Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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Edward FitzGerald >> Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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. . . As I lay in bed this morning, half dozing, I walked in imagination
all the way from Tenby to Freestone by the road I know so well: by the
water-mill, by Gumfreston, Ivy tower, and through the gates, and the long
road that leads to Carew.
Now for the poet Carew:
1.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose:
For in your beauty's orient deep,
The flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
2.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day:
For in pure love did Heav'n prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
3.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when June is past:
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
4.
Ask me no more where those stars light
That downward fall at dead of night:
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
5.
Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
These lines are exaggerated, as all in Charles's time, but very
beautiful. . . .
Yours most affectionately, E.
LONDON, _Nov_. [27, 1832.]
MY DEAR ALLEN,
The first thing I do in answering your letter is to tell you that I am
angry at your saying that your conscience pricks you for not having
written to me before. I am of that superior race of men, that are quite
content to hear themselves talk, and read their own writing. But, in
seriousness, I have such love of you, and of myself, that once every
week, at least, I feel spurred on by a sort of gathering up of feelings
to vent myself in a letter upon you: but if once I hear you say that it
makes your conscience thus uneasy till you answer, I shall give it up.
Upon my word I tell you, that I do not in the least require it. You, who
do not love writing, cannot think that any one else does: but I am sorry
to say that I have a very young-lady-like partiality to writing to those
that I love. . . . I have been reading Shakespeare's Sonnets: and I
believe I am unprejudiced when I say, I had but half an idea of him,
Demigod as he seemed before, till I read them carefully. How can Hazlitt
call Warton's the finest sonnets? There is the air of pedantry and
labour in his. But Shakespeare's are perfectly simple, and have the very
essence of tenderness that is only to be found in the best parts of his
Romeo and Juliet besides. I have truly been lapped in these Sonnets for
some time: they seem all stuck about my heart, like the ballads that used
to be on the walls of London. I have put a great many into my Paradise,
giving each a fair white sheet for himself: there being nothing worthy to
be in the same page. I could talk for an hour about them: but it is not
fit in a letter. . . .
I shall tell you of myself, that I have been better since I wrote to you.
Mazzinghi {14} tells me that November weather breeds Blue Devils--so that
there is a French proverb, 'In October, de Englishman shoot de pheasant:
in November he shoot himself.' This I suppose is the case with me: so
away with November, as soon as may be. 'Canst thou my Clora' is being
put in proper musical trim: and I will write it out for you when all is
right. I am sorry you are getting so musical: and if I take your advice
about so big a thing as Christianity, take you mine about music. I am
sure that this pleasure of music grows so on people, that many of the
hours that you would have devoted to Jeremy Taylor, etc. will be melted
down into tunes, and the idle train of thought that music puts us into. I
fancy I have discovered the true philosophy of this: but I think you must
have heard me enlarge. Therefore 'satis.'
I have gabbled on so long that there is scarce room for my quotation. But
it shall come though in a shapeless manner, for the sake of room. Have
you got in your Christian Poet, a poem by Sir H. Wotton--'How happy is he
born or taught, that serveth not another's will'? It is very beautiful,
and fit for a Paradise of any kind. Here are some lines from old Lily,
which your ear will put in the proper metre. It gives a fine description
of a fellow walking in Spring, and looking here and there, and pricking
up his ears, as different birds sing. 'What bird so sings, but doth so
wail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: "Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue,"
she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who
is't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear: against heaven's
gate he claps his wings, the morn not waking till he sings. Hark, too,
with what a pretty note poor Robin Redbreast tunes his throat: Hark how
the jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring: "Cuckoo" to
welcome in the Spring.' This is very English, and pleasant, I think: and
so I hope you will. I could have sent you many a more sentimental thing,
but nothing better. I admit nothing into my Paradise, but such as
breathe content, and virtue: I count 'Back and syde' to breathe both of
these, with a little good drink over.
_Wednesday_ [28 _Nov._ 1832].
P.S. I sealed up my letter yesterday, forgetting to finish. I write
thus soon 'becase I gets a frank.' You shall benefit by another bit of
poetry. I do not admit it into my Paradise, being too gloomy: but it
will please both of us. It is the prototype of the Pensieroso.
