Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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Edward FitzGerald >> Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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Don't suppose that this or any other ideal day with him effaces my days
with you. Indeed, my dear Frederic, you also mark many times and many
places in which I have been with you. Gravesend and its [Greek text]
shrimps cannot be forgotten. You say I shall never go to see you at
Florence. I have said to you before and I now repeat it, that if ever I
go abroad it shall be to see you and my Godchild. I really cannot say if
I should not have gone this winter (as I hinted in my last) in case you
had answered my letter. But I really did not know if you had not left
Florence; and a fortnight ago I thought to myself I would write to
Horatio at Cheltenham and ask him for news of you. As to Alfred, I have
heard of his marriage, etc., from Spedding, who also saw and was much
pleased with her indeed. But you know Alfred himself never writes, nor
indeed cares a halfpenny about one, though he is very well satisfied to
see one when one falls in his way. You will think I have a spite against
him for some neglect, when I say this, and say besides that I cannot care
for his In Memoriam. Not so, if I know myself: I always thought the same
of him, and was just as well satisfied with it as now. His poem I never
did greatly affect: nor can I learn to do so: it is full of finest
things, but it is monotonous, and has that air of being evolved by a
Poetical Machine of the highest order. So it seems to be with him now,
at least to me, the Impetus, the Lyrical oestrus, is gone. . . It is the
cursed inactivity (very pleasant to me who am no Hero) of this 19th
century which has spoiled Alfred, I mean spoiled him for the great work
he ought now to be entering upon; the lovely and noble things he has done
must remain. It is dangerous work this prophesying about great Men. . . .
I beg you very much to send me your poems, the very first opportunity;
as I want them very much. Nobody doubts that you ought to make a volume
for Moxon. Send your poems to Spedding to advise on. No doubt Alfred
would be best adviser of all: but then people would be stupid, and say
that he had done all that was good in the Book--(wait till I take my tea,
which has been lying on the table these ten minutes)--Now, animated by
some very inferior Souchong from the village shop, I continue my letter,
having reflected during my repast that I have seen two College men you
remember since I last wrote, Thompson and Merivale. The former is just
recovering of the water cure, looking blue: the latter, Merivale, is just
recovering from--Marriage!--which he undertook this Midsummer, with a
light-haired daughter of George Frere's. Merivale lives just on the
borders of Suffolk: and a week before his marriage he invited me to meet
F. Pollock and his wife at the Rectory. There we spent two easy days,
and I heard no more of Merivale till three weeks ago when he asked me to
meet Thompson just before Christmas. . . . Have you seen Merivale's
History of Rome, beginning with the Empire? Two portly volumes are out,
and are approved of by Scholars, I believe. I have not read them, not
having money to buy, nor any friend to lend.
I hear little music but what I make myself, or help to make with my
Parson's son and daughter. We, with not a voice among us, go through
Handel's Coronation Anthems! Laughable it may seem; yet it is not quite
so; the things are so well-defined, simple, and grand, that the faintest
outline of them tells; my admiration of the old Giant grows and grows:
his is the Music for a Great, Active, People. Sometimes too, I go over
to a place elegantly called _Bungay_, where a Printer {265} lives who
drills the young folks of a manufactory there to sing in Chorus once a
week. . . . They sing some of the English Madrigals, some of Purcell,
and some of Handel, in a way to satisfy me, who don't want perfection,
and who believe that the _grandest_ things do not depend on delicate
finish. If you were here now, we would go over and hear the Harmonious
Blacksmith sung in Chorus, with words, of course. It almost made me cry
when I heard the divine Air rolled into vocal harmony from the four
corners of a large Hall. One can scarce comprehend the Beauty of the
English Madrigals till one hears them done (though coarsely) in this way
and on a large scale: the play of the parts as they alternate from the
different quarters of the room.
I have taken another half sheet to finish my letter upon: so as my
calculation of how far this half-quire is to spread over Time is
defeated. Let us write oftener, and longer, and we shall not tempt the
Fates by inchoating too long a hope of letter-paper. I have written
enough for to-night: I am now going to sit down and play one of Handel's
Overtures as well as I can--Semele, perhaps, a very grand one--then,
lighting my lantern, trudge through the mud to Parson Crabbe's. Before I
take my pen again to finish this letter the New Year will have dawned--on
some of us. 'Thou fool! this night thy soul may be required of thee!'
