Letters of Edward FitzGerald in Two Volumes
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Edward FitzGerald >> Letters of Edward FitzGerald in Two Volumes
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I have been a wonderful Journey--for me--even to Naseby in
Northamptonshire; to authenticate the spot where I dug up some bones of
those slain there, for Gurlyle thirty years ago. We are to put up a
Stone there to record the fact, if we can get leave of the present Owners
of the Field; a permission, one would think, easy enough to obtain; but I
have been more than a Year trying to obtain it, notwithstanding; and do
not know that I am nearer the point after all. The Owner is a Minor: and
three Trustees must sanction the thing for him; and these three Trustees
are all great People, all living in different parts of England; and, I
suppose, forgetful of such a little matter, though their Estate-agent,
and Lawyer, represented it to them long ago.
I stayed at Cambridge some three hours on my way, so as to look at some
of the Old, and New, Buildings, which I had not seen these dozen years
and more. The Hall of Trinity looked to me very fine; and Sir Joshua's
Duke of Gloucester the most beautiful thing in it. I looked into the
Chapel, where they were at work: the Roof seemed to me being overdone:
and Roubiliac's Newton is now nowhere, between the Statues of Bacon and
Barrow which are executed on a larger scale. {161} And what does
Spedding say to Macaulay in that Company? I never saw Cambridge so
empty, but not the less pleasant.
[1873.]
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
Two or three years ago I had three or four of my Master-pieces done up
together for admiring Friends. It has occurred to me to send you one of
these instead of the single Dialogue which I was looking in the Box for.
I think you have seen, or had, all the things but the last, {162} which
is the most impudent of all. It was, however, not meant for Scholars:
mainly for Mrs. Kemble: but as I can't read myself, nor expect others of
my age to read a long MS. I had it printed by a cheap friend (to the
bane of other Friends), and here it is. You will see by the notice that
AEschylus is left 'nowhere,' and why; a modest proviso. Still I think
the Story is well compacted: the Dialogue good, (with one single little
originality; of riding into Rhyme as Passion grows) and the Choruses
(mostly 'rot' quoad Poetry) still serving to carry on the subject of the
Story in the way of Inter-act. Try one or two Women with a dose of it
one day; not Lady Pollock, who knows better. . . . When I look over the
little Prose Dialogue, I see lots that might be weeded. I wonder at one
word which is already crossed--'_Emergency_.' 'An Emergency!' I think
Blake could have made a Picture of it as he did of the Flea. Something
of the same disgusting Shape too. . . . Blake seems to me to have fine
things: but as by random, like those of a Child, or a Madman, of Genius.
Is there one good whole Piece, of ever so few lines? . . .
What do you think of a French saying quoted by Heine, that when 'Le bon
Dieu' gets rather bored in Heaven, he opens the windows, and takes a look
at the Boulevards? Heine's account of the Cholera in France is
wonderful.
[1873.]
MY DEAR POLLOCK,
I am wondering in what Idiom you will one day answer my last. {163a}
Meanwhile, I have to thank you for Lady Pollock's Article on American
Literature: which I like, as all of hers. Only, I cannot understand her
Admiration of Emerson's 'Humble Bee'; which, without her Comment, I
should have taken for a Burlesque on Barry Cornwall, or some of that
London School. Surely, that 'Animated Torrid Zone' without which 'All is
Martyrdom,' etc., is rather out of Proportion. I wish she had been able
to tell us that ten copies of Crabbe sold in America for one in England:
rather than Philip of Artevelde. Perhaps Crabbe does too. What do you
and Miladi think of these two Lines of his which returned to me the other
day? Talking of poor Vagrants, etc.,
Whom Law condemns, and Justice with a Sigh
Pursuing, shakes her Sword, and passes by. {163b}
There are heaps of such things lying hid in the tangle of Crabbe's
careless verse; and yet such things, you know, are not the best of him,
the distressing Old Man! Who would expect such a Prettyness as this of
him?
As of fair Virgins dancing in a round,
Each binds the others, and herself is bound--{163c}
so the several Callings and Duties of Men in Civilized Life, etc. Come!
If Lady Pollock will write the Reason of all this, I will supply her with
a Lot of it without her having the trouble of looking through all the
eight volumes for it. I really can do little more than like, or dislike,
Dr. Fell, without a further Reason: which is none at all, though it may
be a very good one. So I distinguish _Phil_-osophers, and
_Fell_-osophers; which is rather a small piece of Wit. And I don't like
the Humble Bee; and won't like the Humble Bee, in spite of all the good
reasons Miladi gives why I should; and so tell her: and tell her to
forgive hers and yours always,
E. F. G.
_To W. B. Donne_.
