In endeavouring to carry out these last wishes of my friend I thought
that of the many who know him only as a translator some would be glad to
have a picture of him as he appeared to the small circle of his intimate
acquaintances. The mere narrative of the life of a man of leisure and
literary tastes would have contained too few incidents to be of general
interest, and it appeared to me best to let him be his own biographer,
telling his own story and revealing his own character in his letters.
Fortunately there are many of these, and I have endeavoured to give such
a selection from them as would serve this purpose, adding a few words
here and there to connect them and explain what was not sufficiently
evident. As the letters begin from the time that he left College and
continue with shorter or longer intervals till the day before his death,
it was only necessary to introduce them by a short sketch of his early
life in order to make the narrative complete.
FitzGerald's letters, like his conversation, were perfectly unaffected
and full of quiet humour. In his lonely life they were the chief means
he had of talking with his friends, and they were always welcome. In
reply to one of them Carlyle wrote: 'Thanks for your friendly human
letter; which gave us much entertainment in the reading (at breakfast
time the other day), and is still pleasant to think of. One gets so many
_in_human letters, ovine, bovine, porcine, etc., etc.: I wish you would
write a little oftener; when the beneficent Daimon suggests, fail not to
lend ear to him.' Another, who has since followed him 'from sunshine to
the sunless land,' and to whom he wrote of domestic affairs, said, 'The
striking feature in his correspondence with me is the exquisite
tenderness of feeling which it exhibits in regard to all family matters;
the letters might have been written by a mother or a sister.' He said of
himself that his friendships were more like loves, and as he was constant
in affectionate loyalty to others, he might also say with Brutus,
In all my life
I found no man but he was true to me.
The Poet-Laureate, on hearing of his death, wrote to the late Sir
Frederic Pollock: 'I had no truer friend: he was one of the kindliest of
men, and I have never known one of so fine and delicate a wit. I had
written a poem to him the last week, a dedication, which he will never
see.'
When Thackeray, not long before he died, was asked by his daughter which
of his old friends he had loved most, he replied, 'Why, dear old Fitz, to
be sure; and Brookfield.'
And Carlyle, quick of eye to discern the faults and weaknesses of others,
had nothing but kindliness, with perhaps a touch of condescension, 'for
the peaceable, affectionate, and ultra-modest man, and his innocent _far
niente_ life.'
It was something to have been intimate with three such friends, and one
can only regret that more of his letters addressed to them have not been
preserved. Of those written to the earliest and dearest friend of all,
James Spedding, not one is left.
One of his few surviving contemporaries, speaking from a lifelong
experience, described him with perfect truth as an eccentric man of
genius, who took more pains to avoid fame than others do to seek it.
His love of music was one of his earliest passions, and remained with him
to the last. I cannot refrain from quoting some recollections of the
late Archdeacon Groome, a friend of his College days, and so near a
neighbour in later life that few letters passed between them. 'He was a
true musician; not that he was a great performer on any instrument, but
that he so truly appreciated all that was good and beautiful in music. He
was a good performer on the piano, and could get such full harmonies out
of the organ that stood in one corner of his entrance room at Little
Grange as did good to the listener. Sometimes it would be a bit from one
of Mozart's Masses, or from one of the finales of some one of his or
Beethoven's Operas. And then at times he would fill up the harmonies
with his voice, true and resonant almost to the last. I have heard him
say, "Did you never observe how an Italian organ-grinder will sometimes
put in a few notes of his own in such perfect keeping with the air which
he was grinding?" He was not a great, but he was a good composer. Some
of his songs have been printed, and many still remain in manuscript. Then
what pleasant talk I have had with him about the singers of our early
years; never forgetting to speak of Mrs. Frere of Downing, as the most
perfect private singer we had ever heard. And so indeed she was. Who
that had ever heard her sing Handel's songs can ever forget the purity of
her phrasing and the pathos of her voice? She had no particle of vanity
in her, and yet she would say, "Of course, I can sing Handel. I was a
pupil of John Sale, and he was a pupil of Handel." To her old age she
still retained the charm of musical expression, though her voice was but
a thread. And so we spoke of her; two old men with all the enthusiastic
admiration of fifty years ago. Pleasant was it also to hear him speak of
the public singers of those early days. Braham, so great, spite of his
vulgarity; Miss Stephens, so sweet to listen to, though she had no voice
of power; and poor Vaughan, who had so feeble a voice, and yet was always
called "such a chaste singer." How he would roar with laughter, when I
would imitate Vaughan singing
His hiddeus (_sic_) love provokes my rage,
Weak as I am, I must engage,
from Acis and Galatea. Then too his reminiscences of the said Acis and
Galatea as given at the Concerts for Ancient Music. "I can see them now,
the dear old _creeters_ with the gold eye-glasses and their turbans,
noddling their heads as they sang