Very well: while it is in this Body I will wish my dear old F. T. a happy
New Year. And now to drum out the Old with Handel. Good Night.
New Year's Day, 1851. A happy new Year to you! I sat up with my Parson
till the Old Year was past, drinking punch and smoking cigars, for which
I endure some headache this morning. Not that we took much; but a very
little punch disagrees with me. Only I would not disappoint my old
friend's convivial expectations. He is one of those happy men who has
the boy's heart throbbing and trembling under the snows of sixty-five.
_To G. Crabbe_.
[GELDESTONE, _Feb_. 11, 1851.]
MY DEAR GEORGE,
I send you an Euphranor, and (as you desire it) Spedding's Examiner.
{266} I believe that I should be ashamed of his praise, if I did not
desire to take any means to make my little book known for a good purpose.
I think he over-praises it: but he cannot over-praise the design, and (as
I believe) the tendency of it.
60 LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS,
[_Feb_. 27, 1851.]
MY DEAR GEORGE,
. . . My heart saddens to think of Bramford all desolate; {267a} and I
shall now almost turn my head away as any road, or railroad, brings me
within sight of the little spire! I write once a week to abuse both of
them for going. But they are quite happy at Oxford.
I felt a sort of horror when I read in your letter you had ordered the
Book {267b} into your Club, for fear some one might guess. But if _your_
folks don't guess, no one else will. I have heard no more of it since I
wrote to you last, except that its sale does not stand still. Pickering's
foreman blundered in the Advertisements; quoting an extract about the use
of the Book, when he should have quoted about its amusement, which is
what the world is attracted by. But I left it to him. As it would be a
real horror to me to be known as the writer, I do not think I can have
much personal ambition in its success; but I should sincerely wish it to
be read for what little benefit it may do. . . .
I have seen scarce anybody here: Thackeray only once; neither Tennyson
nor Carlyle. Donne came up for a day to see as to the morality of the
'Prodigal Son' {268} at Drury Lane, which the Bishop of London complained
of. Donne is deputy Licenser for Jack Kemble. I went to see it with
him; it was only stupid and gaudy.
BOULGE, Tuesday, _May_ the something, 1851.
MY DEAR GEORGE,
I am ashamed you should have the trouble of asking me to Merton so often,
and so in vain. I might give you a specious reason for not going now . . .
but I will honestly confess I believe I should not have accompanied
your Father in his Voyage to your house, had the sky been quite clear of
engagement. Why, I cannot exactly say: my soul is not packed up for
Merton yet, though one day it will be; and I have no such idea of the
preciousness of my company as to have any hesitation in letting my
friends wait any length of time before I go to occupy their easy chairs.
The day will come, if we live. I have had a very strong invitation to
Cambridge this week; to live with my old friends the Skrines in Sidney
College. But why should we meet to see each other grown old, etc.? (I
don't mean this quite seriously.) Ah, I should like a drive over
Newmarket Heath: the sun shining on the distant leads of Ely Cathedral.
_To F. Tennyson_.
BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE,
[25 _August_, 1851.]
MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC,
Why do you never write to me? I am sure I wrote last: I constantly am
thinking of you, and constantly wishing to see you. Perhaps you are in
England at this very hour, and do not let me know of it. _When_ I wrote
to you last I cannot remember; whether in Winter or Spring. I was in
London during January and February last, but have been vegetating down
here ever since. Have not been up even to see the Great Exh.--one is
tired of writing, and seeing written, the word. All the world, as you
know, goes in droves: you may be lounging in it this very hour, though I
don't mean to say you are one of a drove. It is because there are so few
F. Tennysons in the world that I do not like to be wholly out of hearing
of the one I know. . . . My own affairs do not improve, and I have seen
more and more of the pitiful in humanity . . . but luckily my wants
decrease. I am quite content never to buy a picture or a Book; almost
content not to see them. One could soon relapse into Barbarism. I do
indeed take a survey of old Handel's Choruses now and then; and am just
now looking with great delight into Purcell's King Arthur, real noble
_English_ music, much of it; and assuredly the prototype of much of
Handel. It is said Handel would not admire Purcell; but I am sure he
adapted himself to English ears and sympathies by means of taking up
Purcell's vein. I wish you were here to consider this with me; but you
would grunt dissent, and smile bitterly at my theories. I am trying to
teach the bumpkins of the united parishes of Boulge and Debach to sing a
second to such melodies as the women sing by way of Hymns in our Church:
and I have invented (as I think) a most simple and easy way of teaching
them the little they need to learn. How would you like to see me, with a
bit of chalk in my hand, before a black board, scoring up semibreves on a
staff for half a dozen Rustics to vocalize? Laugh at me in Imagination.