Hence all you vain delights!
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh sweetest melancholy!
Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh, that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless gloves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls!
A midnight dell, a passing groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as [lovely] melancholy.
(From the _Nice Valour_, _or the Passionate Madman_, by Fletcher.)
I think these lines are quite of the finest order, and have a more
headlong melancholy than Milton's, which are distinctly copied from
these, as you must confess. And now this is a very long letter, and the
best thing you can do when you get to the end, is to Da Capo, and read
what I ordered you about answering. My dear fellow, it is a great
pleasure to me to write to you; and to write out these dear poems. . . .
Believe me that I am your very loving friend,
E. F. G.
[_Dec_. 7, 1832.]
MY DEAR ALLEN,
You can hardly have got through my last letter by this time. I hope you
liked the verses I sent you. The news of this week is that Thackeray has
come to London, but is going to leave it again for Devonshire directly.
He came very opportunely to divert my Blue Devils: notwithstanding, we do
not see very much of each other: and he has now so many friends
(especially the Bullers) that he has no such wish for my society. He is
as full of good humour and kindness as ever. The next news is that a new
volume of Tennyson is out: containing nothing more than you have in MS.
except one or two things not worth having. . . .
When you write back (of which there is no hurry) send me an account that
you and your Brother were once telling me at Bosherston, of three
Generals condemned to die after the siege of Pembroke in Cromwell's time:
and of the lot being brought by a little child. Give me their names,
etc. (if you can) pretty circumstantially: or else, tell me where I can
find some notice of it. . . .
I have been poring over Wordsworth lately: which has had much effect in
bettering my Blue Devils: for his philosophy does not abjure melancholy,
but puts a pleasant countenance upon it, and connects it with humanity.
It is very well, if the sensibility that makes us fearful of ourselves is
diverted to become a cause of sympathy and interest with Nature and
mankind: and this I think Wordsworth tends to do. I think I told you of
Shakespeare's sonnets before: I cannot tell you what sweetness I find in
them.
So by Shakespeare's Sonnets roasted, and Wordsworth's poems basted,
My heart will be well toasted, and excellently tasted.
This beautiful couplet must delight you, I think. I will also give you
the two last verses about Clora: though it is more complete and better
without them: strange to say. You must have the goodness to repeat those
you know over first, and then fall upon these: for there is a sort of
reasoning in them, which requires proper order, as much as a proposition
of Euclid. The first of them is not to my liking, but it is too much
trouble about a little thing to work it into a better. You have the two
first stanzas {19}--"ergo"
3.
Nothing can utterly die:
Music aloft upspringing
Turns to pure atoms of sky
Each golden note of thy singing:
And that to which morning did listen
At eve in a rainbow may glisten.
4.
Beauty, when laid in the grave,
Feedeth the lily beside her:
Therefore the soul cannot have
Station or honour denied her:
She will not better her essence,
But wear a crown in God's presence.
Q.E.D.
And I think there is quite enough of Clora and her music. I am hunting
about the town for an ancient drinking cup, which I may use when I am in
my house, in quality of housekeeper. Have the goodness to make my
remembrances to all at that most pleasant house Freestone: I am quite
serious in telling you how it is by far the pleasantest family I ever was
among.
My sister is far better. We walk very much and see such sights as the
town affords. To-day I have bought a little terrier to keep me company.
You will think this is from my reading of Wordsworth: but if that were my
cue, I should go no further than keeping a primrose in a pot for society.
Farewell, dear Allen. I am astonished to find myself writing a very long
letter once a week to you: but it is next to talking to you: and after
having seen you so much this summer, I cannot break off suddenly.
I am your most affectionate friend,
E. F. G.
Have you got this beginning to your MS. of the Dream of Fair Women? It
is very splendid.
1.
As when a man that sails in a balloon
Down looking sees the solid shining ground
Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon,--
Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound:
2.
And takes his flags, and waves them to the mob
That shout below, all faces turn'd to where
Glows rubylike the far-up crimson globe
Filled with a finer air:
3.
So, lifted high, the Poet at his will
Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all,
Higher through secret splendours mounting still
Self-poised, nor fears to fall,
4. Hearing apart the echoes of his fame--
This is in his best style: no fretful epithet, nor a word too much.
