Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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Edward FitzGerald >> Letters of Edward FitzGerald
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'On arriving at Naseby, I had spade and mattock taken to a hill near
half a mile across from the "Blockhead Obelisk," and pitted with
several hollows, overgrown with rank Vegetation, which Tradition had
always pointed to as the Graves of the Slain. One of these I had
opened; and there, sure enough, were the remains of Skeletons closely
packed together--chiefly teeth--but some remains of Shinbone, and
marks of Skull in the Clay. Some of these, together with some
sketches of the Place, I sent to Carlyle.
'The Naseby Monument, already advised by Carlyle, was not executed at
the time: and some how or other was not again talked of till 1855 when
the Estate was to be sold from us. I was told however by the Lawyers,
etc., that it was better not to interfere while that Business was
going on. So the Scheme went to sleep again till 1872, when, Carlyle
renewing the subject in some Letter, I applied to the Agent of the
Estate who was willing to help us in getting permission to erect the
Stone, and to a neighbouring Mason to fashion it as Carlyle desired.
We had some difficulty in this latter point, but at last all was
settled, when suddenly Agent and Lawyer informed us the thing must not
be done--for one reason, that Stone and Inscription were considered
too plain.'
Before the excavations were begun, however, FitzGerald received the
following letter of instructions from Carlyle, written three days after
their interview.
CHELSEA, 18 _Sept_., 1842.
MY DEAR SIR,
Profiting by the unexpected fact that _you_ are now master of Naseby
Battlefield, I have gone over the whole matter once more, probably for
the twentieth time; I have copied you my illegible pencil-notes, and re-
verified everything,--that so, if you can understand the meaning (which
will be difficult, I fear), you may append to it what commentary,
collected on the spot, you may judge edifying. Let me, however, again
impress upon you that these statements and descriptions are actual
_facts_, gathered with industry from some seven or eight eyewitnesses,
looking at the business with their own eyes from seven or eight different
sides; that the present figure of the ground, in my recollection,
corresponds very tolerably well with the whole of them;--and that no
'theory,' by what Professor soever, can be of any use to me in
comparison. I wish you had Sprigge's complete Plan of the Battle: but
you have it not; you have only that foolish Parson's {128} very dim copy
of it, and must help yourself with that.
The things I wish you to give me are first: The whole story of your
Blacksmith, or other oral Chronicler, be it wise and credible, be it
absurd and evidently false. Then you can ask, whether there remains any
tradition of a windmill at Naseby? One stands in the Plan, not far from
North of the village, probably some 300 yards to the west of where the
ass of a column now stands: the whole concern, of fighting, rallying,
flying, killing and chasing, transacted itself to the _west_ of that,--on
the height, over the brow of the height, down the slope, in the hollow,
and up again to the grounds of Dust Hill, where the _final_ dispersion
took place. Therefore, again, pray ask.
Where precisely any dead bodies are known to have been found? Where and
when the _last_-found was come upon; what they made of it,--whether no
Antiquarian kept a tooth; at any rate, a button or the like? Cannon-balls
ought to be found, especially musket-balls, down in that hollow, and on
the slope thitherward: is any extant cabinet master of one?
Farther, are there, on the high ground N.W. or W. of Naseby village, any
traces still discoverable of such names as these: 'Lantford hedges' (or
perhaps 'hedge'); a kind of thicket running _up_ the slope, towards the
western environs of Naseby village, nearly from the North;--Fairfax had
dragoons hidden here, who fired upon Rupert's right, as he charged
upwards: 'Rutput Hill': 'Fanny Hill' (according to Rushworth, 'Famny
Hill' in Sprigge),--probably two swellings in the ground, that lie
between the south end of Lantford Hedges and the village; 'Lean Leaf
Hill' seemingly another swelling, parallel to these, which reaches in
with its slope _to_ the very village--from the west: 'Mill Hill' farther
to the east (marked as due west from the windmill, which of course must
have stood upon a part of it), lying therefore upon the north part of the
village? Is it possible, in spite of all ditching and enclosure bills,
there may still some vestige of these names adhere to some fields or
messuages; the exact position of which it would be satisfactory to fix.