ALDE COTTAGE, ALDEBURGH.
_August_ 18, [1873].
MY DEAR DONNE,
There being a change of servants in Market Hill, Woodbridge, I came here
for a week, bringing Tacitus {164} in my Pocket. You know I don't
pretend to judge of History: I can only say that you tell the Story of
Tacitus' own Life, and of what he has to tell of others, very readably
indeed to my Thinking: and so far I think my Thinking is to be relied on.
Some of the Translations from T. by your other hands read so well also
that I have wished to get at the original. But I really want an Edition
such as you promised to begin upon. Thirty years ago I thought I could
make out these Latins and Greeks sufficiently well for my own purpose; I
do not think so now; and want good help of other men's Scholarship, and
also of better Eyes than my own.
I am not sure if you were ever at this place: I fancy you once were. It
is duller even than it used to be: because of even the Fishing having
almost died away. But the Sea and the Shore remain the same; as to Nero,
in that famous passage {165} I remember you pointed out to me: not quite
so sad to me as to him, but not very lively. I have brought a volume or
two of Walpole's Letters by way of amusement. I wish you were here; and
I will wait here if you care to come. Might not the Sea Air do you good?
_To T. Carlyle_.
WOODBRIDGE, _Septr._ 8/73.
MY DEAR CARLYLE,
Enclosed is the Naseby Lawyer's answer on behalf of the Naseby Trustees.
I think it will seem marvellous in your Eyes, as it does in mine.
You will see that I had suggested whether moving the _Obelisk_, the
'foolish Obelisk,' might not be accomplished in case The Stone were
rejected. You see also that my Lawyer offers his mediation in the matter
if wished. I cannot believe the Trustees would listen to this Scheme any
more than to the other. Nor do I suppose you would be satisfied with the
foolish Obelisk's Inscription, which warns Kings not to exceed their just
Prerogative, nor Subjects [to swerve from] their lawful Obedience, etc.,
but does not say that it stands on the very spot where the Ashes of the
Dead told of the final Struggle.
I say, I do not suppose any good will come of this second Application.
The Trouble is nothing to me; but I will not trouble this Lawyer, Agent,
etc., till I hear from you that you wish me to do so. I suppose you are
now away from Chelsea; I hope among your own old places in the North. For
I think, and I find, that as one grows old one returns to one's old
haunts. However, my letter will reach you sooner or later, I dare say:
and, if one may judge from what has passed, there will be no hurry in any
future Decision of the 'Three Incomprehensibles.'
I have nothing to tell of myself; having been nowhere but to that Naseby.
I am among my old haunts: so have not to travel. But I shall be very
glad to hear that you are the better for having done so; and remain your
ancient Bedesman,
E. F. G.
_From T. Carlyle_.
THE HILL, DUMFRIES, N.B.
13 _Sep._, 1873.
DEAR FITZGERALD,
There is something at once pathetic and ridiculous and altogether
miserable and contemptible in the fact you at last announce that by one
caprice and another of human folly perversity and general length of ear,
our poor little enterprize is definitively forbidden to us. Alas, our
poor little 'inscription,' so far as I remember it, was not more criminal
than that of a number on a milestone; in fact the whole adventure was
like that of setting up an authentic _milestone_ in a tract of country
(spiritual and physical) mournfully in want of measurement; that was
_our_ highly innocent offer had the unfortunate Rulers of the Element in
that quarter been able to perceive it at all! Well; since they haven't,
one thing at least is clear, that our attempt is finished, and that from
this hour we will devoutly give it up. That of shifting the now existing
pyramid from Naseby village and rebuilding it on Broadmoor seems to me
entirely inadmissible;--and in fact unless _you_ yourself should resolve,
which I don't counsel, on marking, by way of foot-note, on the now
existing pyramid, accurately how many yards off and in what direction the
real battle ground lies from it, there is nothing visible to me which can
without ridiculous impropriety be done.
The trouble and bother you have had with all this, which I know are very
great, cannot be repaid you, dear old friend, except by my pious
thankfulness, which I can well assure you shall not be wanting. But
actual _money_, much or little, which the surrounding blockheads
connected with this matter have first and last cost you, this I do
request that you will accurately sum up that I may pay the half of it, as
is my clear debt and right. This I do still expect from you; after which
_Finis_ upon this matter for ever and a day. . . .
Good be ever with you, dear FitzGerald,
I am and remain Yours truly
(_Signed_) T. CARLYLE.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
[16 _Dec._ 1873.]
