Of another brother, Peter, the Catholic brother, as John was the
Protestant one, he wrote:--
LOWESTOFT, _Tuesday_, _Feb._ 16, 1875.
You may have heard that my Brother Peter is dead, of Bronchitis, at
Bournemouth. He was taken seriously ill on Thursday last, and died on
Saturday without pain; and I am told that his last murmured words were
_my_ name--thrice repeated. A more amiable Gentleman did not live,
with something _helpless_ about him--what the Irish call an "Innocent
man"--which mixed up Compassion with Regard, and made it perhaps
stronger. . . .
Many odd tales were current in Woodbridge about FitzGerald himself. How
once, for example, he sailed over to Holland, meaning to look upon Paul
Potter's "Bull," but how, on arriving there, he found a favourable
homeward breeze, and so sailed home. How, too, he took a ticket for
Edinburgh, but at Newcastle found a train on the point of starting for
London, and, thinking it a pity to lose the chance, returned thereby.
Both stories must be myths, for we learn from his letters that in 1861 he
really did spend two days in Holland, and in 1874 other two in Scotland.
Still, I fancy both stories emanated from FitzGerald, for all Woodbridge
united could not have hit upon Paul Potter's "Bull."
Except in February 1867, when he was strongly opposed to Lord
Rendlesham's election, he took no active part in politics. "Don't write
politics--I agree with you beforehand," is a postscript (1852) to
Frederic Tennyson; and in a letter from Mr William Bodham Donne to my
father occurs this passage: "E. F. G. informs me that he gave his
landlord instructions in case any one called about his vote to say that
Mr F. would _not_ vote, advised every one to do the same, and let the
rotten matter bust itself." So it certainly stands in the letter, which
bears date 29th October 1868; but, according to Mr Mowbray Donne, "the
phrase was rather: 'Let the rotten old ship go to pieces of itself.' At
least," he adds, "so I have always heard it; and this suggests that once
there was a galleon worth preserving, but that he would not patch up the
old craft. He may have said both, of course." Anyhow, rightly or
wrongly, FitzGerald was sorrowfully convinced that England's best day was
over, and that he, that any one, was powerless to arrest the inevitable
doom. "I am quite assured that this Country is dying, as other Countries
die, as Trees die, atop first. The lower limbs are making all haste to
follow." He wrote thus in 1861, when the local squirearchy refused to
interest itself in the "_manuring_ and _skrimmaging_" of the newly
established rifle corps. And here are some more vaticinations of evil:--
"I have long felt about England as you do, and even made up my mind to
it, so as to sit comparatively, if ignobly, easy on that score.
Sometimes I envy those who are so old that the Curtain will probably
fall on them before it does on their Country. If one could save the
Race, what a Cause it would be! not for one's own glory as a member of
it, nor even for its glory as a Nation: but because it is the only
spot in Europe where Freedom keeps her place. Had I Alfred's voice, I
would not have mumbled for years over In Memoriam and The Princess,
but sung such strains as would have revived the [Greek text] to guard
the territory they had won."
The curtain has fallen twelve years now on FitzGerald,--it is fifty-four
years since he wrote those words: God send their dark forebodings may
prove false! But they clouded his life, and were partly the cause why,
Ajax-like, he loitered in his tent.
His thoughts on religion he kept to himself. A letter of June 1885 from
the late Master of Trinity to my father opens thus:--
"MY DEAR ARCHDEACON,--I ought to have thanked you ere this for your
letter, and the enclosed hymn, which we much admire, and cannot but be
touched by. {76} The more perhaps as our dear dead friend seems to
have felt its pathos. I have more to repent of than he had. Two of
the purest-living men among my intimates, FitzGerald and Spedding,
were prisoners in Doubting Castle all their lives, or at least the
last half of them. This is to me a great problem,--not to be solved
by the ordinary expedients, nor on this side the Veil, I think."
A former rector of Woodbridge, now many years dead, once called on
FitzGerald to express his regret that he never saw him at church. "Sir,"
said FitzGerald, "you might have conceived that a man has not come to my
years of life without thinking much of these things. I believe I may say
that I have reflected on them fully as much as yourself. You need not
repeat this visit." Certain it is that FitzGerald's was a most reverent
mind, and I know that the text on his grave was of his own choosing--"It
is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves." I know, too, that
sometimes he would sit and listen in a church porch while service was
going on, and slip away unperceived before the people came out. Still,
it seems to me beyond question that his version of the 'Rubaiyat' is an
utterance of his soul's deepest doubts, and that hereafter it will come
to be recognised as the highest expression of Agnosticism:--
"With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'
Into this Universe, and _Why_ not knowing
Nor _Whence_, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not _Whither_, willy-nilly blowing.
* * * * *
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays."
Yet to how many critics this has seemed but a poem of the wine-cup and
roses!
FitzGerald proved a most kindly contributor to the series of "Suffolk
Notes and Queries" that I edited for the 'Ipswich Journal' in 1877-78.
The following were some of his notes, all signed "Effigy"--a play on his
initials:--
"_Major Moor_, _David Hume_, _and the Royal George_.--In a review of
Burton's Life of Hume, p. 354 of the 'Gentleman's Magazine,' April 1849,
is the following quotation from the book, and the following note upon it:
"'Page 452. "Major M---, with whom I dined yesterday, said that he
had frequently met David Hume at their military mess in Scotland, and
in other parties. That he was very polite and pleasant, though
thoughtful in company, generally reclining his head upon his hand, as
if in study; from which he would suddenly recover," &c. [Note by the
Editor, John Mitford of Benhall.] We merely add that Major M--- was
Major Moor, author of the Hindoo Pantheon, a very learned and amiable
person.'
"A very odd blunder for one distinguished Suffolk man to make of another,
and so near a neighbour. For David Hume died in 1776, when Major Moor
was about seven years old; by this token that (as he has told me) he saw
the masts of the ROYAL GEORGE slope under water as she went down in 1782,
while he was on board the transport that was to carry him to India, a
cadet of thirteen years old.
"Nearly sixty years after this, Major Moor (as I also heard him relate)
was among the usual company going over one of the Royal Palaces--Windsor,
I think--when the cicerone pointed out a fragment of the Royal George's
mast, whereupon one elderly gentleman of the party told them that _he_
had witnessed the disaster; after which Major Moor capped the general
amazement by informing the little party that they had two surviving
witnesses of it among them that day.
"_Suffolk Minstrelsy_.--These fragments of a Suffolk Harvest-Home Song,
remembered by an old Suffolk Divine, offer room for historical and
lyrical conjecture. I think the song must consist of _tew_ several
fragments.
"'Row tu me, tow tu me,' says He-ne-ry Burgin,
'Row tu me, row tu me, I prah;
For I ha' tarn'd a Scotch robber across the salt seas,
Tu ma-i-nt'n my tew brothers and me.'"
"The Count de Grasse he stood amaz'd,
And frigh-te-ned he were,
For to see these bold Bri-tons
So active in war."
"_Limb_.--I find this word, whose derivation has troubled Suffolk
vocabularies, quoted in its Suffolk sense from Tate Wilkinson, in 'Temple
Bar Magazine' for January 1876. Mrs White--an actress somewhere in the
Shires,--she may have derived from Suffolk, however--addresses her
daughter, Mrs Burden, in these words: 'I'll tell you what, Maam, if you
contradict me, I'll fell you at my feet, and trample over your corse,
Maam, for you're a _limb_, Maam, your father on his deathbed told me you
were a _limb_.' (_N.B._--Perhaps Mr White it was who derived from _us_.)
And again when poor Mrs Burden asks what is meant by a _parenthesis_, her
mother exclaims, 'Oh, what an infernal _limb_ of an actress you'll make,
not to know the meaning _of prentice_, plural of _apprentices_!' Such is
Tate's story if correctly quoted by 'Temple Bar.' Not long ago I heard
at Aldbro', 'My mother is a _limb_ for salt pork.'"