[CASTLE IRWELL]
MANCHESTER, _February_ 24, 1833.
DEAR ALLEN,
. . . I am fearful to boast, lest I should lose what I boast of: but I
think I have achieved a victory over my evil spirits here: for they have
full opportunity to come, and I often observe their approaches, but
hitherto I have managed to keep them off. Lord Bacon's Essay on
Friendship is wonderful for its truth: and I often feel its truth. He
says that with a Friend 'a man _tosseth_ his thoughts,' an admirable
saying, which one can understand, but not express otherwise. But I feel
that, being alone, one's thoughts and feelings, from want of
communication, become heaped up and clotted together, as it were: and so
lie like undigested food heavy upon the mind: but with a friend one
_tosseth_ them about, so that the air gets between them, and keeps them
fresh and sweet. I know not from what metaphor Bacon took his 'tosseth,'
but it seems to me as if it was from the way haymakers toss hay, so that
it does not press into a heavy lump, but is tossed about in the air, and
separated, and thus kept sweet. . . .
Your most affectionate friend,
E. FITZGERALD.
_To W. B. Donne_. {22}
GELDESTONE, _Sept_. 27, [1833].
DEAR DONNE,
. . . As to my history since I have seen you, there is little to tell.
Divinity is not outraged by your not addressing me as a Reverend--I not
being one. I am a very lazy fellow, who do nothing: and this I have been
doing in different places ever since I saw you last. I have not been
well for the last week: for I am at present rather liable to be overset
by any weariness (and where can any be found that can match the effect of
two Oratorios?), since for the last three months I have lived on
vegetables--that is, I have given up meat. When I was talking of this to
Vipan, he told me that you had once tried it, and given it up. I shall
hear your account of its effect on you. The truth is, that mine is the
wrong time of life to begin a change of that kind: it is either too
early, or too late. But I have no doubt at all of the advantage of
giving up meat: I find already much good from it, in lightness and
airiness of head, whereas I was always before clouded and more or less
morbid after meat. The loss of strength is to be expected: I shall keep
on and see if that also will turn, and change into strength. I have
almost Utopian notions about _vegetable diet_, begging pardon for making
use of such a vile, Cheltenhamic, phrase. Why do you not bring up your
children to it? To be sure, the chances are, that, after guarding their
vegetable morals for years, they would be seduced by some roast partridge
with bread sauce, and become ungodly. This actually happened to the son
of a Dr. Newton who wrote a book {23} about it and bred up his children
to it--but all such things I will tell you when I meet you. Gods! it is
a pleasant notion that one is about to meet an old acquaintance in a day
or two.
Believe me then your most sincere friend,
E. FITZGERALD.
Pipes--are their names ever heard with you? I have given them up, except
at Cambridge. But the word has something sweet in it--Do you ever smoke?
7 SOUTHAMPTON ROW, BLOOMSBURY,
[_Oct_. 25, 1833.]
DEAR DONNE,
. . . As to myself, and my diet, about which you give such excellent
advice: I am still determined to give the diet I have proposed a good
trial: a year's trial. I agree with you about vegetables, and soups: but
my diet is chiefly _bread_: which is only a little less nourishing than
flesh: and, being compact, and baked, and dry, has none of the washy,
diluent effects of green vegetables. I scarcely ever touch the latter:
but only pears, apples, etc. I have found no benefit yet; except, as I
think, in more lightness of spirits: which is a great good. But I shall
see in time.
I am living in London in the quarter of the town which I have noticed
above: in a very happy bachelor-like way. Would you would come up here
for a few days. I can give you bed, board, etc. Do have some business
in town, please. Spedding is here: taking lessons of drawing, before he
goes for good into Cumberland: whither, for my sake and that of all his
friends, I wish he never would go: for there are few such men, as far
[as] I know. He and I have been theatricalizing lately. We saw an awful
Hamlet the other night--a Mr. Serle--and a very good Wolsey, in Macready:
and a very bad Queen Catherine, in Mrs. Sloman, whom you must remember. I
am going to-night to see Macready in Macbeth: I have seen him before in
it: and I go for the sake of his two last acts, which are amazingly fine,
I think. . . . I am close to the British Museum, in which I take great
pleasure in reading in my rambling way. I hear of Kemble lately that he
has been making some discoveries in Anglo-Saxon MSS. at Cambridge that,
they say, are important to the interests of the church: and there is talk
of publishing them, I believe. He is a strange fellow for that fiery
industry of his: and, I am sure, deserves some steady recompense.