You can also tell me whether Burrough Hill is visible from Naseby, and
'what it is like'; and what the Sibbertoft height, on the other side, and
the Harboro' Height are like! I suppose one sees Sibbertoft steeple, but
no houses, from Naseby Height? Also that it was undoubtedly Clipston (as
the good Dr. Arnold and I supposed) that we saw there. Dr. A. and I
came, as I find, thro' Crick, West Hadden, Cold Ashby; and crossed the
Welford and Northampton road, perhaps some three miles from Naseby.
On the whole, my dear Sir, here seems to be work enough for you! But
after all is it not worth your while on other accounts? Were it not a
most legitimate task for the Proprietor of Naseby, a man of scholarship,
intelligence and leisure, to make himself completely acquainted with the
true state of all details connected with Naseby Battle and its
localities? Few spots of ground in all the world are memorabler to an
Englishman. We could still very well stand a good little book on Naseby!
_Verbum sapienti_.
As for myself, had I the wings of an eagle, most likely I should still
fly to you, and to several other quarters; but with railways and
tub-gigs, and my talent for insomnolence, and fretting myself to
fiddlestrings with all terrestrial locomotion whatsoever--alas, alas!
Believe me always,
My dear Sir,
Very truly yours
T. CARLYLE.
FitzGerald's letter to Carlyle, giving an account of the first results of
his excavations, has apparently not been preserved, but it was promptly
acknowledged.
CHELSEA, _Saturday_, 25 [24] _Septr_., 1842.
MY DEAR SIR,
You will do me and the Genius of History a real favour, if you persist in
these examinations and excavations to the utmost length possible for you!
It is long since I read a letter so interesting as yours of yesterday.
Clearly enough you are upon the very battle-ground;--and I, it is also
clear, have only looked up towards it from the slope of Mill Hill. Were
not the weather so wet, were not, etc., etc., so many _etceteras_, I
could almost think of running up to join you still! But that is
evidently unfeasible at present.
The opening of that burial-heap blazes strangely in my thoughts: these
are the very jawbones that were clenched together in deadly rage, on this
very ground, 197 years ago! It brings the matter home to one, with a
strange veracity,--as if for the first time one saw it to be no fable and
theory but a dire fact. I will beg for a tooth and a bullet;
authenticated by your own eyes and word of honour!--Our Scotch friend
too, making turnip manure of it, he is part of the Picture. I understand
almost all the Netherlands battlefields have already given up their bones
to British husbandly; why not the old English next? Honour to thrift. If
of 5000 wasted men, you can make a few usable turnips, why, do it!
The more sketches and details you can contrive to send me, the better. I
want to know for one thing whether there is any _house_ on Cloisterwell;
what house that was that I saw from the slope of Naseby height
(Mill-hill, I suppose), and fancied to be Dust Hill Farm? It must lie
about North by West from Naseby Church, perhaps near a mile off. You
say, one cannot see Dust Hill at all, much less any farm house of Dust
Hill, from that Naseby Height?
But why does the Obelisk stand there? It might as well stand at Charing
Cross; the blockhead that it is! I again wish I had wings: alas, I wish
many things; that the gods would but annihilate Time and Space, which
would include all things!
In great haste, Yours most truly,
T. CARLYLE.
The following letters will partly supply the place of the missing letter
to Carlyle.
_To Bernard Barton_.
LONDON. _Friday_, _Septr_. [16] 1842.