The Suffolk dialect was ever a pet hobby of FitzGerald's. For years he
was meditating a new edition of Major Moor's 'Suffolk Words,' but the
question never was settled whether words of his own collecting were to be
incorporated in the body of the work or relegated to an appendix. So the
notion remained a notion. Much to our loss, for myself I prefer his 'Sea-
Words and Phrases along the Suffolk Coast' (in the scarce 'East Anglian,'
1868-69 {81}) to half his translations. For this "poor old Lowestoft sea-
slang," as FitzGerald slightingly calls it, illustrates both his strong
love of the sea and his own quaint lovable self. One turns over its
pages idly, and lights on dozens of entries such as these:--
"BARK.--'The surf _bark_ from the Nor'ard;' or, as was otherwise said to
me, 'The sea aint lost his woice from the Nor'ard yet,'--a sign, by the
way, that the wind is to come from that quarter. A poetical word such as
those whose business is with the sea are apt to use. Listening one night
to the sea some way inland, a sailor said to me, 'Yes, sir, the sea roar
for the loss of the wind;' which a landsman properly interpreted as
meaning only that the sea made itself heard when the wind had subsided."
"BRUSTLE.--A compound of _Bustle_ and _Rustle_, I suppose. 'Why, the old
girl _brustle_ along like a Hedge-sparrow!'--said of a round-bowed vessel
spuffling through the water. I am told that, comparing little with
great, the figure is not out of the way. Otherwise, what should these
ignorant seamen know of Hedge-sparrows? Some of them do, however; fond
of birds, as of other pets--Children, cats, small dogs--anything in short
considerably under the size of--a Bullock--and accustomed to
birds-nesting over your cliff and about your lanes from childhood. A
little while ago a party of Beechmen must needs have a day's frolic at
the old sport; marched bodily into a neighbouring farmer's domain,
ransacked the hedges, climbed the trees, coming down pretty figures, I
was told, (in plainer language) with guernsey and breeches torn fore and
aft; the farmer after them in a tearing rage, calling for his gun--'They
were Pirates--They were the Press-gang!' and the boys in Blue going on
with their game laughing. When they had got their fill of it, they
adjourned to Oulton Boar for 'Half a pint'; by-and-by in came the raging
farmer for a like purpose; at first growling aloof; then warming towards
the good fellows, till--he joined their company, and--insisted on paying
their shot."
"CARDS.--Though often carried on board to pass away the time at
All-fours, Don, or Sir-wiser (_q.v._), nevertheless regarded with some
suspicion when business does not go right. A friend of mine vowed that,
if his ill-luck continued, over the cards should go; and over they went.
Opinions differ as to swearing. One Captain strictly forbade it on board
his lugger; but he, also continuing to get no fish, called out, 'Swear
away, lads, and see what that'll do.' Perhaps he only meant as Menage's
French Bishop did; who going one day to Court, his carriage stuck fast in
a slough. The Coachman swore; the Bishop, putting his head out of the
window, bid him not do that; the Coachman declared that unless he did,
his horses would never get the carriage out of the mud. 'Well then, says
the Bishop, just for this once then.'"
"EGG-BOUND.--Probably an inland word; but it was only from one of the
beach I heard it. He had a pair of--what does the reader think?--Turtle-
doves in his net-loft, looking down so drolly--the delicate
creatures--from their wicker cage on the rough work below, that I
wondered what business they had there. But this truculent Salwager
assured me seriously that he had 'doated on them,' and promised me the
first pair they should hatch. For a long while they had no family, so
long '_neutral_' indeed as to cause grave doubts whether they were a pair
at all. But at last one of them began to show signs of cradle-making,
picking at some hay stuffed into the wicker-bars to encourage them; and I
was told that she was manifestly '_egg-bound_.'"
"NEW MOON.--When first seen, be sure to turn your money over in your
pocket by way of making it grow there; provided always that you see her
face to face, not through a glass (window)--for, in that case, the charm
works the wrong way. 'I see the little dear this evening, and give my
money a twister; there wasn't much, but I roused her about.' Where
'_her_' means the Money, not the Moon. Every one knows of what gender
all that is amiable becomes in the Sailor's eyes: his Ship, of course--the
'Old Dear'--the 'Old Girl'--the 'Old Beauty,' &c. I don't think the Sea
is so familiarly addrest; _she_ is almost too strong-minded, capricious,
and terrible a Virago, and--he is wedded to her for better or worse. Yet
I have heard the Weather (to whose instigation so much of that Sea's ill-
humours are due) spoken of by one coming up the hatchway, 'Let's see how
_she_ look now.' The Moon is, of course, a Woman too; and as with the
German, and, I believe, the ancient Oriental people, 'the blessed Sun
himself a fair hot Wench in a flame-colour'd taffeta,' and so _she_
rises, _she_ sets, and _she_ crosses the Line. So the Timepiece that
measures the hours of day and night. A Friend's Watch going wrong of
late, I advised Regulating; but was gravely answer'd that '_She_ was a
foreigner, and he did not like meddling with _her_.' The same poor
ignorant was looking with me one evening at your fine old church
[Lowestoft] which sadly wanted regulating too: lying all along indeed
like a huge stranded Ship, with one whole side battered open to the ribs,
through which 'the Sea-wind sang shrill, chill'; and he 'did not like
seeing her so distress'd'; remembering boyish days, and her good old
Vicar (of course I mean the _former_ one: pious, charitable, venerable
Francis Cunningham), and looking to lie under her walls, among his own
people--'if not,' as he said, '_somewhere else_.' Some months after,
seeing the Church with her southern side restored to the sun, the same
speaker cried, 'Well done, Old Girl! Up, and crow again!'"
* * * * *
FitzGerald's hesitancy about Major Moor's book was typical of the man. I
am assured by Mr John Loder of Woodbridge, who knew him well, that it was
inordinately difficult to get him to do anything. First he would be
delighted with the idea, and next he would raise up a hundred objections;
then, maybe, he would again, and finally he wouldn't. The wonder then
is, not that he published so little, but that he published so much; and
to whom the credit thereof was largely due is indicated in this passage
from a letter of Mr W. B. Donne's, of date 25th March 1876.
"I am so delighted at the glory E. F. G. has gained by his translation
of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The 'Contemporary Review' and the
'Spectator' newspaper! It is full time that Fitz should be
disinterred, and exhibited to the world as one of the most gifted of
Britons. And Bernard Quaritch deserves a piece of plate or a statue
for the way he has thrust the Rubaiyat to the front."
There is no understanding FitzGerald till one fully realises that vulgar
ambition had absolutely no place in his nature. Your ass in the lion's
skin nowadays is the ass who fain would be lionised; and the modern
version of the parable of the talents is too often the man who,
untalented, tries to palm off Brummagem counterfeits. FitzGerald's fear
was not that he would write worse than half his compeers, but that he
might write as ill. "This visionary inactivity," he tells John Allen,
"is better than the mischievous activity of so many I see about me." He
applied Malthus's teaching to literature; he was content so long as he
pleased the Tennysons, some half-dozen other friends, and himself, than
whom no critic ever was more fastidious. And when one thinks of all the
"great poems" that were published during his lifetime, and read and
praised (more praised than read perhaps), and then forgotten, one wonders
if, after all, he was so wholly wrong in that he read for profit and
scribbled for amusement,--that he communed with his own heart and was
still. Besides, had he not "awful examples"? There was the Suffolk
parson, his contemporary, who announced at nineteen that he had read all
Shakespeare and Milton, and did not see why he should not at any rate
equal them. So he fell to work--his poems were a joy to FitzGerald. Then
there was Bernard Barton. FitzGerald glances at his passion for
publishing, his belief that "there could not be too much poetry abroad."
And lastly there was Carlyle, half scornful of FitzGerald's "ultra
modesty and innocent _far-niente_ life," his own superhuman activity
regarded meanwhile by FitzGerald with a gentle half-pitying wonder, of
which one catches a premonitory echo in this extract from a long letter
{87} of Sir Frederick Pollock's to W. H. Thompson. It bears date 14th
February 1840, two years before Carlyle and FitzGerald met:--
"Carlyle's 'Chartism' has been much read. It has fine things in it,
but nothing new. He is eminently a man of one idea, but then neither
he nor any one else knows exactly what that one is. So that by dint
of shifting it about to and fro, and, as you observe, clothing his
remarks in the safe obscurity of a foreign language, he manages to
produce a great impression. Truly he is a trumpet that gives an
uncertain sound, an instrument of no base metal, but played without
book, whose compass is not ascertained, and continually failing from
straining at too high a note. Spedding has not yet found him out;
FitzGerald has, and we lamentably rejoice at our melancholy discovery.