Tennyson has been in town for some time: he has been making fresh poems,
which are finer, they say, than any he has done. But I believe he is
chiefly meditating on the purging and subliming of what he has already
done: and repents that he has published at all yet. It is fine to see
how in each succeeding poem the smaller ornaments and fancies drop away,
and leave the grand ideas single. . . .
I have lately bought a little pamphlet which is very difficult to be got,
called The Songs of Innocence, written and adorned with drawings by W.
Blake (if you know his name) who was quite mad, but of a madness that was
really the elements of great genius ill-sorted: in fact, a genius with a
screw loose, as we used to say. I shall shew you this book when I see
you: to me there is particular interest in this man's writing and
drawing, from the strangeness of the constitution of his mind. He was a
man that used to see visions: and make drawings and paintings of
Alexander the Great, Caesar, etc., who, he declared, stood before him
while he drew. . .
Your very affectionate friend,
E. FITZGERALD.
7 SOUTHAMPTON ROW,
_Nov._ 19, 1833.
DEAR DONNE,
Your book I got, and read through all that seemed to concern me the first
day. I have doubted whether it would be most considerate to return you
thanks for it, making you pay for a letter: or to leave you thankless,
with a shilling more in your pocket. You see I have taken the latter [?
former], and God forgive me for it. The book is a good one, I think, as
any book is, that notes down facts alone, especially about health. I
wish we had diaries of the lives of half the unknown men that have lived.
Like all other men who have got a theory into their heads, I can only see
things in the light of that theory; and whatever is brought to me to
convince me to the contrary is only wrought and tortured to my view of
the question. This lasts till a reaction is brought about by some of the
usual means: as time, and love of novelty, etc. I am still very
obstinate and persist in my practices. I do not think Stark is an
instance of vegetable diet: consider how many things he tried grossly
animal: lard, and butter, and fat: besides thwarting Nature in every way
by eating when he wanted not to eat, and the contrary. Besides the
editor says in the preface that he thinks his death was brought about as
much by vexation as by the course of his diet: but I suppose the truth is
that vexation could not have had so strong hold except upon a weakened
body. However, altogether I do not at all admit Stark to be any
instance: to be set up like a scarecrow to frighten us from the corn,
etc. Last night I went to hear a man lecture at Owen of Lanark's
establishment (where I had never been before), and the subject happened
to be about Vegetable Diet: but it was only the termination of a former
lecture, so that I suppose all the good arguments (if there were any)
were gone before. Do you know anything of a book by a Doctor Lamb upon
this subject? I do not feel it to be disgusting to talk of myself upon
this subject, because I think there is great interest in the subject
itself. So I shall say that I am just now very well: in fine spirits. I
have only eaten meat once for many weeks: and that was at a party where I
did not like to be singled out. Neither have I tasted wine, except two
or three times. If I fail at last I shall think it a very great bore:
but assuredly the first cut of a leg of mutton will be some consolation
for my wounded judgement: that first cut is a fine thing. So much for
this. . . . Have you heard that Arthur Malkin is to be married? to a
Miss Carr, with what Addison might call a pleasing fortune: or perhaps
Nicholas Rowe. 'Sweet, pleasing friendship, etc. etc.' Mrs. Malkin is
in high spirits about it, I hear: and I am very glad indeed. God send
that you have not heard this before: for a man likes to be the first
teller of a pretty piece of news. Spedding and I went to see Macready in
Hamlet the other night: with which he was pretty well content, but not
wholly. For my part, I have given up deciding on how Hamlet should be
played: or rather have decided it shouldn't be played at all. I take
pleasure in reading things I don't wholly understand; just as the old
women like sermons: I think it is of a piece with an admiration of all
Nature around us. I think there is a greater charm in the half meanings
and glimpses of meaning that come in through Blake's wilder visions:
though his difficulties arose from a very different source from
Shakespeare's. But somewhat too much of this. I suspect I have found
out this as an useful solution, when I am asked the meaning of any thing
that I am admiring, and don't know it.
