Letters of Edward FitzGerald in Two Volumes

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Then I have bought 3 vols of the '_Ladies Magazine_' for 1750-3 by
'Jasper Goodwill' who died at Vol. iv. It contains the Trials and
Executions (16 men at a time) of the time; _Miss Blandy_ above all; and
such delightful Essays, Poems, and Enigmas, for _Ladies_! The Allegories
are in the Rasselas style, all Oriental. The Essays 'of all the Virtues
which adorn, etc.' Then Anecdotes of the Day: as of a Country woman in
St. James' Park taking on because she cannot go home till she has kissed
the King's hand: one of the Park keepers tells one of the Pages, who
tells the King, who has the Woman in to kiss his hand, and take some
money beside. One wonders there weren't heaps of such loyal Subjects.

Mowbray Donne wrote me that he sent you the Fragments I had saved and
transcribed of Morton's Letters; the best part having been lost by
Blackwood's People thirty years ago, as I believe I told you. But don't
you think what remains capital? I wish you would get them put into some
Magazine, just for the sake of some of our Day getting them in Print. You
might just put a word of Preface as to the Author: an Irish Gentleman, of
Estate and Fortune (which of course went the Irish way), who was Scholar,
Artist, Newspaper Correspondent, etc. A dozen lines would tell all that
is wanted, naming no names. It might be called 'Fragments of Letters by
an "Ill-starred" or "Unlucky" Man of Genius,' etc. as S. M. was:
'Unlucky' being still used in Suffolk, with something of Ancient Greek
meaning. See if you cannot get this done, will you? For I think many of
S. M.'s friends would be glad of it: and the general Public assuredly not
the worse. Some of the names would need some correction, I think: and
the Letters to be put in order of Time. {141a} 'Do it!' as Julia in the
Hunchback says.

[1872.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I went to London at the end of last week, on my way to Sydenham, where my
second Brother is staying, whom I had not seen these six years, nor his
Wife. . . . On Saturday I went to the Academy, for little else but to
see Millais, and to disagree with you about him! I thought his three
Women and his Highlanders brave pictures, which you think also; but
braver than you think them. The Women looked alive: the right Eye so
much smaller than the left in the Figure looking at you that I suppose it
was so in the original, so that I should have chosen one of the other
Sisters for the position. I could not see any analogy between the
Picture and Sir Joshua's Graces, except that there were Three. Nor could
I think the Highlanders in the Landscape vulgar; they seemed to me in
character with the Landscape. Both Pictures want tone, which may mean
Glazing: wanting which they may last the longer, and sober down of
themselves without the danger of cracking by any transparent Colour laid
over them.

I scarce looked at anything else, not having much time. Just as I was
going out, who should come up to me but Annie Thackeray, who took my
hands as really glad to see her Father's old friend. I am sure she was;
and I was taken aback somehow; and, out of sheer awkwardness, began to
tell her that I didn't care for her new Novel! And then, after she had
left her Party to come to me, I ran off! It is true, I had to be back at
Sydenham: but it would have been better to forgo all that: and so I
reflected when I had got halfway down Piccadilly: and so ran back, and
went into the Academy again: but could not find A. T. She told me she
was going to Normandy this week: and I have been so vext with myself that
I have written to tell her something of what I have told you. It was
very stupid indeed.

WOODBRIDGE: _November_ 1, [1872].

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

The Spectator, as also the Athenaeum, somewhat over-praise Gareth, I
think: but I am glad they do so. . . . The Poem seems to me scarce more
worthy of what A. T. was born to do than the other Idylls; but you will
almost think it is out of contradiction that I like it better: except, of
course, the original Morte. The Story of this young Knight, who can
submit and conquer and do all the Devoir of Chivalry, interests me much
more than the Enids, Lily Maids, etc. of former Volumes. But Time
_is_--Time _was_--to have done with the whole Concern: pure and noble as
all is, and in parts more beautiful than any one else can do. . . .