Never was there such a waste of Faith as in that man. He is ever
preaching Faith. Very well, but in what? Why, again says he,
'Faith'--that is, Faith in Faith. Objectless, purposeless, unmeaning,
disappearing, and eluding all grasp when any occasion for action
arises, when anything is to be done, as sufficiently appears from the
miserable unpracticability of the latter chapters of the 'Chartism,'
where he comes forward to give directions for what is to be done."
FitzGerald's wide, albeit eclectic reading, is sufficiently illustrated
on every page of his published Letters. When, fourteen years before his
death, his eyesight began to fail him, he employed boy-readers, one of
whom read him the whole of the Tichborne trial. One summer night in 1889
I sat and smoked with this boy, a pleasant young man, in the bar-parlour
of the Bull Hotel. He told me how Mr FitzGerald always gave him plenty
of plum-cake, and how they used to play piquet together. Only sometimes
a tame mouse would come out and sit on the table, and then not a card
must be dropped. A pretty picture! In the bar-parlour sat an oldish
man, who presently joined in our conversation. He had made the lead
coffin for "the old Major" (FitzGerald's father), and another for Mr
John; and he seemed half to resent that he had not performed the same
office for Mr Edward himself, for whom, however, he once built a boat. He
told me, moreover, how years before Mr FitzGerald had congratulated him
on some symptoms of heart disease, had said he had it himself, and was
glad of it, for "when he came to die, he didn't want to have a lot of
women messing about him."
Next day I went and called on FitzGerald's old housekeeper, Mrs Howe, and
her husband. She the "Fairy Godmother," as FitzGerald delighted to call
her, was blithe and chirpy as ever, with pleasant talk of "our
gentleman": "So kind he was, not never one to make no obstacles. Such a
joky gentleman he was, too. Why, once he says to me, 'Mrs Howe, I didn't
know we had express trains here.' And I said, 'Whatever _do_ you mean,
sir?' and he says, 'Why, look at Mrs ---'s dress there.' And, sure
enough, she had a long train to it, you know." Her husband ("the King of
Clubs") was eighty-four, but the same cheery, simple soul he always was.
Mr Spalding, one broiling day, saw him standing bare-headed, and peering
intently for good five minutes into the pond at Little Grange. "What is
it, Howe?" he asked him; and the old man presently answered, "How fond
them ducks dew seem of water, _to_ be sure." Which, for some cause or
other, greatly tickled FitzGerald.
I was staying in Woodbridge at the "Bull," kept whilom by "good John
Grout," from whom FitzGerald procured the Scotch ale which he would set
to the fire till it "just had a smile on it," and who every Christmas
sent him a present of mince-pies and a jug of punch. An excellent man,
and a mighty horse-dealer, better versed in horse-flesh than in
literature. After a visit from Lord Tennyson, FitzGerald told Grout that
Woodbridge should feel itself honoured. John had not quite understood,
so presently took a chance of asking my father who that gentleman was Mr
FitzGerald had been talking of. "Mr Tennyson," said my father, "the poet-
laureate." "Dissay," {90} said John, warily; "anyhow he didn't fare to
know much about hosses when I showed him over my stables."
From my bedroom window I could see FitzGerald's old lodgings over
Berry's, where he sojourned from 1860 till 1873. The cause of his
leaving them is only half told in Mr Aldis Wright's edition of the
Letters (p. 365, footnote). Mr Berry, a small man, had taken to himself
a second wife, a buxom widow weighing fourteen stone; and she, being very
genteel, could not brook the idea of keeping a lodger. So one day--I
have heard FitzGerald tell the story--came a timid rap at the door of his
sitting-room, a deep "Now, Berry, be firm," and a mild "Yes, my dear;"
and Berry appeared on the threshold. Hesitatingly he explained that "Mrs
Berry, you know, sir--really extremely sorry--but not been used, sir,"
&c., &c. Then from the rear, a deep "And you've got to tell him about
Old Gooseberry, Berry," a deprecatory "Certainly, my love;" and poor
Berry stammered forth, "And I am told, sir, that you said--you said--I
had long been old Berry, but now--now you should call me Old Gooseberry."
So FitzGerald had to make up his mind at last to migrate to his own
house, Little Grange, which he had bought more than nine years before,
and enlarged and made a very pretty place of. "I shall never live in it,
but I shall die there," he once said to a friend. Both predictions were
falsified, for he did live there nearly ten years, and his death took
place at Merton, in Norfolk.
{Little Grange: p91.jpg}
I wandered through the grounds of Little Grange, hardly changed except
that there were now no doves. There was the "Quarterdeck" walk, and
there was the Summerhouse, to which Charles Keene used to retire with his
bagpipes. I can hear FitzGerald saying to my father, "Keene has a theory
that we open our mouths too much; but whether he bottles up his wind to
play the bagpipes, or whether he plays the bagpipes to get rid of his
bottled-up wind, I do not know, and I don't suppose I ever shall know."
From Little Grange I walked two miles out to Bredfield Hall, FitzGerald's
birthplace. It is a stately old Jacobean mansion, though sadly
beplastered, for surely its natural colour is red-brick, like that of the
outbuildings. Among these I came upon an old, old labourer, who
"remembered Mr Edward well. Why, he'd often come up, he would, and sit
on that there bench by the canal, nivver sayin' nothin'. But he took on
wonnerful, that he did, if ivver they touched any of the owd trees." Not
many of them are standing now, and what there are, are all "dying atop."
{The Cottage, Boulge: p93.jpg}
It is a short walk from Bredfield Hall to Bredfield church and vicarage.
Both must be a good deal altered by restoration and enlargement since the
days (1834-57) of George Crabbe, the poet's son, about whom there is so
much in the Letters, and of whom I have often heard tell. He went up to
the great Exhibition of 1851; and, after his return, my father asked him
what he thought of it. "Thought of it, my dear sir! When I entered that
vast emporium of the world's commerce, I lifted up my arms and SHOUTED
for amazement." From Bredfield a charming walk through the fields
(trudged how many times by FitzGerald!) leads to the little one-storeyed
cottage in Boulge Park, where he lived from 1838 till 1853. It probably
is scarcely changed at all, with its low-pitched thatch roof forming
eyebrows over the brown-shuttered windows. "Cold and draughty," says the
woman who was living in it, and who showed me FitzGerald's old parlour
and bedroom. The very nails were still in the walls on which he hung his
big pictures. Boulge Hall, then tenantless, a large modern white-brick
house, brought me soon to Boulge church, half-hidden by trees. Fitzgerald
sleeps beneath its redbrick tower. His grave is marked by a flat granite
monument, carved with a cross-fleury. Pity, it seemed, that no roses
grew over it. {94}
Afterwards, for auld langsyne, I took a long pull down the Deben river;
and next morning I visited Farlingay Hall, the farmhouse where Carlyle
stayed with FitzGerald in 1855. It is not a farmhouse now, but a goodly
old-fashioned mansion, red-tiled, dormer-windowed, and all covered with
roses and creepers. A charming young lady showed me some of the rooms,
and pointed out a fine elm-tree in the meadow, beneath which Carlyle
smoked his pipe. Finally, if any one would know more of the country
round Woodbridge, let him turn up an article in the 'Magazine of Art' for
1885, by Professor Sidney Colvin, on "East Suffolk Memories, Inland and
Home."
{Farlingay Hall: p95.jpg}
But, besides this, I saw a good deal of Mr John Loder, third in a line of
Woodbridge booksellers, who knew FitzGerald for many years, and has much
to tell of him which were well worth preserving. From him I received a
loan of Mr Elihu Vedder's splendid illustrations to the 'Rubaiyat,' and a
couple of presents. The first is a pencil-drawing of FitzGerald's yacht;
the second, a book, "made up," like so many others, by FitzGerald, and
comprising this one, three French plays, a privately printed article on
Moore, and the first edition of 'A Little Dinner at Timmins's.' Then
with Mr Barrett, the Ipswich bookseller, who likewise knew FitzGerald, I
had two chance meetings; and last but not least, I spent a most pleasant
day at Colchester with Mr Frederick Spalding, curator now of the museum
there.