. . . What do you think I am reading? Voltaire's 'Pucelle': the Epic he
was fitted for. It is poor in Invention, I think: but wonderful for easy
Wit, and the Verse much more agreeable to me than the regularly rhymed
Alexandrines. I think Byron was indebted to it in his Vision of
Judgment, and Juan: his best works. There are fine things too: as when
Grisbourdon suddenly slain tells his Story to the Devils in Hell where he
unexpectedly makes his Appearance,
Et tout l'Enfer en rit d'assez bon coeur.
This is nearer the Sublime, I fancy, than anything in the Henriade. And
one Canto ends:
J'ai dans mon temps possede des maitresses,
Et j'aime encore a retrouver mon coeur--
is very pretty in the old Sinner. . . .
I am engaged in preparing to depart from these dear Rooms where I have
been thirteen years, and don't know yet where I am going. {169}
_To John Allen_.
GRANGE FARM: WOODBRIDGE
_Febr_: 21/74.
MY DEAR ALLEN,
While I was reading a volume of Ste. Beuve at Lowestoft a Fortnight ago,
I wondered if you got on with him; j'avais envie de vous ecrire une
petite Lettre a ce sujet: but I let it go by. Now your Letter comes; and
I will write: only a little about S. B. however, only that: the Volume I
had with me was vol. III. of my Edition (I don't know if yours is the
same), and I thought you [would] like _all_ of three Causeries in it:
Rousseau, Frederick the Great, and Daguesseau: the rest you might not so
much care for: nor I neither.
Hare's Spain was agreeable to hear read: I have forgot all about it. His
'Memorials' were insufferably tiresome to me. You don't speak of
Tichborne, which I never tire of: only wondering that the Lord Chief
Justice sets so much Brains to work against so foolish a Bird. {170} The
Spectator on Carlyle is very good, I think. As to Politics I scarce
meddle with them. I have been glad to revert to Don Quixote, which I
read easily enough in the Spanish: it is so delightful that I don't
grudge looking into a Dictionary for the words I forget. It won't do in
English; or _has not done_ as yet: the English colloquial is not the
Spanish do. It struck me oddly that--of all things in the world!--Sir
Thomas Browne's Language might suit.
They now sell at the Railway Stalls Milnes' Life of Keats for half a
crown, as well worth the money as any Book. I would send you a Copy if
you liked: as I bought three or four to give away.
You may see that I have changed my Address: obliged to leave the Lodging
where I had been thirteen years: and to come here to my own house, while
another Lodging is getting ready, which I doubt I shall not inhabit, as
it will entail Housekeeping on me. But I like to keep my house for my
Nieces: it is not my fault they do not make it their home.
Ever yours, E. F. G.
_To S. Laurence_.
GRANGE FARM, WOODBRIDGE.
_February_ 26/74.
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
. . . I am not very solicitous about the Likeness {171} as I might be of
some dear Friend; but I was willing to have a Portrait of the Poet whom I
am afraid I read more than any other of late and with whose Family (as
you know) I am kindly connected. The other Portrait, which you wanted to
see, and I hope have not seen, is by Phillips; and just represents what I
least wanted, Crabbe's company look; whereas Pickersgill represents the
Thinker. So I fancy, at least.
LITTLE GRANGE, WOODBRIDGE.
[_July_ 4/74.]
MY DEAR LAURENCE,
. . . I am (for a wonder) going out on a few days' visit. . . . And,
once out, I meditate a run to Edinburgh, only to see where Sir Walter
Scott lived and wrote about. But as I have meditated this great
Enterprize for these thirty years, it may perhaps now end again in
meditation only. . . .
I am just finishing Forster's Dickens: very good, I think: only, he has
no very nice perception of Character, I think, or chooses not to let his
readers into it. But there is enough to show that Dickens was a very
noble fellow as well as a very wonderful one. . . . I, for one, worship
Dickens, in spite of Carlyle and the Critics: and wish to see his
Gadshill as I wished to see Shakespeare's Stratford and Scott's
Abbotsford. One must love the Man for that.
_To W. F. Pollock_.
LITTLE GRANGE, WOODBRIDGE.
_July_ 23, [1874].
But I did get to Abbotsford, and was rejoiced to find it was not at all
Cockney, not a Castle, but only in the half-castellated style of heaps of
other houses in Scotland; the Grounds simply and broadly laid out before
the windows, down to a field, down to the Tweed, with the woods which he
left so little, now well aloft and flourishing, and I was glad. I could
not find my way to Maida's Grave in the Garden, with its false Quantity,
Ad januam Domini, etc.
which the Whigs and Critics taunted Scott with, and Lockhart had done it.
