' let no one in this country boast till May be over.
What you put off, and what you put on,
Never change till May be gone,
says an old Suffolk Proverb concerning our Clothing. Five of my friendly
contemporaries have been struck with Paralysis during this 1882: and here
am I with only Bronchitis to complain of.
WOODBRIDGE. _March_ 7/83.
MY DEAR NORTON,
I wrote to you some little while before Christmas, praying you, among
other things, not to put yourself to the trouble of sending me your
Emerson-Carlyle Correspondence, inasmuch as I could easily get it over
here; and, by way of answer, your two Volumes reached me yesterday, safe
and sound from over the Atlantic. I had not time (a strange accident
with me) to acknowledge the receipt of them yesterday: but make all speed
to do so, with all gratitude, to-day. As you are simply the Editor of
the Book, I may tell you something of my thoughts on it by and by. I
doubt not that I shall find Emerson's Letters the more interesting,
because the newer, to me. The Portrait at the head of Vol. II. assures
me that one will find only what is good in them.
. . . I was glad to find from Mozley's Oriel Reminiscences that Newman
had been an admirer of my old Crabbe; and Mr. L. Stephen has very kindly
written out for me a passage from some late work, or Lecture, of Newman's
own, in which he says that, after fifty years, he read 'Richard's Story
of his Boyhood,' in the Tales of the Hall, with the same delight as on
its first appearance, and he considers that a Poem which thus pleases in
Age as it pleased in Youth must be called (in the 'accidental' sense of
the word, logically speaking) 'Classical.'
I owe this Courtesy on Mr. Stephen's part to my having sent him a little
Preface to my Crabbe, in which I contested Mr. Stephen's judgment as to
Crabbe's Humour: and I did not choose to publish this without apprizing
him, whom I know so far as he is connected with the Thackerays. He
replied very kindly, and sent me the Newman quotation I tell you of. The
Crabbe is the same I sent you some years ago: left in sheets, except the
few Copies I sent to friends. And now I have tacked to it a little
Introduction, and sent forty copies to lie on Quaritch's counter: for I
do not suppose they will get further. And no great harm done if they
stay where they are. . . .
One day you must write, and tell me how you and yours have fared through
this winter. It has been a very mild, even, a warm, one over here; and I
for my part have not yet had much to complain of in point of health thus
far; no, not even though winter has come at last in Snow and Storm for
the last three days. I do not know if we are yet come to the worst, so
terrible a Gale has been predicted, I am told, for the middle of March.
Yesterday morning I distinctly heard the sea moaning some dozen miles
away; and to-day, why, the enclosed little scrap, {342} enclosed to me,
will tell you what it was about, on my very old Crabbe's shore. It (the
Sea) will assuredly cut off his old Borough from the Slaughden River-quay
where he went to work, and whence he sailed in the 'Unity' Smack (one of
whose Crew is still alive) on his first adventure to London. But all
this can but little interest you, considering that we in England (except
some few in this Eastern corner of it) scarce know more of Crabbe and his
where about than by name.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
[_Easter_, 1883].
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
. . . Professor Norton sent me his Carlyle-Emerson--all to the credit of
all parties, I think. I must tell the Professor that in my opinion he
should have omitted some personal observations which are all fair in a
private letter; as about Tennyson being of a 'gloomy' turn (which you
know is not so), Thackeray's 'enormous appetite' ditto; and such mention
of Richard Milnes as a 'Robin Redbreast,' etc.; which may be less untrue,
though not more proper to be published of a clever, useful, and amiable
man, now living.
_To C. E. Norton_.
WOODBRIDGE. _May_ 12/83.
MY DEAR NORTON,
Your Emerson-Carlyle of course interested me very much, as I believe a
large public also. I had most to learn of Emerson, and that all good:
but Carlyle came out in somewhat of a new light to me also. Now we have
him in his Jane's letters, as we had seen something of him before in the
Reminiscences: but a yet more tragic Story; so tragic that I know not if
it ought not to have been withheld from the Public: assuredly, it seems
to me, ought to have been but half of the whole that now is. But I do
not the less recognize Carlyle for more admirable than before--if for no
other reason than his thus furnishing the world with weapons against
himself which the World in general is glad to turn against him. . . .
And, by way of finishing what I have to say on Carlyle for the present, I
will tell you that I had to go up to our huge, hideous, London a week
ago, on disagreeable business; which Business, however, I got over in
time for me to run to Chelsea before I returned home at Evening. I
wanted to see the Statue on the Chelsea Embankment which I had not yet
seen: and the old No. 5 of Cheyne Row, which I had not seen for five and
twenty years. The Statue I thought very good, though looking somewhat
small and ill set-off by its dingy surroundings. And No. 5 (now 24),
which had cost her so much of her Life, one may say, to make habitable
for him, now all neglected, unswept, ungarnished, uninhabited
'TO LET'
I cannot get it out of my head, the tarnished Scene of the Tragedy (one
must call it) there enacted.