Sitting in his alcove, hewn out of the massy wall of the Norman keep, he
poured forth story after story of FitzGerald, and showed me his memorials
of their friendship. This was a copy of Miss Edgeworth's 'Frank,' in
German and English, given to FitzGerald at Edgeworthstown (_cf._
'Letters,' p. 74); and that, FitzGerald's own school copy of Boswell's
'Johnson,' which he gave Mr Spalding, first writing on the fly-leaf--"He
was pleased to say to me one morning when we were alone in his study,
'Boswell, I am almost easier with you than with anybody' (vol. v. p.
75)." Here, again, was a scrap-book, containing, _inter alia_, a long
and interesting unpublished letter from Carlyle to FitzGerald about the
projected Naseby monument, and a fragment of a letter from Frederic
Tennyson, criticising the Laureate's "Welcome to Alexandra." Not being a
short-hand reporter or American interviewer, I am not going to try to
reproduce Mr Spalding's discourse (he must do that himself some day); but
a letter of his in the 'East Anglian' of 8th July 1889 I will reprint:--
The fishing Lugger built at Lowestoft was named the "Meum and Tuum,"
commonly called by the fishermen there the "Mum and Tum," much to Mr
FitzGerald's amusement; and the ship alluded to by Mr Gosse was the
pretty schooner of 15 tons, built by Harvey, of Wyvenhoe, and named
the "Scandal," after "the main staple of Woodbridge." My friend, T.
N., the skipper, gave a different account of the origin of the name. I
was standing with him on the Lowestoft Fish Market, close to which the
little "Scandal" was moored, after an early dive from her deck, when
Tom was addressed by one of two ladies: "Pray, my man, can you tell me
who owns that very pretty yacht?" "Mr Edward FitzGerald of
Woodbridge, ma'am," said Tom, touching his cap. "And can you tell us
her name?" "The 'Scandal,' ma'am." "Dear me! how came he to select
such a very peculiar name?" "Well, ma'am, the fact is, all the other
names were taken up, so that we were forced to have either that or
none." The ladies at once moved on.
Mr Spalding, further, has placed in my hands a bundle of seventy letters,
written to himself by FitzGerald between 1862 and 1882. Some of them
relate to mere business matters (such as the building of Little Grange),
and some to private affairs; but the following extracts have a high and
exceptional value, as illustrating a feature in FitzGerald's life that is
little touched on in the published Letters--his strong love of the sea
and of sailors:--
"GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES, _Feb._ 5, 1862.
['Letters,' p. 284.] {98}
". . . I have been twice to old Wright, who has built a Boat of about 14
feet on speculation: and has laid down the keel of a new wherry, on
speculation also. But he has as yet no Orders, and thinks his Business
is like to be very slack. Indeed the _Rail_ now begins to creep over the
Marsh, and even to come pretty close to the River, over which it is to
cross into Beccles. But you, I think, surmise that this Rail will not
hurt Wright so much as he fears it will. Poor old Boy--I found him well
and hearty on Sunday; but on Sunday night and Monday he was seized with
such Rheumatism (I think Rheumatic Gout) in one leg as has given him no
rest or sleep since. It is, he says, 'as if somethin' was a-tearin' the
Flesh off his Bones.' I showed him two of the guilty Screws which had
almost let my Leaden Keel part from the wooden one: he says he had
desired the Smith not to make _too_ large heads, and the Smith
accordingly made them too small; and some Apprentice had, he supposes,
fixed them in without further inspection. There is such honesty and
cheerfulness in Wright's Saxon Eyes and Countenance when he faces such a
charge as disarms all one's wrath."
"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, _July_ 17, '65.
['Letters,' p. 301.]
". . . Yes, I sent Newson and Cooper home to the Shipwreck Dinner at
Woodbridge, and supposing they would be maudlin on Saturday, gave them
Sunday to repent on, and so have lost the only fine Days we have yet had
for sailing. To-day is a dead Calm. 'These are my Trials!' as a fine
Gentleman said to Wesley, when his Servant put rather too many Coals on
the Fire.
". . . Somehow, I always feel at home here,--partly that the place itself
is very suited to me: I have known it these 40 years, particularly
connected with my Sister Kerrich, whose Death has left a sort of sad
interest shed over it. It was a mere Toss-up in 1860 whether I was to
stay at Woodbridge, or come to reside here, when my residing would have
been of some use to her then, and her Children now.
"Now then I am expecting my 'Merry Men' from Woodbridge, to get out my
Billyboy, and get into what Sailors call _the Doldrums_, . . . "
"3 SION HILL, RAMSGATE, _August_ 25/65.
['Letters,' p. 301.]
"I got here all right and very quick from our Harbour on Monday Morng.
And here I shall be till Monday: then shall probably go with my Brother
[Peter] to Dover and Calais: and so hope to be home by the middle or
later part of next week. . . . To-day is going on a Regatta before the
windows where I write: shall I never have done with these tiresome
Regattas? And to-night the Harbour is to be _captured_ after an
obstinate defence by 36-pounders in a sham fight, so we shall go deaf to
Bed. We had really a famous sail from Felixtow Ferry; getting out of it
at 7 A.M., and being off Broadstairs (3 miles from here) as the clock on
the shore struck twelve. After that we were an hour getting into this
very Port, because of a strong Tide against us. . . ."
"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, _March_ 28, 1866.
['Letters,' p. 303.]
". . . The change has been of some use, I think, in brightening me. My
long solitary habit of Life now begins to tell upon me, and I am got past
the very cure which only could counteract it: Company or Society: of
which I have lost the Taste too long to endure again. So, as I have made
my Bed, I must lie in it--and die in it. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _April_ 2, '66. [Ib.]
". . . I am going to be here another week: as I think it really has
freshened me up a bit. Especially going out in a Boat with my good
Fletcher, though I get perished with the N.E. wind. I believe I never
shall do unless in a Lodging, as I have lived these 40 years. It is too
late, I doubt, to reform in a House of one's own. . . . Dove, {101}
unlike Noah's Dove, brings no report of a green leaf when I ask him about
the Grass seed. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _April_ 3, '66. [Ib.]
". . . Looking over the Tombstones of the old Churchyard this morning, I
observed how very many announced the Lease of Life expired at about the
same date which I entered upon last Saturday [fifty-seven]. I know it is
time to set one's House in order--when Mr Dove has done his part."
"COWES, ISLE OF WIGHT, _Friday_, _June_ 30, 1866.
['Letters,' p. 305.]
"We got here very well on Tuesday eveng. Wednesday I sent Newson and
Crew over to Portsmouth, where they didn't see the one thing I sent them
for, namely, Nelson's Ship, the 'Victory,' but where they bought two Pair
of Trousers, which they call 'Dungaree.' Yesterday we went to Poole--a
place I had long a very slight Desire to see; and which was not worth the
seeing. To-day we came back here: I regretting rather we had not run
further along the Coast to Weymouth and Teignmouth, where I should have
seen my Friend Mansfield the Shipwright. It was a little weakness of
mine, in _not_ changing orders, but, having talked of going only to
Poole, I left it as it was. The weather has been only _too_ fine: the
sea too calm. Here we are in front of this pretty place, with many
Yachts at anchor and sailing about us: nearly all Schooners, little and
great, of all which I think we are the 'Pitman' (see Moor's 'Words'). I
must say I am very tired of seeing only Schooners. Newson was beaten
horribly yesterday by a Ryde open Boat of about 7 or 8 tons, which stood
right into the wind, but he soon afterwards completely distanced a Billy-
boy, which put us in Spirits again. I am very contented (in my way)
pottering about here alone, or with my Crew of two, and I believe cd
bundle on for a Month in such a way. But I shall soon be home. I have
thought of you To-day when your Sale is going on, at the same time as my
_Sail_. Pretty Wit! . . ."
* * * * *
The next letter refers to an accident that befell the Scandal. She was
lying at Lowestoft, in the Fishmarket basin, when a huge Continental
steamer came drifting down on her. "Mr FitzGerald," so Mr Spalding tells
me, "just said in his slow melodious voice, {103} 'My poor little ship
will be cracked like a nutshell;' and he took my arm to force me ashore.