Rain--Rain--Rain! What will become of poor Italy? I think we ought to
subscribe for her. Did you read of one French Caricature of the Pope
leaving Rome with the Holy Ghost in a Bird Cage?

WOODBRIDGE, _Nov._ 20.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I am glad the Rogers Verses {144} gratified you. I forget where I saw
them quoted, some ten years ago; but as I had long wished for them
myself, and thought others might wish for them also, I got them reprinted
here in the form I sent you. . . . I have no compunction at all in
reviving this Satire upon the old Banker, whom it is only paying off in
his own Coin. Spedding (of course) used to deny that R. deserved his ill
Reputation: but I never heard any one else deny it. All his little
malignities, unless the epigram on Ward be his, are dead along with his
little sentimentalities; while Byron's Scourge hangs over his Memory. The
only one who, so far as I have seen, has given any idea of his little
cavilling style, is Mrs. Trench in her Letters; her excellent Letters, so
far as I can see and judge, next best to Walpole and Cowper in our
Language. . . .

I have bought Regnard, of the old Moliere times, very good; and (what is
always odd to me) as French as the French of To-day: I mean, in point of
Language.

[_Nov._ 1872.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

In a late Box of books which I had from Mudie were Macmillan and Fraser,
for 1869-1870. And in one of these--I am nearly sure, Macmillan--is an
Article called 'Objects of Art' {145} which treats very well, I think, on
the subject you and I talked of at Whitsun. . . .

My new Reader . . . has been reading to me Fields' 'Yesterdays with
Authors,' Hawthorne, Dickens, Thackeray. The latter seems to me a
Caricature: the Dickens has one wonderful bit about Macready in 1869,
which ought not to have been printed during his Life, but which I will
copy out for you if you have not seen it. Hawthorne seems to me the most
of a Man of Genius America has produced in the way of Imagination: yet I
have never found an Appetite for his Books. Frederic Tennyson sent me
Victor Hugo's 'Toilers of the Sea,' which he admires, I suppose; but I
can't get up an Appetite for that neither. I think the Scenes being laid
in the Channel Islands may have something to do with old Frederic's
Liking. . . .

The Daily News only tells me of Crisises in France, Floods in Italy,
Insubordination of London Policemen, and Desertion from the British Army.
So I take refuge in other Topics. Do look for 'Objects of Art' among
them.

Which are you for

Noi leggiavamo }
or } un giorno per diletto? {146a}
Noi leggevamo }

WOODBRIDGE: _Nov._ 28 [1872].

'Multae Epistolae pertransibunt et augebitur Scientia.' Our one Man of
Books down here, Brooke, {146b} had told me that the old Editions on the
whole favoured 'legg_ia_vamo.' Now I shall tell him that the Germans
have decided on 'leggevamo.' But Brooke quotes one Copy (1502) which
reads 'leggev_am_,' which I had also wished for, to get rid of a fifth
(and superfluous) _o_ in the line. I suppose such a plural is as
allowable as

Noi andav_am_ per lo solingo Piano, etc.

What is all this erudite Enquiry about? I was talking with Edwards one
night of this passage, and of this line in particular, which came into my
head as a motto for a Device {146c} we were talking of; and hence all
this precious fuss.

But I want to tell you what I forgot in my last letter; what Dickens
himself says of his 'Holyday Romance' in a letter to Fields.

_July_ 25, 1867.

'I hope the Americans will see the joke of Holyday Romance. The
writing seems to me so much like Children's, that dull folk (on _any_
side of _any_ water) might perhaps rate it accordingly. I should like
to be beside you when you read it, and particularly when you read the
Pirate's Story. It made me laugh to that extent that my people here
thought I was out of my wits: until I gave it to them to read, when
they did likewise.'