DEAR BARTON,
Have you supposed me dead or what? Well, so far from it, I have grown
more fat than ever, which is quite as much reason for not writing. I
have been staying at Naseby, and, having come up here for two days,
return to that place by railroad to-morrow. I went to see Carlyle last
night. He had just returned from the neighbourhood of Bury. He is full
of Cromwell, and, funny enough, went over from Rugby to Naseby this
spring with poor Dr. Arnold. They saw nothing, and walked over what was
not the field of battle. I want him to go down with me: but he thinks it
would be too expensive. So I have engaged to collect what matter I can
for him on the spot. At the beginning of October I expect to be back in
East Anglia for the winter. Frail is human virtue. I thought I had
quite got over picture dealing, when lo! walking in Holborn this day I
looked into a shop just to shew the strength of my virtue, and fell. That
accursed Battle Piece--I have bought it--and another picture of dead
chaffinches, which Mr. C[hurchyard] will like, it is so well done: I
expect you to give high prices for these pictures--mind that: and begin
to economize in household matters. Leave off sugar in tea and make all
your household do so. Also write to me at Naseby, Welford, Northampton.
That's my direction--such a glorious country, Barton. I wrote you a
letter a week ago, but never posted it. So now goodbye. I shall bring
down the Chaffinches with me to Suffolk. Trade has been very bad, the
dealers tell me. My fruit Girl still hangs up at a window--an unpleasant
sight. Nobody is so hard set as to bid for her.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
NASEBY, WELFORD, NORTHAMPTON,
_Septr_. 20/42.
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
. . . London was very close and nasty: so I am glad to get down here:
where, however, I am not (as at present proposed) to stay long: my Father
requiring my services in Suffolk early in October. Laurence has made a
sort of promise to come and see me here next Saturday: I wanted him to
come down with me while the weather was fine. The place is very desert,
but a battle was probably fought here 200 years ago, as an Obelisk
planted by my Papa on the wrong site intimates. Poor Carlyle got into
sad error from that deluding Obelisk: which Liston used to call (in this
case with truth) an Obstacle. I am afraid Carlyle will make a mad mess
of Cromwell and his Times: what a poor figure Fairfax will cut! I am
very tired of these heroics; and I can worship no man who has but a
square inch of brains more than myself. I think there is but one Hero:
and that is the Maker of Heroes.
Here I am reading Virgil's delightful Georgics for the first time. They
really attune perfectly well with the plains and climate of Naseby. Valpy
(whose edition I have) cannot quite follow Virgil's plough--in its
construction at least. But the main acts of agriculture seem to have
changed very little, and the alternation of green and corn crops is a
good dodge. And while I heard the fellows going out with their horses to
plough as I sat at breakfast this morning, I also read--
Libra die somnique pares ubi fecerit horas,
Et medium luci atque umbris jam dividit orbem,
Exercete, viri, tauros, serite hordea campis
Usque sub extremum brumae intractabilis imbrem. {134}
One loves Virgil somehow.
_To Bernard Barton_.
[NASEBY], _Septr_. 22/42.
MY DEAR BARTON,
The pictures are left all ready packed up in Portland Place, and shall
come down with me, whenever that desirable event takes place. In the
mean while here I am as before: but having received a long and
interesting letter from Carlyle asking information about this Battle
field, I have trotted about rather more to ascertain names of places,
positions, etc. After all he will make a mad book. I have just seen
some of the bones of a dragoon and his horse who were found foundered in
a morass in the field--poor dragoon, much dismembered by time: his less
worthy members having been left in the owner's summer-house for the last
twenty years have disappeared one by one: but his skull is kept safe in
the hall: not a bad skull neither: and in it some teeth yet holding, and
_a bit of the iron heel of his boot_, put into the skull by way of
convenience. This is what Sir Thomas Browne calls 'making a man act his
Antipodes.' {135} I have got a fellow to dig at one of the great general
graves in the field: and he tells me to-night that he has come to bones:
to-morrow I will select a neat specimen or two. In the mean time let the
full harvest moon wonder at them as they lie turned up after lying hid
2400 revolutions of hers. Think of that warm 14th of June when the
Battle was fought, and they fell pell-mell: and then the country people
came and buried them so shallow that the stench was terrible, and the
putrid matter oozed over the ground for several yards: so that the cattle
were observed to eat those places very close for some years after. Every
one to his taste, as one might well say to any woman who kissed the cow
that pastured there.