But I refused to go unless he went too, and just then the cable held on
the weather-side of the steamer towering up above us; still, our 'channel-
boards,' over which the shrouds are tautened, were crushed up flat to the
yacht's side, and perhaps some stanchions were injured too."
"SCANDAL, _Sept._ 19, '66. [Ib.]
". . . Mr Manby is wrong about our getting no compensation for the Damage
(so far as it cd be _seen_) inflicted on us by the steamer. Whether we
could _claim_ it or not, the Steamer Captain granted it: being (as Newson
says) quite a Gentleman, &c. So we have had the Carpenters for two Days,
who have restored the broken Stanchions, &c. What mischief the Shock may
have done to the Body of the Ship remains to be proved: 'Anyhow, it can't
have done her any good,' says Job's Comforter, Captn. Newson. The
Steamer's Captain admitted that he had expected us to be cracked like a
Walnut.
"Now, I want you to tell me of this. You know of Newson's lending _Posh_
{104} money. I have advised that, beside an I.O.U. from Posh, he should
give security upon some of his Effects: Boats, Nets, or other Gear. Tell
me how this should be done, if you can: the Form of Writing required: and
perhaps what Interest Newson should have on his Money.
"Last night at the 'Suffolk' I was where Newson, Posh, & Co. were at
their Ale: a little of which got into Newson's head: who began to touch
up Posh about such an Apparatus of Rockets, Mortars, etc., for the Rescue
of those two stranded Vessels, when he declares that he and one or two
Felixstowe Men would have pushed off a Boat through the pauses of the
Surf, and done all that was wanted. _He_ had seen, and been on, the
Shipwash scores of times when the jump of the Ship pitched him on his
Back, and sent the Topmast flying. So had Posh on the Home-sand here, he
said; his Sand was just as bad as Tom's, he knew; and the Lowestoft Men
just as good as the Felixstowe, &c. I fomented the Quarrel gently:--no
_Quarrel_, or I should not: all Newson meant (which I believe is very
true) there are so _many_ men here, and no _one Man to command_, that
they are worse off with all their Men and Boats than at the Ferry
[Bawdsey], where Newson or Percival are Spokesmen and Masters. This I
have explained to Posh To-day, as he was sitting, like Abraham, in his
Tent--like an Apostle, mending his nets. 'Posh, your Frill was out last
night?' 'No--no--only I didn't like to hear the Lowestoft Chaps weren't
as good, etc., especially before the Stranger Men from Harwich, etc.'"
"LOWESTOFT, _October_ 7, '66. [Ib.]
". . . 'Posh' went off in his new, old Lugger, {105} which I call 'The
Porpoise,' on Thursday: came in yesterday with a Last and a half of
Herrings: and is just put to Sea again, Sunday though it be. It is
reported to be an extraordinary Herring Year, _along shore_: and now he
goes into deeper Water. I am amused to see Newson's _devotion_ to his
younger Friend: he won't leave him a moment if possible, was the first to
see him come in yesterday, and has just watched him out of sight. He
declined having any Bill of Sale on Posh's Goods for Money lent; old as
he is (enough to distrust all Mankind)--has perfect reliance on his
Honour, Industry, Skill, and Luck. This is a pretty Sight to me. I tell
Newson he has at last found his Master, and become possessed of that
troublesome thing: an anxious Regard for some one.
"I was noticing for several Days how many _Robins_ were singing along the
'London Road' here; and (without my speaking of it) Lusia Kerrich told me
they had almost a _Plague_ of Robins at _Gelson_ [Geldestone]: 3 or 4
coming into the Breakfast room every morning; getting under Kerrich's
Legs, &c. And yesterday Posh told me that _three_ came to his Lugger out
at Sea; also another very pretty Bird, whose name he didn't know, but
which he caught and caged in _the Binnacle_, where it was found dead in
due time. . . .
"_P.S._--Posh (as Cooper, whom I question, tells me) was _over_ 12 _miles
from Land_ when the _four_ Robins came aboard: a Bird which he nor Cooper
had ever seen to visit a Ship before. The Bird he shut up in the
Binnacle he describes as of 'all sorts of Colours'--perhaps a Tomtit!--and
I fear it was _roasted_ in the Binnacle, when Posh lighted up at night,
forgetting his Guest. 'Poor little fallow!'"
"LOWESTOFT, _Dec._ 4, 1866. [Ib.]
"I am sorry you can't come, but have no doubt that you are right in _not_
coming. You may imagine what I do with myself here: somehow, I do
believe the Seaside is more of my Element than elsewhere, and the old
Lodging Life suits me best. That, however, I have at Woodbridge; and can
be better treated nowhere than there.
"I have just seen Posh, who had been shooting his Lines in the Morning:
had fallen asleep after his Sunday Dinner, and rose up like a Giant
refreshed when I went into his house. His little Wife, however, told him
he must go and tidy his Hair, which he was preparing to obey. Oh! these
are the People who somehow interest me; and if I were not now too far
advanced on the Road to Forgetfulness, I should be sad that my own Life
had been such a wretched Concern in comparison. But it is too late, even
to lament, now. . . .
"There is a Wedding-party next door: at No. 11; I being in 12; _Becky_
having charge of both houses. There is incessant vulgar Giggling and
Tittering, and 5 meals a Day, Becky says. Oh! these are not such
Gentlefolks as my Friends on the Beach, who have not 5 meals a Day. I
wonder how soon I shall quarrel with them, however--I don't mean the
Wedding Party. . . . At Eight or half-past I go to have a Pipe at Posh's,
if he isn't half-drunk with his Friends."
"LOWESTOFT, _Jan._ 5/67. ['Letters,' p. 306.]
"I really was to have gone home To-day, but made a little Business with
Posh an excuse for waiting over Sunday. This very Day he signs an
Agreement for a new Herring-lugger, of which he is to be Captain, and to
which he will contribute some Nets and Gear. I daresay I had better have
left all this alone: but, if moderately lucky, the Vessel will pay
_something_, at any rate: and in the meanwhile it really does me some
good, I believe, to set up this little Interest here: and even if I lose
money, I get some Fun for it. So now I shall be very glad to drop
_Esquire_, and be addressed, as '_Herring-merchant_,' for the future.
"Posh has been doing well this week with Cod-fishing, as only one other
Boat has been out (owing to the others not having a _Set-net_ to catch
bait with). His fish have fetched a good price, even from the old Jew,
Levi. {108} I believe I have smoked my Pipe every evening but one with
Posh at his house, which his quiet little Wife keeps tidy and pleasant.
The Man is, I do think, of a Royal Nature. I have told him he is liable
to one Danger (the Hare with many Friends)--so many wanting him _to
drink_. He says, it's quite true, and that he is often obliged to run
away: as I believe he does: for his House shows all Temperance and Order.
This little Lecture I give him--to go the way, I suppose, of all such
Advice. . . ."
"12 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, _Feb._ 8, '67.
['Letters,' p. 308.]
"Posh shall be at the Train for his Hare. When I went to look for him
last Night, he was in his _Shod_, by the light of a Candle examining a
_Petman_ Pig [Suffolk for 'the smallest pig in a litter'], about the size
of Newson's Watch, and swell'd out 'as _taut_ as a Drum,' Posh said. A
Friend had given him this Production of Nature: it hadn't grown a bit
(except swelling up) for 3 weeks, in spite of Posh's Medicines last
Sunday: so as he is 'a'most minded to make away with it, poor little
thing.' He almost let it drop when I suddenly appeared, in a theatrical
Style, at the Door.
"You seem to think there is no hurry about a Gardener [at Little Grange]
just yet. Mr Berry still thinks that Miss ---'s man would do well: as it
is, he goes _out_ for work, as Miss --- has not full Employment for him.
He and his Wife are very respectable too, I hear. So in spite of my Fear
of Unprotected Females, &c., he might do. Perhaps you might see him one
day as you pass the Unprotected one's Grounds, and hear. I have hardly
work enough for one Whole Man, as is the case with my Neighbour, who yet
is a Female. . . ."