One thinks, what a delightful thing to be such an Author! Yet he died of
his work, I suppose.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan_, 5/73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I don't know that I have anything to tell you, except a Story which I
have already written to Donne and to Mrs. Kemble, all the way to Rome,
out of a French Book. {147} I just now forget the name, and it is gone
back to Mudie. About 1783, or a little later, a young _Danseur_ of the
French Opera falls in love with a young _Danseuse_ of the same. She,
however, takes up with a 'Militaire,' who indeed commands the Guard who
are on Service at the Opera. The poor Danseur gets mad with jealousy:
attacks the Militaire on his post; who just bids his Soldiers tie the
poor Lad to a Column, without further Injury. The Lad, though otherwise
unhurt, falls ill of Shame and Jealousy; and dies, after bequeathing his
Skeleton to the Doctor attached to the Opera, with an understanding that
the said Skeleton is to be kept in the Doctor's Room at the Opera.
Somehow, this Skeleton keeps its place through Revolutions, and Changes
of Dynasty: and re-appears on the Scene when some Diablerie is on foot,
as in Freischutz; where, says the Book, it still produces a certain
effect. I forgot to say that the _Subject_ wished to be in that Doctor's
Room in order that he might still be near his Beloved when she danced.

Now, is not this a capital piece of French all over?

In Sophie Gay's 'Salons de Paris' {148} I read that when Madlle Contat
(the Predecessor of Mars) was learning under Preville and his Wife for
the Stage, she gesticulated too much, as Novices do. So the Previlles
confined her Arms like '_une Momie_' she says, and then set her off with
a Scene. So long as no great Passion, or Business, was needed, she felt
pretty comfortable, she says: but when the Dialogue grew hot, then she
could not help trying to get her hands free; and _that_, as the Previlles
told her, sufficiently told her when Action should begin, and not till
then, whether in Grave or Comic. This anecdote (told by Contat herself)
has almost an exact counterpart in Mrs. Siddons' practice: who recited
even Lear's Curse with her hands and arms close to her side like an
Egyptian Figure, and Sir Walter Scott, {149a} who heard her, said nothing
could be more terrible. . . .

The Egyptian Mummy reminds me of a clever, dashing, Book we are reading
on the subject, by Mr. Zincke, Vicar of a Village {149b} near Ipswich.
Did you know, or do you believe, that the Mummy was wrapt up into its
Chrysalis Shape as an Emblem of Future Existence; wrapt up, too, in
bandages all inscribed with ritualistic directions for its intermediate
stage, which was not one of total Sleep? I supposed that this might be a
piece of ingenious Fancy: but Cowell, who has been over to see me, says
it is probable.

I have brought my Eyes by careful nursing into sufficient strength to
read Moliere, and Montaigne, and two or three more of my old 'Standards'
with all my old Relish. But I must not presume on this; and ought to
spare your Eyes as well as my own in respect of this letter.

WOODBRIDGE, _Jan._ /73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

I have not been reading so much of my Gossip lately, to send you a good
little Bit of, which I think may do you a good turn now and then. Give a
look at 'Egypt of the Pharaohs' by Zincke, Vicar of a Parish near
Woodbridge; the Book is written in a light, dashing (but not Cockney
pert) way, easily looked over. There is a supposed Soliloquy of an
English Labourer (called 'Hodge') as contrasted with the Arab, which is
capital.

Do you know Taschereau's Life of Moliere? I have only got that prefixed
to a common Edition of 1730. But even this is a delightful serio-comic
Drama. I see that H. Heine says the French are all born Actors: which
always makes me wonder why they care so for the Theatre. Heine too, I
find, speaks of V. Hugo's Worship of Ugliness; of which I find so much in
--- and other modern Artists, Literary, Musical, or Graphic. . . .