Well, I was glad to get away from it, and the London of which it was a
small part, and get down here to my own dull home, and by no means sorry
not to be a Genius at such a Cost. 'Parlons d'autres choses.'
I got our Woodbridge Bookseller to enquire for your Mr. Child's Ballad-
book; but could only hear, and indeed be shown a specimen, of a large
Quarto Edition, _de luxe_ I believe, and would not meddle with that. I
do not love any unwieldy Book, even a Dictionary; and I believe that I am
contented enough with such Knowledge as I have of the old Ballads in many
a handy Edition. Not but I admire Mr. Child for such an undertaking as
his; but I think his Book will be more for Great Libraries, Public or
Private, than for my scanty Shelves at my age of seventy-five. I have
already given away to Friends all that I had of any rarity or value,
especially if over octavo.
By the way there was one good observation, I think, in Mrs. Oliphant's
superficial, or hasty, History of English 18th Century Literature, viz.,
that when the Beatties, Blacks, and other recognized Poets of the Day
were all writing in a 'classical' way, and tried to persuade Burns to do
the like, it was certain Old Ladies who wrote so many of the Ballads,
which, many of them, have passed as ancient, 'Sir Patrick Spence' for
one, I think.
Our Spring flowers have been almost all spoilt by Winter weather, and the
Trees before my window only just now beginning to
Stand in a mist of Green,
as Tennyson sings. Let us hope their Verdure, late arrayed, will last
the longer. I continue pretty well, with occasional reminders from
Bronchitis, who is my established Brownie.
_To S. Laurence_.
WOODBRIDGE. _Tuesday_,
[_June_ 12, 1883].
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
It is very kind of you to remember one who does so little to remind you
of himself. Your drawing of Allen always seemed to me excellent, for
which reason it was that I thought his Wife should have it, as being the
Record of her husband in his younger days. So of the portrait of
Tennyson which I gave his Wife. Not that I did not value them myself,
but because I did value them, as the most agreeable Portraits I knew of
the two men; and, for that very reason, presented them to those whom they
were naturally dearer to than even to myself. I have never liked any
Portrait of Tennyson since he grew a Beard; Allen, I suppose, has kept
out of that.
If I do not write, it is because I have absolutely nothing to tell you
that you have not known for the last twenty years. Here I live still,
reading, and being read to, part of my time; walking abroad three or four
times a day, or night, in spite of wakening a Bronchitis, which has
lodged like the household 'Brownie' within; pottering about my Garden (as
I have just been doing) and snipping off dead Roses like Miss Tox; and
now and then a visit to the neighbouring Seaside, and a splash to Sea in
one of the Boats. I never see a new Picture, nor hear a note of Music
except when I drum out some old Tune in Winter on an Organ, which might
almost be carried about the Streets with a handle to turn, and a Monkey
on the top of it. So I go on, living a life far too comfortable as
compared with that of better, and wiser men: but ever expecting a reverse
in health such as my seventy-five years are subject to. What a tragedy
is that of ---! So brisk, bright, good, a little woman, who seemed made
to live! And now the Doctors allot her but two years longer at most, and
her friends think that a year will see the End! and poor ---, tender,
true, and brave! His letters to me are quite fine in telling about it.
Mrs. Kemble wrote me word some two or three months ago that he was
looking very old: no wonder. I am told that she keeps up her Spirits the
better of the two. Ah, Providence might have spared 'pauvre et triste
Humanite' that Trial, together with a few others which (one would think)
would have made no difference to its Supremacy. 'Voila ma petite
protestation respectueuse a la Providence,' as Madame de Sevigne says.
To-morrow I am going (for my one annual Visit) to G. Crabbe's, where I am
to meet his Sisters, and talk over old Bredfield Vicarage days. Two of
my eight Nieces are now with me here in my house, for a two months'
visit, I suppose and hope. And I think this is all I have to tell you of
Yours ever sincerely
E. F. G.
* * * * *
This was in all probability the last letter FitzGerald ever wrote. On
the following day, Wednesday, June 13, he went to pay his annual visit at
Merton Rectory. On Friday the 15th I received from Mr. Crabbe the
announcement of his peaceful end: 'I grieve to have to tell you that our
dear friend Edward FitzGerald died here this morning [June 14]. He came
last evening to pay his usual visit with my sisters, but did not seem in
his usual spirits, and did not eat anything. . . . At ten he said he
would go to bed. I went up with him. . . . At a quarter to eight I
tapped at his door to ask how he was, and getting no answer went in and
found him as if sleeping peacefully but quite dead. A very noble
character has passed away.' On the following Tuesday, June 19, he was
buried in the little churchyard of Boulge, and the stone which marks his
grave bears the simple inscription 'Edward FitzGerald, Born 31 March
1809, Died 14 June 1883. It is He that hath made us and not we
ourselves.'