"'BECKY'S,' _Saturday_, _May_ 18, '67. [Ib.]
". . . Posh is very busy with his Lugger [the 'Meum and Tuum'], which
will be decked by the middle of next Week. I have just left him: having
caught him with a Pot of white paint (some of which was on his Face), and
having made him dine on cold Beef in the Suffolk Hotel Bowling-green,
washing all down with two Tankards of Bullard's Ale. He was not
displeased to dine abroad; as this is Saturday, when he says there are
apt to be 'Squalls' at home, because of washing, &c. His little Boy is
on the mending hand: safe, indeed, I hope, and believe, unless they let
him into Draughts of Air: which I have warned them against.
"Yesterday we went to Yarmouth, and bought a Boat for the Lugger, and
paraded the Town, and dined at the Star Tavern (_Beefsteak for one_), and
looked into the Great Church: where when Posh pulled off his Cap, and
stood erect but not irreverent, I thought he looked as good an Image of
the Mould that Man was originally cast in, as you may chance to see in
the Temple of _The Maker_ in these Days.
"The Artillery were blazing away on the Denes; and the little
Band-master, who played with his Troop here last summer, joined us as we
were walking, and told Posh not to lag behind, for he was not at all
ashamed to be seen walking with him. The little well-meaning Ass! . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Longest Day_, '67.
['Letters,' p. 309.]
". . . As to talking over Posh, etc., with me, there is plenty of time
for that; indeed, as yet we _cannot_ come to a final estimate of the
Property, since all is not yet bought: sails, cables, warps, Ballast, &c.
As to his services hitherto, I yesterday gave him 20 pounds, telling him
that _I_ couldn't compute how much he had done for me: nor could he, he
said, and would be contented with anything.
"No cloven Hoof as yet! It was his Birthday (yesterday), and we all had
a walk to the new Lugger, and then to Mutford, where we had a fresh-water
Sail on the Broad: Ale at the Inn, and Punch in the 'Suffolk' Bowling-
green at night. Oh! 'tis a pleasant Time. But it passes, passes. I
have not been out to Sea once since we've been here; only loitering about
on shore.
"LOWESTOFT, _April_ 14/68.
['Letters,' p. 316.]
". . . Meanwhile the Crews loiter about the Town: A. Percival, Frost, and
_Jack_ in his Kingfisher Guernsey: to whom Posh does the honours of the
place. _He_ is still busy with his Gear: his hands of a fine Mahogany,
from Stockholm tar, but I see he has some return of _hoseness_. I
believe that he and I shall now sign the Mortgage Papers that make him
owner of _Half_ Meum and Tuum. I only get out of him that he can't say
he sees anything much amiss in the Deed. He is delightful with his Babe,
whose name is Clara--'Hallo, Clara!' etc. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Tuesday_, _June_ 16, 1868. [Ib.]
". . . Thank you for the Books, which were all right: except in so far
that they were anointed by the oozings of some Rhubarb Jam which Mrs
Berry very kindly introduced among them. I am at my Don Quixote again;
and really only sorry that I can read it so much more easily this year
than last that I shall be all the sooner done with it. Mackerel still
come in very slow, sometimes none at all: the dead-calm nights play the
deuce with the Fishing, and I see no prospect of change in the weather
till the Mackerel shall be changing their Quarters. I am vexed to see
the Lugger come in Day after day so poorly stored after all the Labour
and Time and Anxiety given to the work by her Crew; but I can do no more,
and at any-rate take my own share of the Loss very lightly. I can afford
it better than they can. I have told Newson to set sail and run home any
Day, Hour, or Minute, when he wishes to see his Wife and Family. But at
present he seems contented to eat Fish here: whether some of the few
'_Stulls_' {113} which Posh brings in, or what his now innumerable
friends the Trawlers are always offering. In fact, I think Newson looks
to Lowestoft as a Summer Pasture, and is in no hurry to leave it. He
lives here well for nothing, except Bread, Cheese, and Tea and Sugar. He
has now taken to Cocoa, however, which he calls 'Cuckoo' to my hearing;
having become enamoured of that Beverage in the Lugger, where it is the
order of the day. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Monday_, _July_ 13, '68. [Ib.]
". . . Posh made up and paid off on Saturday. I have not yet asked him,
but I suppose he has just paid his way: I mean, so far as Grub goes. The
Brother of one of his Crew was killed the night we got here, in a Lugger
next to Posh's, by a Barque running into her, and knocking him--or, I
doubt, _crushing_ him--overboard.
". . . When _are_ we to have rain? Last night it lightened to the South,
as we sat in the Suffolk Gardens--I, and Posh, and Mrs Posh, and Sparks;
Newson and Jack being with some other friends in another Department. Posh
and I had been sauntering in the Churchyard, and reading the Epitaphs:
looking at his own little boy's Grave--'Poor little Fellow! He wouldn't
let his Mother go near him--I can't think why--but kept his little
Fingers twisted in my Hair, and wouldn't let me go; and when Death strook
him, as I may say, halloo'd out 'Daddy!'"
"LOWESTOFT, _Sunday_, _Aug._ 30, '69.
['Letters,' p. 318.]
". . . You will see by the enclosed that Posh has had a little better
luck than hitherto. One reason for my not going to Woodbridge is, that I
think it possible this N.E. wind may blow him hither to tan his nets.
Only please God it don't tan him and his people first. . . .
"Lord and Lady Hatherley were here last week--no, _this_ week: and I met
them on the pier one day, as unaffected as ever. He is obliged, I
believe, to carry the Great Seal about with him; I told him I wondered
how he could submit to be so bored; on which my lady put in about "Sense
of Duty," etcetera-rorum. But I (having no Great Seal to carry) went off
to Southwold on Wednesday, and lay off there in the calm nights till
yesterday: going to Dunwich, which seemed to me rather delightful.
"Newson brought in another Moth some days ago; brownish, with a red rump.
I dare say very common, but I have taken enormous pains to murder it:
buying a lump of some poison at Southwold which the Chemist warned me to
throw overboard directly the Moth was done for: for fear of Jack and
Newson being found dead in their rugs. The Moth is now pinned down in a
lucifer match box, awaiting your inspection. You know I shall be glad to
see you at any time. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Sept._ 4, '69. [Ib.]
"I wish you _were_ coming here this Evening, as I have several things to
talk over.
"I would not meddle with the Regatta--to Newson's sorrow, who certainly
_must_ have carried off the second 10 pounds prize. And the Day ended by
vexing me more than it did him. Posh drove in here the day before to tan
his nets: could not help making one with some old friends in a Boat-race
on the Monday, and getting very fuddled with them on the Suffolk Green
(where I was) at night. After all the pains I have taken, and all the
real anxiety I have had. And worst of all, after the repeated promises
he had made! I said, there must now be an end of Confidence between us,
so far as _that_ was concerned, and I would so far trouble myself about
him no more. But when I came to reflect that this was but an outbreak
among old friends on an old occasion, after (I do believe) months of
sobriety; that there was no concealment about it; and that though
obstinate at first as to how little drunk, &c., he was very repentant
afterwards--I cannot let this one flaw weigh against the general good of
the man. I cannot if I would: what then is the use of trying? But my
confidence in _that_ respect must be so far shaken, and it vexes me to
think that I can never be _sure_ of his not being overtaken so. I
declare that it makes me feel ashamed very much to play the Judge on one
who stands immeasurably above me in the scale, whose faults are better
than so many virtues. Was not this very outbreak that of a great genial
Boy among his old Fellows? True, a Promise was broken. Yes: but if the
Whole Man be of the Royal Blood of Humanity, and do Justice in the Main,
what are _the people_ to say? _He_ thought, if he thought at all, that
he kept his promise in the main. But there is no use talking: unless I
part company wholly, I suppose I must take the evil with the good.
"Well, Winter will soon be here, and no more 'Suffolk' Bowling-greens.
Once more I want you to help in finding me a lad, or boy, or lout, who
will help me to get through the long Winter nights--whether by cards or
reading--now that my eyes are not so up to their work as they were. I
think they are a _little_ better: which I attribute to the wearing of
these hideous Goggles, which keep out Sun, Sea, Sand, &c. But I must
not, if I could, tax them as I have done over books by lamplight till
Midnight. Do pray consider this for me, and look about. I thought of a
sharp lad--that son of the Broker--if he could read a little decently he
would do. Really one has lived quite long enough.