What, you tell me, Palgrave said about me, I should have thought none but
a very partial Friend, like Donne, would ever have thought of saying. But
I'll say no more on that head. Only that, as regards the little
Dialogue, {150} I think it is a very pretty thing in Form, and with some
very pretty parts in it. But when I read it two or three years ago,
there was, I am sure, some over-smart writing, and some clumsy wording;
insomuch that, really liking the rest, I cut out about a sheet, and
substituted another, and made a few corrections with a Pen in what
remained, though plenty more might be made, little as the Book is. Well;
as you like this little Fellow, and I think he is worth liking, up to a
Point, I shall send you a Copy of these amended Sheets.

[_March_ 1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

7.15 p.m. After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the moon--shoes
kicked off--Slippers and Dressing Gown on--A Pinch of Snuff--and hey for
a Letter--to my only London Correspondent!

And to London have I been since my last Letter: and have seen the Old
Masters; and finished them off by such a Symphony as was worthy of the
best of them, two Acts of Mozart's 'Cosi.' You wrote me that you had
'assisted' at that also: the Singing, as you know, was inferior: but the
Music itself! Between the Acts a Man sang a song of Verdi's: which was a
strange Contrast, to be sure: one of Verdi's heavy Airs, however: for he
has a true Genius of his own, though not Mozart's. Well: I did not like
even Mozart's two Bravuras for the Ladies: a bad Despina for one: but the
rest was fit for--Raffaelle, whose Christ in the Garden I had been
looking at a little before. I had thought Titian's Cornaro, and a Man in
Black, by a Column, worth nearly all the rest of the Gallery till I saw
the Raffaelle: and I couldn't let that go with the others. All Lord
Radnor's Pictures were new to me, and nearly all very fine. The Vandykes
delightful: Rubens' Daniel, though all by his own hand, not half so good
as a Return from Hunting, which perhaps was not: the Sir Joshuas not
first rate, I think, except a small life Figure of a Sir W. Molesworth in
Uniform: the Gainsboro's scratchy and superficial, _I_ thought: the
Romneys better, _I_ thought. Two fine Cromes: Ditto Turners: and--I will
make an End of my Catalogue Raisonnee. . . .

I suppose you never read Beranger's Letters: there are four thick Volumes
of these, of which I have as yet only seen the Second and Third: and they
are well worth reading. They make one love Beranger: partly because (odd
enough) he is so little of a Frenchman in Character, French as his Works
are. He hated Paris, Plays, Novels, Journals, Critics, etc., hated being
monstered himself as a Great Man, as he proved by flying from it; seems
to me to take a just measure of himself and others, and to be moderate in
his Political as well as Literary Opinions.

I am hoping for Forster's second volume of Dickens in Mudie's forthcoming
Box. Meanwhile, my Boy (whom I momently expect) reads me Trollope's 'He
knew he was right,' the opening of which I think very fine: but which
seems to be trailing off into 'longueur' as I fancy Trollope is apt to
do. But he 'has a world of his own,' as Tennyson said of Crabbe.

_March_ 30/73.

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

. . . You have never told me how you thought him [Spedding] looking,
etc., though you told me that your Boy Maurice went to sit with him. It
really reminds me of some happy Athenian lad who was privileged to be
with Socrates. Some Plato should put down the Conversation.

I have just finished the second volume of Forster's Dickens: and still
have no reason not to rejoice in the Man Dickens. And surely Forster
does his part well; but I can fancy that some other Correspondent but
himself should be drawn in as Dickens' Life goes on, and thickens with
Acquaintances.

We in the Country are having the best of it just now, I think, in these
fine Days, though we have nothing to show so gay as Covent Garden Market.
I am thinking of my Boat on the River. . . .

You say I did not date my last letter: I can date this: for it is my
Birthday. {153} This it was that made me resolve to send you the Photos.
Hey for my 65th year! I think I shall plunge into a Yellow Scratch Wig
to keep my head warm for the Remainder of my Days.