. . .
Almost the only man I hear from is dear old Spedding, who has lost his
Father, and is now, I suppose, a rich man. This makes no apparent change
in his way of life: he has only hired an additional Attic in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, so as to be able to bed a friend upon occasion. I may have
to fill it ere long. Merivale (you know, surely) is married, and has a
son I hear. He lives some twenty miles from here. . . .
Now, my dear Frederic, this is a sadly dull letter. I could have made it
duller and sadder by telling you other things. But, instead of this, let
me hear from you a good account of yourself and your family, and
especially of my little Godson. Remember, I have a right to hear about
him. Ever yours, dear old Grimsby,
E. F. G.
[19 CHARLOTTE ST., FITZROY SQUARE,
_Dec_. 1851.]
MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC,
I have long been thinking I would answer a long and kind letter I had
from you some weeks ago, in which you condoled with me about my finances,
and offered me your house as a Refuge for the Destitute. I can never
wonder at generosity in you: but I am sorry I should have seemed to
complain so much as to provoke so much pity from you. I am not worse off
than I have been these last three years; and so much better off than
thousands who deserve more that I should deserve to be kicked if I whined
over my decayed fortunes. If I go to Italy, it will be to see Florence
and Fred. Tennyson: I do not despair of going one day: I believe my
desire is gathering, and my indolence warming up with the exhilarating
increase of Railroads.
But for the present here I am, at 19 Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square,
come up to have a fresh squabble with Lawyers, and to see to an old
College friend who is gone mad, and threatens to drive his wife mad too,
I think. Here are troubles, if you like: I mean, these poor people's.
Well, I have not had much time except to post about in Omnibi between
Lincoln's Inn and Bayswater: but I have seen Alfred once; Carlyle once;
Thackeray twice; and Spedding many times. I did not see Mrs. A.: but am
to go and dine there one day before I leave. Carlyle has been undergoing
the Water System at Malvern, and says it has done him a very little good.
He would be quite well, he says, if he threw his Books away, and walked
about the mountains: but that would be 'propter vitam, etc.' Nature made
him a Writer: so he must wear himself out writing Lives of Sterling,
etc., for the Benefit of the World. Thackeray says he is getting tired
of being witty, and of the great world: he is now gone to deliver his
Lectures {272} at Edinburgh: having already given them at Oxford and
Cambridge. Alfred, I thought looking pretty well. Spedding is immutably
wise, good, and delightful: not so immutably well in Body, I think:
though he does not complain. But I will deal in no more vaticinations of
Evil. I can't think what was the oracle in my Letters you allude to, I
mean about the three years' duration of our lives. 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. What can 'In
Memoriam' do but make us all sentimental? . . .
My dear Frederic, I hope to see you one day: I really do look forward one
day to go and see you in Italy, as well as to see you here in England. I
know no one whom it would give me more pleasure to think of as one who
might perhaps be near me as we both go down the hill together, whether in
Italy or England. You, Spedding, Thackeray, and only one or two more.
The rest have come like shadows and so departed.
_To G. Crabbe_.
[_Feb_. 27, 1852.]
MY DEAR GEORGE,
. . . I rejoice in your telling me what you think; or I should rejoice if
these books were of importance enough to require honest advice. I think
you may be very right about the length of the Preface; {273} that I do
not think you right about the reasoning of it you may suppose by my ever
printing it. It is to show _why_ Books of that kind are dull: what sort
of writers ought to be quoted, etc.; proverbial writers: and what
constitutes proverbiality, etc. Well, enough of it all: I am glad you
like it on the whole. As to Euphranor I do wish him not to die yet: and
am gratified you think him worthy to survive a little longer. That is a
good cause, let my treatment of it be as it will.
I and Drew sat up at your Father's till 3 (a.m.) last Tuesday: at the old
affair of Calvinism, etc. It amuses them: else one would think it odd
they did not see how they keep on fighting with Shadows, and slaying the
slain.