"--will be very glad to show you his place at any time. His Wife is
really a very nice Lady, and his Boy one of the nicest I have seen these
30 years. He himself sees wonderful things: he saw 2 sharks (supposed by
Newson to be Sweet Williams) making love together out of the water at
Covehithe; and a shoal of Porpoises tossing up a Halibut into the Air and
catching it again. You may imagine Newson's demure face listening to all
this, and his comments afterwards. . . ."
"SUFFOLK HOTEL, LOWESTOFT, _Sept._ 21, '69. [Ib.]
"Thank you much for your Letter, which I got last night when I went for
my usual dose of Grog and Pipe.
"Posh came up with his Lugger last Friday, with a lot of torn nets, and
went off again on Sunday. _I thought_ he was wrong to come up, and not
to transmit his nets by Rail, as is often done at 6d. a net. But I did
not say so to him,--it is no unamiable point in him to love _home_: but I
think he won't make a fortune by it. However, I may be very wrong in
thinking he had better _not_ have come. He has made about the average
fishing, I believe: about 250 pounds. Some boats have 600 pounds, I
hear; and some few not enough to pay their way.
"He came up with a very bad cold and hoarseness; and so went off, poor
fellow: he never will be long well, I do think. I was foolish to forget
G. Crabbe's homoeopathic _Aconite_: but I sent off some pills of it to
Grimsby last night. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _March_ 2/70. ['Letters,' p. 324.]
". . . Posh has, I believe, gone off to Southwold in hope to bring his
Lugger home. I advised him last night to ascertain first by Letter
whether she _were_ ready for his hands; but you know he will go his own
way, and that generally is as good as anybody's. He now works all day in
his Net-loft; and I wonder how he keeps as well as he is, shut up there
from fresh Air, and among frowzy Nets. But he is in good Spirits; and
that goes some way to keep the Body well, you know. I think he has
mistaken in not sending the Meum and Tuum to the West this Spring, not
because the Weather seems to promise in all ways so much better than last
(for _that_ no one could anticipate), but on account of the high Price of
Fish of any sort; which has been an evident fact for the last six months.
But I have not meddled, nor indeed is it my Business to meddle now. . .
."
"LOWESTOFT, _Wednesday_, _Sept._ 8, '70.
['Letters,' p. 323.]
". . . Indeed, I only write now because I am shut up in my ship by rain,
and so write letters.
"I had a letter from Posh yesterday, telling me he was sorry we had not
'parted Friends.' That he had been indeed '_a little the worse_ for
Drink'--which means being at a Public-house half the Day, and having to
sleep it off the remainder: having been duly warned by his Father at Noon
that all had been ready for sailing 2 hours before, and all the other
Luggers gone. As Posh could _walk_, I suppose he only acknowledges a
_little_ Drink; but, judging by what followed on that little Drink, I
wish he had simply acknowledged his Fault. He begs me to write: if I do
so, I must speak very plainly to him: that, with all his noble Qualities,
I doubt that I can never again have Confidence in his Promise to break
this one bad Habit, seeing that he has broken it so soon, when there was
no occasion or excuse: unless it were the thought of leaving his Wife so
ill at home. The Man is so beyond others, as I think, that I have come
to feel that I must not condemn him by general rule; nevertheless, if he
ask me, I can refer him to no other. I must send him back his own
written Promise of Sobriety, signed only a month before he broke it so
needlessly: and I must even tell him that I know not yet if he can be
left with the Mortgage as we settled it in May. . . .
"_P.S._--I enclose Posh's letter, and the answer I propose to give to it.
I am sure it makes me sad and ashamed to be setting up for Judge on a
much nobler Creature than myself. But I must consider this a case in
which the outbreak was worse than needless, and such as must almost
destroy any Confidence I can feel for the future. I can only excuse it
as a sort of Desperation at his Wife's Illness--strange way as he took of
improving the occasion. You see it was _not_ old Friends not seen for
some time, but one or two of the Crew he is always with.
"I had thought of returning him _his_ written Promise as worthless:
desiring back my Direction to my Heirs that he should keep on the lugger
in case of my Death. But I will wait for what you say about all this. I
am really sorry to trouble you over and over again with the matter. But
I am so fearful of blundering, where a Blunder may do so much harm. I
think that Posh ought to be made to feel this severely: and, as his Wife
is better, I do not mind making him feel it, if I can. On the other
hand, I do not wish to drive him, by Despair, into the very fault which I
have so tried to cure him of. Pray do consider, and write to me of this,
returning me the two Papers.
"His mother did not try to excuse him at all: his Father would not even
see him go off. She merely told me parenthetically, 'I tell him he seem
to do it when the Governor is here.'" {121}
"LOWESTOFT, _Saturday_, _Feb._ 25, 1871.
['Letters,' p. 331.]
". . . The two Hens travelled so comfortably, that, when let out of the
basket, they fed, and then fought together. _Your_ Hen was pronounced a
Beauty by Posh & Co. As for mine, she stood up and crew like a Cock
three times right on end, as Posh reports: a command of Voice in a Hen
reputed so unlucky {122} that Mr and Mrs Fletcher, Senior, who had known
of sad results from such unnatural exhibitions, recommended her being
slain and stewed down forthwith. Posh, however, resolves to abide the
upshot. . . . Posh and his Father are very busy getting the Meum and
Tuum ready for the West; Jemmy, who goes Captain, is just now in France
with a _Cargoe_ of salt Herrings. I suppose the Lugger will start in a
fortnight or so. My Eyes refuse reading here, so I sit looking at the
sea (with shut eyes), or gossiping with the women in the Net-loft. All-
fours at night. Thank you for the speckled Hen; Posh expressed himself
much obliged for his. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Sunday_, _Sept._ 29/72.
['Letters,' p. 345.]
". . . Posh--after no fish caught for 3 weeks--has had his boat come home
with nearly all her fleet of nets torn to pieces in last week's winds. On
Wednesday he had to go 8 miles on the other side of Halesworth after a
runaway--came home, drenched from top to toe, with a great Bulrush in his
hand, which he could not help admiring as he went along: and went with me
to the Theatre afterwards, where he admired the 'Gays,' as he called the
Scenes; but fell asleep before Shylock had whetted his knife in the
Merchant of Venice. . . ."
"LOWESTOFT, _Friday_, _Jan._ 9, 1874.
['Letters, p. 366.]
". . . No doubt Berry thinks that his Month's Notice, which was up last
Monday, was enough. Against that I have to say, that, after giving that
Notice, he told George Moor that I might stay while I pleased; and he
drove me away for a week by having no one but his own blind Aunt to wait
on me. What miserable little things! They do not at all irritate, but
only _bore_ me. I have seen no more of Fletcher since I wrote, though he
called once when I was out. I have left word at his house, that, if he
wishes to see me before I go, here am I to be found at tea-time. I only
hope he has taken no desperate step. I hope so for his Family's sake,
including Father and Mother. People here have asked me if he is not
going to give up the Business, &c. Yet there is Greatness about the Man:
I believe his want of Conscience in some particulars is to be referred to
his _Salwaging_ Ethics; and your Cromwells, Caesars, and Napoleons have
not been more scrupulous. But I shall part Company with him if I can do
so without Injury to his Family. If not, I must let him go on _under
some_ '_Surveillance_': he _must_ wish to get rid of me also, and (I
believe, though he says _not_) of the Boat, if he could better himself."
"LOWESTOFT, _Sunday_, _Feb._ 28, 1875.
['Letters,' p. 370.]
". . . I believe I wrote you that Fletcher's Babe, 10 months old, died of
Croup--to be buried to-morrow. I spoke of this in a letter to Anna
Biddell, who has written me such a brave, pious word in return that I
keep to show you. She thinks I should speak to Fletcher, and hold out a
hand to him, and bid him take this opportunity to regain his
_Self-respect_; but I cannot suppose that I could make any lasting
impression upon him. She does not know _all_."
"WOODBRIDGE, _Dec._ 23/76.