Friday, 23rd. We have dug at a place, as I said, and made such a trench
as would hold a dozen fellows: whose remains positively make up the
mould. The bones nearly all rotted away, except the teeth which are
quite good. At the bottom lay the _form_ of a perfect skeleton: most of
the bones gone, but the pressure distinct in the clay: the thigh and leg
bones yet extant: the skull a little pushed forward, as if there were
scanty room. We also tried some other reputed graves, but found nothing:
indeed it is not easy to distinguish what are graves from old marl-pits,
etc. I don't care for all this bone-rummaging myself: but the
identification of the graves identifies also where the greatest heat of
the battle was. Do you wish for a tooth?
As I began this antiquarian account in a letter to you, so I have
finished it, that you may mention it to my Papa, who perhaps will be
amused at it. Two farmers insisted on going out exploring with me all
day: one a very solid fellow, who talks like the justices in Shakespeare:
but who certainly was inspired in finding out this grave: the other a
Scotchman full of intelligence, who proposed the flesh-soil for manure
for turnips. The old Vicar, whose age reaches halfway back to the day of
the Battle, stood tottering over the verge of the trench. Carlyle has
shewn great sagacity in guessing at the localities from the vague
descriptions of contemporaries: and his short _pasticcio_ of the battle
is the best I have seen. {137} But he will spoil all by making a demi-
god of Cromwell, who certainly was so far from wise that he brought about
the very thing he fought to prevent--the restoration of an unrestricted
monarchy.
_To S. Laurence_.
NASEBY, _Septr_. 28/42.
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
I am sorry you did not come, as the weather has become fine, and this
wild wide country looks well on these blowing days, with flying shadows
running over the distance. Carlyle wrote me a long letter of questions
concerning the field of Battle, its traditions, etc. So I have trotted
about, examined the natives, and answered a great many of his queries as
fully, but as shortly, as I could. However I suppose he growls
superciliously at my letter, which was necessarily rather a long one. I
have also, in company with two farmers, opened one of the reputed graves
in which the killed were said to be reposited: and there sure enough we
found decayed bones, skulls, arms, legs, etc., and very sound teeth--the
only sound part. For many bodies put together corrupt one another of
course, and 200 years have not contributed to their preservation. People
had often dug about the field before and found nothing; and we tried two
or three other spots with no success. I am going to dig once more in a
place where tradition talks of a large burial of men and horses. . . .
How long I shall yet be here I know not: but not long I doubt. I dare
say I shall pass through London on my way to Suffolk: and then perhaps
see the trans-Atlantic Secretary. {138}
Don't trouble yourself to write answers to my gossip. I have just been
at our Church where we have had five clergymen to officiate: two in
shovel-hats. Our Vicar is near ninety; we have two curates: and an old
Clergyman and his Archdeacon son came on a visit. The son having a
shovel-hat, of course the Father could not be left behind. Shovel-hats
(you know) came into use with the gift of Tongs.
_To John Allen_.
[BOULGE COTTAGE.]
_Nov_. 18/42.
MY DEAR ALLEN,
. . . Do you know that I am really going to look out for some permanent
abode, which I think I am well qualified to decide on now. But in this
very judgment I may be most of all mistaken. I do not love London enough
to pitch my tent there: Woodbridge, Ipswich, or Colchester--won't one of
them do? . . .
I have been reading Burton's Anatomy {139} lately: a captivating book
certainly. That story of his going to the bridge at Oxford to listen to
the bargemen's slang, etc., he reports of the old Democritus, his
prototype: so perhaps biographers thought it must be Burton's taste also.