Believe me, dear Donne, to be ever your affectionate friend,
E. FITZGERALD.
* * * * *
FitzGerald spent the May term of 1834 at Cambridge 'rejoicing in the
sunshine of James Spedding's presence.'
_To John Allen_.
WHERSTEAD LODGE, IPSWICH. {28}
_June_ 31 (so) 1834.
DEAR MY JOHNNY,
I have been reading the Spectator since I have been here: and I like it
very much. Don't you think it would make a nice book to publish all the
papers about Sir Roger de Coverley alone, with illustrations by
Thackeray? It is a thing that is wanted: to bring that standard of the
old English Gentleman forward out of the mass of little topics, and
fashions, that occupy the greater part of the Spectator. Thackeray has
illustrated my Undine in about fourteen little coloured drawings--very
nicely. . . .
I am here in the country in brave health: rising at six withal: and
pruning of rose trees in the garden. Why don't you get up early? in the
summer at least. The next time we meet in town I mean to get an artist
to make me your portrait: for I often wish for it. It must be looking at
me. Now write very soon: else I shall be gone: and know that I am your
very true friend,
E. F. G.
GELDESTONE HALL, _Sept_. 9, [1834].
DEAR ALLEN,
I have really nothing to say, and I am ashamed to be sending this third
letter all the way from here to Pembrokeshire for no earthly purpose: but
I have just received yours: and you will know how very welcome all your
letters are to me when you see how the perusal of this one has excited me
to such an instant reply. It has indeed been a long time coming: but it
is all the more delicious. Perhaps you can't imagine how wistfully I
have looked for it: how, after a walk, my eyes have turned to the table,
on coming into the room, to see it. Sometimes I have been tempted to be
angry with you: but then I thought that I was sure you would come a
hundred miles to serve me, though you were too lazy to sit down to a
letter. I suppose that people who are engaged in serious ways of life,
and are of well filled minds, don't think much about the interchange of
letters with any anxiety: but I am an idle fellow, of a very ladylike
turn of sentiment: and my friendships are more like loves, I think. Your
letter found me reading the Merry Wives of Windsor too: I had been
laughing aloud to myself: think of what another coat of happiness came
over my former good mood. You are a dear good fellow, and I love you
with all my heart and soul. The truth is I was anxious about this
letter, as I really didn't know whether you were married or not--or ill--I
fancied you might be anything, or anywhere. . . .
As to reading I have not done much. I am going through the Spectator:
which people nowadays think a poor book: but I honour it much. What a
noble kind of Journal it was! There is certaintly a good deal of what
may be called '_pill_,' but there is a great deal of wisdom, I believe,
only it is couched so simply that people can't believe it to be real
absolute wisdom. The little book you speak of I will order and buy. I
heard from Thackeray, who is just upon the point of going to France;
indeed he may be there by this time. I shall miss him much. . . .
Farewell my dearest fellow: you have made me very happy to hear from you:
and to know that all is so well with you. Believe me to be your ever
affectionate friend,
E. FITZGERALD.
_To W. B. Donne_.
[LONDON, 17 GLOUCESTER STREET, QUEEN SQUARE].
1834.
DEAR DONNE,
. . . I have been buying two Shakespeares, a second and third Folio--the
second Folio pleases me much: and I can read him with a greater zest now.
One had need of a big book to remember him by: for he is lost to the
theatre: I saw Mr. Vandenhoff play Macbeth in a sad way a few nights ago:
and such a set of dirty ragamuffins as the rest were could not disgrace
any country barn. Manfred I have missed by some chance: and I believe
'it was all for the best' as pious people say. The Theatre is bare
beyond anything I ever saw: and one begins to hope that it has touched
the bottom of its badness, and will rise again. I was looking the other
day at Sir W. Davenant's alteration of Macbeth: who dies, saying,
'Farewell, vain world: and that which is vainest in't, Ambition!'
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