For some time before his death he seems to have had a foreboding that the
end was not far distant. In one of the last conversations I had with
him, certainly during my last visit at Easter 1883, he spoke of his
mother's death, in its suddenness very like his own, and at the same age.
'We none of us get beyond seventy-five,' he said. At this age his eldest
brother had died, four years before. And in a letter to one of his
nieces, after speaking of the fatal malady by which the wife of a dear
friend was attacked, he added, 'It seems strange to me to be so seemingly
alert--certainly, alive--amid such fatalities with younger and stronger
people. But, even while I say so, the hair may break, and the suspended
Sword fall. If it would but do so at once, and effectually!' Sixteen
days later his wish was fulfilled.
INDEX TO LETTERS
_To_ MISS AITKEN, 188
_To_ JOHN ALLEN, 63*, 70-72*, 74, 169*, 206, 219
_To_ MRS. CHARLES ALLEN, 7-9*, 14-16*
_To_ MISS ANNA BIDDELL, 134, 178, 179, 189, 205, 295, 304
_From_ CARLYLE, 135, 154, 155, 167, 175*
_To_ CARLYLE, 5, 128, 155, 165
_To_ E. B. COWELL, 1, 4*, 19*, 26, 44*, 52*, 57, 59*, 68*, 78*, 83-86*,
93-95*, 99, 103, 106*, 107, 111*, 128 _note_, 180, 185, 202, 270 _note_,
322 _note_
_To_ MRS. COWELL, 65*, 196, 216
_To_ GEORGE CRABBE, 17, 18, 21, 35, 39, 41, 42, 51, 57, 208 _note_
_To_ W. E. CROWFOOT, 118 _note_
_From_ W. B. DONNE, 169 _note_
_To_ W. B. DONNE, 3, 33, 40, 48, 66, 91, 164
_To_ FITZEDWARD HALL, 220*
_To_ LORD HOUGHTON, 285*
_To_ CHARLES KEENE, 280, 289-293
_To_ MRS. KEMBLE, 298, 305, 310-312, 320, 332-335
_To_ S. LAURENCE, 50, 55, 56, 113-116, 171, 190, 212, 277, 303, 337, 346
_To_ J. R. LOWELL, 224-226, 235, 245-249, 257, 260, 261, 266-272
_To_ C. E. NORTON, 157, 186, 190-192, 196-199, 203, 208, 213, 222, 229-
234, 241-244, 253-255, 258, 262, 275, 278, 281, 294, 298, 301, 315-318,
321, 327, 329, 330, 339, 340, 343
_To_ W. F. POLLOCK, 12, 96, 102, 117-121, 127, 130-132, 135, 137-152, 158-
163, 168, 172, 181, 307, 336, 338, 342
_To_ MISS S. F. SPEDDING, 313, 314
_To_ FREDERIC TENNYSON, 89
_To_ HALLAM (now LORD) TENNYSON, 328
_To_ MRS. ALFRED (now the DOWAGER LADY) TENNYSON, 308
_To_ MISS THACKERAY, 141 _note_, 207
_From_ W. H. THOMPSON, 174*
_To_ W. H. THOMPSON, 11, 24, 28-31, 34, 36*, 51, 73, 76, 77, 80*, 123,
177*, 296*
_To_ MRS. W. H. THOMPSON, 108, 183
_To_ R. C. TRENCH, 23, 62, 284, 287
_To_ H. SCHUTZ WILSON, 324
_To_ W. A. WRIGHT, 97, 126, 133, 217, 238, 239, 251, 322*
_The asterisks indicate the letters which are here printed for the first
time_.
INDEX
ACADEMY (Royal), Exhibition of, i. 39
Acis and Galatea, i. 101, 102, 239
Aconites, 'New Year's Gifts,' ii. 180, 320
AEschylus, the geography of the Agamemnon, ii. 33-35; FitzGerald's
translation of the Agamemnon, 109, 112, 162, 186, 188, 216; reviewed in
the Nation, 224; Dr. Kennedy's translation, 259
Airy (William), at school with FitzGerald, i. 2; visits him at
Woodbridge, ii. 66
Aitken (Lucy), her letters, ii. 64
Aldeburgh, ii. 290-292, 332; storm at, 342
Allegro and Penseroso, i. 153, 166
Allen (Anne), i. 72
--(Dr.), i. 79
--John, at Cambridge with FitzGerald, i. 2; letters to, 4, 5, etc.; his
portrait by Laurence, ii. 15, 346
--(Mary), i. 70, 72, 73
Allenby (Mrs.), i. 155
Arnold (Dr.), his visit to Naseby with Carlyle, i. 125, 126, 132; his
Life, 181