Or perhaps Burton took to doing it after example. I cannot help fancying
that I see the foundation (partly) of Carlyle's style in Burton: one
passage quite like part of Sartor Resartus. Much of Barton's Biography
may be picked up out of his own introduction to the Anatomy. Maurice's
Introductory Lecture I shall be very glad to have. I do not fancy I
should read his Kingdom of Christ, should I? You know.
I have had bad cold and cough which still hang about me: this damp
cottage is not good for a cure. . . . And now goodbye.
_To F. Tennyson_.
GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES.
[? 1843.]
DEAR FREDERIC,
I am glad you are back, and perhaps sorry. But glad let it be, for I
shall be in London, as proposed, in another fortnight--more or less--and
shall pig there in a garret for two months. We will go to picture sales
and buy bad pictures: though I have scarce money left. But I am really
at last going to settle in some spooney quarters in the country, and
would fain carry down some better forms and colours to put about me. I
cannot get the second or third best: but I can get the imitations of the
best: and that is enough for me.
What is become of Alfred? He never writes--nor is heard of.
Your letter found me poring over Harrington's Oceana: a long-shelved
book--its doctrine of Government I am no judge of: but what English those
fellows wrote! I cannot read the modern mechanique after them. 'This
free-born Nation lives not upon the dole or Bounty of One Man, but
distributing her Annual Magistracies and Honours with her own hand is
herself King People.' Harrington must be a better writer than Milton.
One finds books of this kind in these country houses: and it is pleasant
to look them over at midnight in the kitchen, where I retire to smoke. .
. .
Farewell till I see you one of these days.
_To S. Laurence_.
DUBLIN, _July_ 11/43
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
We got here this morning; most of us sick, but not I: not evidently sick,
I mean. Here the sun shines, and people go about in their cars or stand
idle, just the same as ever. 'Repeal' is faintly chalked on a wall here
and there. I have been to see a desperate collection of pictures by the
Royal Academy: among them old unsaleables by Maclise and Uwins.
What I write for however is to say that the first volume of Titmarsh's
Ireland is at 39 Portland Place; and that I wish you would ask for it
there and get it. Keep the two volumes for a time. It is all true. I
ordered a bath here when I got in: the waiter said it was heated to 90
degrees, but it was scalding: he next locked me up in the room instead of
my locking him out.
Keep an eye on the little Titian, and I shall really make the venture of
borrowing 30 pounds to invest in it. Tell Rochard you must have it. I
may never be able to get a bit of Titian in my life again: and I shall
doubtless learn to admire it properly in time.
_To F. Tennyson_.
HALVERSTOWN, KILCULLEN, IRELAND.
[? _July_ 1843.]
DEAR FREDERIC . . .
. . . You would rave at this climate which is wetter far than that of
England. There are the Wicklow hills (mountains we call them) in the
offing--quite high enough. In spite of my prejudice for a level, I find
myself every day unconsciously verging towards any eminence that gives me
the freest view of their blue ranges. One's thoughts take wing to the
distance. I fancy that moderately high hills (like these) are the
ticket--not to be domineered over by Mont Blancs, etc. But this may be
only a passing prejudice.
We hear much less of Repeal here than in London: and people seem amused
at the troops and waggons of gunpowder that are to be met now and then
upon the roads. . .
_To Bernard Barton_.
BALLYSAX, {142a} KILCULLEN,
_August_, 17/43
MY DEAR BARTON,
. . . That old Suffolk comes over here sometimes, as I say; and greets
one's eyes with old familiar names: Sales at Yoxford, Aldeburgh, etc.,
regattas at Lowestoft, and at Woodbridge. I see Major Moor {142b}
turning the road by the old Duke of York; the Deben winding away in full
tide to the sea; and numberless little pictures of this kind.
I am going the day after to-morrow to Edgeworth's, for a week, it may be
a fortnight before I set sail for England. Where shall I pitch my tent?
that is the question. Whither shall those treasures of ancient art
descend, and be reposited there for ever?