['Letters,' p. 396.]
". . . I do not think there is anything to be told of Woodbridge News:
anyhow, _I_ know of none: sometimes not going into the Street for Days
together. I have a new Reader--Son of Fox the Binder--who is
intelligent, enjoys something of what he reads, can laugh heartily, and
does not mind being told not to read through his Nose: which I think is a
common way in Woodbridge, perhaps in Suffolk."
"WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 31/79.
['Letters, p. 435.]
". . . A month ago Ellen Churchyard told me--what she was much scolded
for telling--that for some three weeks previous Mrs Howe had been
suffering so from Rheumatism that she had been kept awake in pain, and
could scarce move about by day, though she did the house work as usual,
and would not tell me. I sent for Mr Jones at once, and got Mrs Cooper
in, and now Mrs H. is better, she _says_. But as I tell her, she only
gives a great deal more of the trouble she wishes to save one by such
obstinacy. We are now reading the fine 'Legend of Montrose' till 9;
then, after ten minutes' refreshment, the curtain rises on Dickens's
Copperfield, by way of Farce after the Play; both admirable. I have been
busy in a small way preparing a little vol. of 'Readings in Crabbe's
Tales of the Hall' for some few who will not encounter the original Book.
I do not yet know if it will be published, but I shall have done a little
work I long wished to do, and I can give it away to some who will like
it. I will send you a copy if you please when it is completed."
"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, _Wednesday_.
"DEAR SPALDING,--Please to spend a Sovereign for your Children or among
them, as you and they see good. I have lost the Faculty of choosing
Presents, you still enjoy it: so do this little Office for me. All good
and kind wishes to Wife and Family: a happy Xmas is still no idle word to
you."
"WOODBRIDGE, _Jan._ 12, '82.
['Letters,' p. 477.]
". . . The Aconite, which Mr Churchyard used to call 'New Year's Gift,'
has been out in my Garden for this fortnight past. Thrushes (and, I
think, Blackbirds) try to sing a little: and half yesterday I was
sitting, with no more apparel than in my rooms, on my Quarter-deck"
[_i.e._, the walk in the garden of Little Grange].
"_April_ 1, 1882. ['Letters,' p. 481.]
"Thank you for your Birthday Greeting--a Ceremony which, I nevertheless
think, is almost better forgotten at my time of life. But it is an old,
and healthy, custom. I do not quite shake off my Cold, and shall, I
suppose, be more liable to it hereafter. But what wonderful weather! I
see the little trees opposite my window perceptibly greener every
morning. Mr Wood persists in delaying to send the seeds of Annuals; but
I am going to send for them to-day. My Hyacinths have been gay, though
not so fine as last year's: and I have some respectable single red
Anemones--always favourites of mine.
"Aldis Wright has been spending his Easter here; and goes on to Beccles,
where he is to examine and report on the Books and MSS. of the late
George Borrow at Oulton."
* * * * *
The handwriting is shaky in this letter, and it is the last of the
series. It should have closed this article, but that I want still to
quote one more letter to my father, and a poem:--
"WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 16, 1878.
['Letters,' pp. 410, 418.]
"MY DEAR GROOME,--I have not had any _Academies_ that seemed to call for
sending severally: here are some, however (as also _Athenaeums_), which
shall go in a parcel to you, if you care to see them. Also, Munro's
Catullus, which has much interested me, bad Scholar as I am: though not
touching on some of his best Poems. However, I never cared so much for
him as has been the fashion to do for the last half century, I think. I
had a letter from Donne two days ago: it did not speak of himself as
other than well; but I thought it indicated feebleness.
"Eh! voila que j'ai deja dit tout ce que vient au bout de ma plume. Je
ne bouge pas d'ici; cependant, l'annee va son train. Toujours a vous et
a les votres, E. F. G.
"By the by, I enclose a Paper of some _stepping-stones_ in 'Dear Charles
Lamb'--drawn up for my own use in reading his Letters, and printed, you
see, for my Friends--one of my best Works; though not exact about Book
Dates, which indeed one does not care for.
"The Paper is meant to paste in as Flyleaf before any Volume of the
Letters, as now printed. But it is not a 'Venerable' Book, I doubt.
Daddy Wordsworth said, indeed, 'Charles Lamb is a good man if ever good
man was'--as I had wished to quote at the End of my Paper, but could not
find the printed passage."
* * * * *
The poem turned up in a MS. book of my father's, while this article was
writing. It is a version of the "Lucius AEmilius Paullus," already
published by Mr Aldis Wright, in vol. ii. p. 483 of the 'Remains,' but
the two differ so widely that lovers of FitzGerald will be glad to have
it. Here, then, it is:--
A PARAPHRASE BY EDWARD FITZGERALD OF THE SPEECH OF PAULLUS AEMILIUS IN
LIVY, lib. xlv. c. 41.
"How prosperously I have served the State,
And how in the Midsummer of Success
A double Thunderbolt from heav'n has struck
On mine own roof, Rome needs not to be told,
Who has so lately witness'd through her Streets,
Together, moving with unequal March,
My Triumph and the Funeral of my Sons.
Yet bear with me if in a few brief words,
And no invidious Spirit, I compare
With the full measure of the general Joy
My private Destitution. When the Fleet
Was all equipp'd, 'twas at the break of day
That I weigh'd anchor from Brundusium;
Before the day went down, with all my Ships
I made Corcyra; thence, upon the fifth,
To Delphi; where to the presiding God
A lustratory Sacrifice I made,
As for myself, so for the Fleet and Army.
Thence in five days I reach'd the Roman camp;
Took the command; re-organis'd the War;
And, for King Perseus would not forth to fight,
And for his camp's strength could not forth be forced,
I slipped between his Outposts by the woods
At Petra, thence I follow'd him, when he
Fight me must needs, I fought and routed him,
Into the all-constraining Arms of Rome
Reduced all Macedonia.
And this grave War that, growing year by year,
Four Consuls each to each made over worse
Than from his predecessor he took up,
In fifteen days victoriously I closed.
With that the Flood of Fortune, setting in
Roll'd wave on wave upon us. Macedon
Once fall'n, her States and Cities all gave in,
The royal Treasure dropt into my Hands;
And then the King himself, he and his Sons,
As by the finger of the Gods betray'd,
Trapp'd in the Temple they took refuge in.
And now began my over-swelling Fortune
To look suspicious in mine eyes. I fear'd
The dangerous Seas that were to carry back
The fruit of such a Conquest and the Host
Whose arms had reap'd it all. My fear was vain:
The Seas were laid, the Wind was fair, we touch'd
Our own Italian Earth once more. And then
When nothing seem'd to pray for, yet I pray'd;
That because Fortune, having reach'd her height,
Forthwith begins as fatal a decline,
Her fall might but involve myself alone,
And glance beside my Country. Be it so!
By my sole ruin may the jealous Gods
Absolve the Common-weal--by mine--by me,
Of whose triumphal Pomp the front and rear--
O scorn of human Glory--was begun
And closed with the dead bodies of my Sons.
Yes, I the Conqueror, and conquer'd Perseus,
Before you two notorious Monuments
Stand here of human Instability.
He that was late so absolute a King
Now, captive led before my Chariot, sees
His sons led with him captive--but alive;
While I, the Conqueror, scarce had turn'd my face
From one lost son's still smoking Funeral,
And from my Triumph to the Capitol
Return--return in time to catch the last
Sigh of the last that I might call my Son,
Last of so many Children that should bear
My name to Aftertime. For blind to Fate,
And over-affluent of Posterity,
The two surviving Scions of my Blood
I had engrafted in an alien Stock,
And now, beside himself, no one survives
Of the old House of Paullus."
Myself, on the whole, I greatly prefer this version to Mr Aldis Wright's:
still, which is the later, which the earlier, it were hard to determine
on internal grounds. For, as has befallen many a greater poet,
FitzGerald's alterations were by no means always improvements. One sees
this in the various editions of his masterpiece, the 'Rubaiyat.' However,
by a comparison of the date (1856) on the fly-leaf of my father's
notebook with that of a published letter of FitzGerald's to Professor
Cowell (May 28, 1868), I am led to conclude that my father's copy is an
early draft.