* * * * *

In September 1863 Mr. Ruskin addressed a letter to 'The Translator of the
Rubaiyat of Omar,' which he entrusted to Mrs. Burne Jones, who after an
interval of nearly ten years handed it to Mr. Charles Eliot Norton,
Professor of the History of Fine Art in Harvard University. By him it
was transmitted to Carlyle, who sent it to FitzGerald, with the letter
which follows, of which the signature alone is in his own handwriting.

* * * * *

CHELSEA, 14 _April_, 1873.

DEAR FITZGERALD,

Mr. Norton, the writer of that note, is a distinguished American
(co-editor for a long time of the North American Review), an extremely
amiable, intelligent and worthy man; with whom I have had some pleasant
walks, dialogues and other communications, of late months;--in the course
of which he brought to my knowledge, for the first time, your notable
_Omar Khayyam_, and insisted on giving me a copy from the third edition,
which I now possess, and duly prize. From him too, by careful
cross-questioning, I identified, beyond dispute, the hidden 'Fitzgerald,'
the Translator;--and indeed found that his complete silence, and unique
modesty in regard to said meritorious and successful performance, was
simply a feature of my own _Edward F._! The translation is excellent;
the Book itself a kind of jewel in its way. I do Norton's mission
without the least delay, as you perceive. Ruskin's message to you passes
through my hands sealed. I am ever your affectionate

T. CARLYLE.

_Carlyle to Norton_.

5 CHEYNE ROW, CHELSEA,
18 _April_ 1873.

DEAR NORTON,

It is possible Fitzgerald may have written to you; but whether or not I
will send you his letter to myself, as a slight emblem and memorial of
the peaceable, affectionate, and ultra modest man, and his innocent _far
niente_ life,--and the connexion (were there nothing more) of Omar, the
Mahometan Blackguard, and Oliver Cromwell, the English
Puritan!--discharging you completely, at the same time, from ever
returning me this letter, or taking any notice of it, except a small
silent one.

_FitzGerald to Carlyle_.

(Enclosed in the preceding.)

[15 _April_ 1873.]

MY DEAR CARLYLE,

Thank you for enclosing Mr. Norton's Letter: and will you thank him for
his enclosure of Mr. Ruskin's? It is lucky for both R. and me that you
did not read his Note; a sudden fit of Fancy, I suppose, which he is
subject to. But as it was kindly meant on his part, I have written to
thank him. Rather late in the Day; for his Letter (which Mr. Norton
thinks may have lain a year or two in his Friend's Desk) is dated
September 1863.

Which makes me think of our old Naseby Plans, so long talked of, and
undone. I have made one more effort since I last wrote to you; by
writing to the Lawyer, as well as to the Agent, of the Estate; to
intercede with the Trustees thereof, whose permission seems to be
necessary. But neither Agent nor Lawyer have yet answered. I feel sure
that you believe that I do honestly wish this thing to be done; the plan
of the Stone, and Inscription, both settled: the exact site ascertained
by some who were with me when I dug for you: so as we can even specify
the so many 'yards to the rear' which you stipulated for: only I believe
we must write 'to the East--or Eastward'--in lieu of 'to the rear.' But
for this Change we must have your Permission as well as from the Trustees
theirs.

I am glad to hear from Mr. Norton's Letter to you that you hold well,
through all the Wet and Cold we have had for the last six months. Our
Church Bell here has been tolling for one and another of us very
constantly. I get out on the River in my Boat, and dabble about my five
acres of Ground just outside the Town. Sometimes I have thought you
might come to my pleasant home, where I never live, but where you should
be treated with better fare than you had at Farlingay: where I did not
like to disturb the Hostess' Economy. But I may say this: you would not
come; nor could I press you to do so. But I remain yours sincerely, I
assure you,

E. F. G.

P.S. Perhaps I had better write a word of thanks to Mr. Norton myself:
which I will do. I suppose he may be found at the address he gives.

_To C. E. Norton_.

WOODBRIDGE, _April_ 17/73.