I am really going next week from home, towards that famous expedition to
Shropshire {274} which I mean to perform one day. I write after walking
to Woodbridge: and hear that Mr. Cana has called in my absence to
announce that 'the Hall' is let; to a Mr. Cobbold, from Saxmundham, I
think, who has a farm at Sutton. I met Tom (_young_ Tom) Churchyard in
Woodbridge, who tells me he is going to America on Monday! He makes less
fuss about it than I do about going to Shropshire.
HAM, _June_ 2/52.
MY DEAR GEORGE,
. . . Order into your Book Club 'Trench on the Study of Words'; a
delightful, good, book, not at all dry (unless to fools); one I am sure
you will like. Price but three and sixpence and well worth a guinea at
least.
In spite of my anti-London prejudices, I find this Limb of London (for
such it is) very beautiful: the Thames with its Swans upon it, and its
wooded sides garnished with the Villas of Poets, Wits, and Courtiers, of
a Time which (I am sorry to say) has more charms to me than the Middle
Ages, or the Heroic.
I have seen scarce any of the living London Wits; Spedding and Donne
most: Thackeray but twice for a few minutes. He finished his Novel {275}
last Saturday and is gone, I believe, to the Continent.
_To F. Tennyson_.
GOLDINGTON, BEDFORD,
_June_ 8/52.
MY DEAR FREDERIC,
It gave me, as always, the greatest pleasure to hear from you. Your
letter found me at my Mother's house, at Ham, close to Richmond; a really
lovely place, and neighbourhood, though I say it who am all prejudiced
against London and 'all the purtenances thereof.' But the copious woods,
green meadows, the Thames and its swans gliding between, and so many
villas and cheerful houses and terraced gardens with all their
associations of Wits and Courtiers on either side, all this is very
delightful. I am not heroic enough for Castles, Battlefields, etc.
Strawberry Hill for me! I looked all over it: you know all the pictures,
jewels, curiosities, were sold some ten years ago; only bare walls
remain: the walls indeed here and there stuck with Gothic woodwork, and
the ceilings with Gothic gilding, sometimes painted Gothic to imitate
woodwork; much of it therefore in less good taste: all a Toy, but yet the
Toy of a very clever man. The rain is coming through the Roofs, and
gradually disengaging the confectionary Battlements and Cornices. Do you
like Walpole? did you ever read him? Then close by is Hampton Court:
with its stately gardens, and fine portraits inside; all very much to my
liking. I am quite sure gardens should be formal, and unlike general
Nature. I much prefer the old French and Dutch gardens to what are
called the English.
I saw scarce any of our friends during the three weeks I passed at Ham.
Though I had to run to London several times, I generally ran back as fast
as I could; much preferring the fresh air and the fields to the smoke and
'the wilderness of monkeys' in London. Thackeray I saw for ten minutes:
he was just in the agony of finishing a Novel: which has arisen out of
the Reading necessary for his Lectures, and relates to those Times--of
Queen Anne, I mean. He will get 1000 pounds for his Novel. He was
wanting to finish it, and rush off to the Continent, I think, to shake
off the fumes of it. Old Spedding, that aged and most subtle Serpent,
was in his old haunt in Lincoln's Inn Fields, up to any mischief. It was
supposed that Alfred was somewhere near Malvern: Carlyle I did not go to
see, for I really have nothing to tell him, and I have got tired of
hearing him growl: though I do not cease to admire him as much as ever. I
also went once to the pit of the Covent Garden Italian Opera, to hear
Meyerbeer's Huguenots, of which I had only heard bits on the Pianoforte.
But the first Act was so noisy, and ugly, that I came away, unable to
wait for the better part, that, I am told, follows. Meyerbeer is a man
of Genius: and works up _dramatic_ Music: but he has scarce any melody,
and is rather grotesque and noisy than really powerful. I think this is
the fault of modern music; people cannot believe that Mozart is
_powerful_ because he is so Beautiful: in the same way as it requires a
very practised eye (more than I possess) to recognize the consummate
power predominating in the tranquil Beauty of Greek Sculpture. I think
Beethoven is rather spasmodically, than sustainedly, grand.
Well, I must take to my third side after all, which I meant to have
spared you, partly because of this transparent paper, and my more than
usually bad writing. I came down here four days ago: and have this
morning sketched for you the enclosed, the common that lies before my
Bedroom window, as I pulled up my blind, and opened my shutter upon it,
early this morning. I never draw now, never drew well; but this may
serve to give a hint of poor old dewy England to you who are, I suppose,
beginning to be dried up in the South. W. Browne, my host, tells me that
your Grimsby Rail is looking up greatly, and certainly will pay well,
sooner or later: which I devoutly hope it may.