I have been looking over the old London Magazine. Lamb's papers come in
delightfully: read over the Old China the night you get this, and
sympathize with me. The account of the dish of green pease, etc., is the
true history of lawful luxury. Not Johnson nor Adam Smith told so much.
It is founded not on statistics but on good humanity.
We have at last delightful weather, and we enjoy it. Yesterday we went
to Pool-a-Phooka, the Leap of the Goblin Horse. What is that, do you
suppose? Why, a cleft in the mountains down and through which the river
Liffey (not very long born from the earth) comes leaping and roaring.
Cold veal pies, champagne, etc., make up the enchantment. We dabbled in
the water, splashed each other, forded the river, climbed the rocks,
laughed, sang, eat, drank, and were roasted, and returned home, the sun
sinking red.
(_A pen and ink sketch_.)
This is not like Pool-a-Phooka.
_To F. Tennyson_.
IRELAND, _August_ 31/43.
DEAR FREDERIC,
. . . I set sail from Dublin to-morrow night, bearing the heartfelt
regrets of all the people of Ireland with me.
Where is my dear old Alfred? Sometimes I intend to send him a quotation
from a book: but do not perform the same. Are you packing up for Italy?
I had a pleasant week with Edgeworth. He farms, and is a justice: and
goes to sleep on the sofa of evenings. At odd moments he looks into
Spinoza and Petrarch. People respect him very much in those parts. Old
Miss Edgeworth is wearing away: she has a capital bright soul which even
now shines quite youthfully through her faded carcase. . . . I had the
weakest dream the other night that ever was dreamt. I thought I saw
Thomas Frognall Dibdin--and that was all. Tell this to Alfred. Carlyle
talks of coming to see Naseby: but I leave him to suit the weather to his
taste.
BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE,
_Sunday_, _Dec_. 10/1843.
DEAR FREDERIC,
Either you wrote me word yourself, or some one told me, that you meant to
winter at Florence. So I shall direct to the Poste Restante there. You
see I am not settled at the Florence of Suffolk, called Ipswich, yet: but
I am perhaps as badly off; being in this most dull country house quite
alone; a grey mist, that seems teeming with half formed snow, all over
the landscape before my windows. It is also Sunday morning: ten of the
clock by the chime now sounding from the stables. I have fed on bread
and milk (a dreadfully opaque diet) and I await the morning Church in
humble hope. It will begin in half an hour. We keep early hours in the
country. So you will be able exactly to measure my aptitude and fullness
for letter writing by the quantity written now, before I bolt off for
hat, gloves, and prayerbook. I always put on my thickest great coat to
go to our Church in: as fungi grow in great numbers about the communion
table. And now, to turn away from Boulge, I must tell you that I went up
to London a month ago to see old Thackeray, who had come there to have
his eyes doctored. I stayed with him ten days and we were as usual
together. Alfred came up 'in transitu' from Boxley to Cheltenham; he
looked, and said he was, ill: I have never seen him so hopeless: and I am
really anxious to know how he is. . . . I remember the days of the
summer when you and I were together, quarrelling and laughing--these I
remember with pleasure. Our trip to Gravesend has left a perfume with
me. I can get up with you on that everlastingly stopping coach on which
we tried to travel from Gravesend to Maidstone that Sunday morning: worn
out with it, we got down at an inn, and then got up on another coach--and
an old smiling fellow passed us holding out his hat--and you said, 'That
old fellow must go about as Homer did'--and numberless other turns of
road and humour, which sometimes pass before me as I lie in bed. . . .
Now before I turn over, I will go and see about Church, as I hear no
bell, pack myself up as warmly as I can, and be off. So good-bye till
twelve o'clock.--'Tis five minutes past twelve by the stable clock: so I
saw as I returned from Church through the garden. Parson and Clerk got
through the service see saw like two men in a sawpit. In the garden I
see the heads of the snowdrops and crocuses just out of the earth.
Another year with its same flowers and topics to open upon us. Shenstone
somewhere sings, {146a}
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