DEAR SIR,

Two days ago Mr. Carlyle sent me your Note, enclosing one from Mr. Ruskin
'to the Translator of Omar Khayyam.' You will be a little surprized to
hear that Mr. Ruskin's Note is dated September 1863: all but ten years
ago! I dare say he has forgotten all about it long before this: however,
I write him a Note of Thanks for the good, too good, messages he sent me;
better late than never; supposing that he will not be startled and bored
by my Acknowledgments of a forgotten Favor rather than gratified. It is
really a funny little Episode in the Ten years' Dream. I had asked
Carlyle to thank you also for such trouble as you have taken in the
matter. But, as your Note to him carries your Address, I think I may as
well thank you for myself. I am very glad to gather from your Note that
Carlyle is well, and able to walk, as well as talk, with a congenial
Companion. Indeed, he speaks of such agreeable conversation with you in
the Message he appends to your Letter. For which thanking you once more,
allow me to write myself yours sincerely,

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

_To W. F. Pollock_.

[5 _May_, 1873.]

DEAR POLLOCK,

. . . I see that you were one of those who were at Macready's Funeral. I,
too, feel as if I had lost a Friend, though I scarce knew him but on the
Stage. But there I knew him as Virginius very well, when I was a Boy
(about 1821), and when Miss Foote was his Daughter. Jackson's Drawing of
him in that Character is among the best of such Portraits, surely. I
think I shall have a word about M. from Mrs. Kemble, with whom I have
been corresponding a little since her return to England. She has lately
been staying with her Son-in-Law, Mr. Leigh, at Stoneleigh Vicarage, near
Kenilworth. In the Autumn she says she will go to America, never to
return to England. But I tell her she will return. . . .

My Eyes have been leaving me in the lurch again: partly perhaps from
taxing them with a little more Reading: partly from going on the Water,
and straining after our River Beacons, in hot Sun and East Wind; partly
also, and _main partly_ I doubt, from growing so much older and the worse
for wear. I am afraid this very Letter will be troublesome to you to
read: but I must write at a Gallop if at all. . . .

[1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

. . . This is Sunday Night: 10 p.m. And what is the Evening Service
which I have been listening to? The 'Eustace Diamonds': which interest
me almost as much as Tichborne. I really give the best proof I can of
the Interest I take in Trollope's Novels, by constantly breaking out into
Argument with the Reader (who never replies) about what is said and done
by the People in the several Novels. I say 'No, no! She must have known
she was lying!' 'He couldn't have been such a Fool! etc.'

[1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

. . . I am very shy of 'The Greatest Poem,' The Greatest Picture,
Symphony, etc., but one single thing I always was assured of: that 'The
School' was the best Comedy in the English Language. Not wittier than
Congreve, etc., but with Human Character that one likes in it; Charles,
both Teazles, Sir Oliver, etc. Whereas the Congreve School inspires no
sympathy with the People: who are Manners not Men, you know. Voila de
suffisamment perore a ce sujet-la. . . . I set my Reader last night on
beginning The Mill on the Floss. I couldn't take to it more than to
others I have tried to read by the Greatest Novelist of the Day: but I
will go on a little further. Oh for some more brave Trollope; who I am
sure conceals a much profounder observation than these Dreadful Denners
of Romance under his lightsome and sketchy touch, as Gainboro compared to
Denner.

[_July_ 1873.]

MY DEAR POLLOCK,

Thank you for the Fraser, and your Paper in it: which I relished very
much for its Humour, Discrimination, and easy style; like all you write.
Perhaps I should not agree with you about all the Pictures: but you do
not give me any great desire to put that to the test.

Max Muller's Darwin Paper reminded me of an Observation in Bacon's Sylva;
{160} that Apes and Monkeys, with Organs of Speech so much like Man's
have never been taught to speak an Articulate word: whereas Parrots and
Starlings, with organs so unlike Man's, are easily taught to do so. Do
you know if Darwin, or any of his Followers, or Antagonists, advert to
this?

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