I do not think I told you my Father was dead; like poor old Sedley in
Thackeray's Vanity Fair, all his Coal schemes at an end. He died in
March, after an illness of three weeks, saying 'that engine works well'
(meaning one of his Colliery steam engines) as he lay in the stupor of
Death. I was in Shropshire at the time, with my old friend Allen; but I
went home to Suffolk just to help to lay him in the Grave.
Pray do send me your Poems, one and all: I should like very much to talk
them over with you, however much you might resent me, who am no Poet,
presuming to advise you who as certainly are one. That you ought to
publish some of these Poems (as I think, somewhat condensed, or, at
least, curtailed) I am more and more sure, having seen the very great
pleasure, and deep interest, some of them have caused when read to
persons of very different talents and tastes.
And now, my dear Frederic, farewell for the present. Remember, you
cannot write to me too often, as far as I am concerned.
Don't write Politics--I agree with you beforehand.
_To W. B. Donne_.
BOULGE, _August_ 10/52.
MY DEAR DONNE,
It is very good of you to write to me, so much as you have to do. I am
much obliged to you also for taking the trouble to go and see my Mother.
You may rely on it she feels as pleased with your company as she says she
is: I do not know any one who has the power of being so agreeable to her
as yourself.
And dear old Thackeray is really going to America! I must fire him a
letter of farewell.
The Cowells are at Ipswich, and I get over to see them, etc. They talk
of coming here too. I have begun again to read Calderon with Cowell: the
Magico we have just read, a very grand thing. I suppose Calderon was
over-praised some twenty years ago: for the last twenty it has been the
fashion to underpraise him, I am sure. His Drama may not be the finest
in the world: one sees how often too he wrote in the fashion of his time
and country: but he is a wonderful fellow: one of the Great Men of the
world.
* * * * *
In October 1852 Thackeray sailed for America and before leaving wrote to
FitzGerald the letter which he copied for Archdeacon Allen. I shall I
trust be pardoned for thinking that others will be the better for reading
the words of 'noble kindness' in which Thackeray took leave of his
friend.
[BOULGE, 22 _Nov._ 1852.]
MY DEAR ALLEN,
I won't send you Thackeray's own letter because it is his own delegation
of a little trust I would not hazard. But on the other side of the page
I write a copy: for your eyes only: for I would not wish to show even its
noble kindness to any but one who has known him as closely as myself.
_From W. M. Thackeray to E. F. G._
_October_ 27, 1852.
MY DEAREST OLD FRIEND,
I mustn't go away without shaking your hand, and saying Farewell and God
Bless you. If anything happens to me, you by these presents must get
ready the Book of Ballads which you like, and which I had not time to
prepare before embarking on this voyage. And I should like my daughters
to remember that you are the best and oldest friend their Father ever
had, and that you would act as such: as my literary executor and so
forth. My Books would yield a something as copyrights: and, should
anything occur, I have commissioned friends in good place to get a
Pension for my poor little wife. . . . Does not this sound gloomily?
Well: who knows what Fate is in store: and I feel not at all downcast,
but very grave and solemn just at the brink of a great voyage.
I shall send you a copy of Esmond to-morrow or so which you shall yawn
over when you are inclined. But the great comfort I have in thinking
about my dear old boy is that recollection of our youth when we loved
each other as I do now while I write Farewell.
Laurence has done a capital head of me ordered by Smith the Publisher:
and I have ordered a copy and Lord Ashburton another. If Smith gives me
this one, I shall send the copy to you. I care for you as you know, and
always like to think that I am fondly and affectionately yours
W. M. T.
I sail from Liverpool on Saturday Morning by the Canada for Boston.
* * * * *
That the feelings here expressed were fully reciprocated by FitzGerald is
clear from the following words of a letter written by him to Thackeray to
tell him of a provision he had made in his will.
'You see you can owe me no thanks for giving what I can no longer use
"when I go down to the pit," and it would be some satisfaction to me,
and some diminution of the shame I felt on reading your letter, if
"after many days" your generous and constant friendship bore some sort
of fruit, if not to yourself to those you are naturally anxious
about.'
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