'You know I don't care a curse about what I write'; nor about what was
imputed to him. In this, surely like Shakespeare: as also in other
respects. I will worship him, in spite of Gurlyle, who sent me an ugly
Autotype of Knox whom I was to worship instead.
Then I went to see Jedburgh {172} Abbey, in a half ruined corner of which
he lies entombed--Lockhart beside him--a beautiful place, with his own
Tweed still running close by, and his Eildon Hills looking on. The man
who drove me about showed me a hill which Sir Walter was very fond of
visiting, from which he could see over the Border, etc. This hill is
between Abbotsford and Jedburgh: {173} and when his Coach horses, who
drew his Hearse, got there, to that hill, they could scarce be got on.
My mission to Scotland was done; but some civil pleasant people, whom I
met at Abbotsford, made me go with them (under Cook's guidance) to the
Trossachs, Katrine, Lomond, etc., which I did not care at all about; but
it only took a day. After which, I came in a day to London, rather glad
to be in my old flat land again, with a sight of my old Sea as we came
along.
And in London I went to see my dear old Donne, because of wishing to
assure myself, with my own eyes, of his condition; and I can safely say
he looked better than before his Illness, near two years ago. He had a
healthy colour; was erect, alert, and with his old humour, and interest
in our old topics. . . .
I looked in at the Academy, as poor a show as ever I had seen, I thought;
only Millais attracted me: a Boy with a red Sash: and that old Seaman
with his half-dreaming Eyes while the Lassie reads to him. I had no
Catalogue: and so thought the Book was--The Bible--to which she was
drawing his thoughts, while the sea-breeze through the open Window
whispered of his old Life to him. But I was told afterwards (at Donne's
indeed) that it was some account of a N. W. Passage she was reading. The
Roll Call I could not see, for a three deep file of worshippers before
it: I only saw the 'hairy Cap' as Thackeray in his Ballad, {174} and I
supposed one would see all in a Print as well as in the Picture. But the
Photo of Miss Thompson herself gives me a very favourable impression of
her. It really looks, in face and dress, like some of Sir Joshua's
Women. . . .
Another Miss Austen! Of course under Spedding's Auspices, the Father of
Evil.
_From W. H. Thompson to W. A. Wright_.
On 17 July 1883, shortly after FitzGerald's death, the late Master of
Trinity wrote to me from Harrogate, 'As regards FitzGerald's letters, I
have preserved a good many, which I will look through when we return to
College. I have a long letter from Carlyle to him, which F. gave me. It
is a Carlylesque etude on Spedding, written from dictation by his niece,
but signed by the man himself in a breaking hand. The thing is to my
mind more characteristic of T. Carlyle than of James Spedding--that
"victorious man" as C. calls him. He seems unaware of one distinguishing
feature of J. S.'s mind--its subtlety of perception--and the excellence
of his English style escapes his critic, whose notices on that subject by
the bye would not necessarily command assent.'
_From Thomas Carlyle_.
5 CHEYNE ROW, CHELSEA
6 _Nov._ 1874.
DEAR FITZGERALD,
Thanks for your kind little Letter. I am very glad to learn that you are
so cheerful and well, entering the winter under such favourable omens. I
lingered in Scotland, latterly against my will, for about six weeks: the
scenes there never can cease to be impressive to me; indeed as natural in
late visits they are far too impressive, and I have to wander there like
a solitary ghost among the graves of those that are gone from me, sad,
sad, and I always think while there, ought not this visit to be the last?
But surely I am well pleased with your kind affection for the Land,
especially for Edinburgh and the scenes about it. By all means go again
to Edinburgh (tho' the old city is so shorn of its old grim beauty and is
become a place of Highland shawls and railway shriekeries); worship
Scott, withal, as vastly superior to the common run of authors, and
indeed grown now an affectingly _tragic_ man. Don't forget Burns either
and Ayrshire and the West next time you go; there are admirable
antiquities and sceneries in those parts, leading back (Whithorn for
example, _Whitterne_ or _candida casa_) to the days of St. Cuthbert; not
to speak of Dumfries with Sweetheart Abbey and the brooks and hills a
certain friend of yours first opened his eyes to in this astonishing
world.
I am what is called very well here after my return, worn weak as a
cobweb, but without bodily ailment except the yearly increasing inability
to digest food; my mind, too, if usually mournful instead of joyful, is
seldom or never to be called miserable, and the steady gazing into the
great unknown, which is near and comes nearer every day, ought to furnish
abundant employment to the serious soul. I read, too; that is my
happiest state, when I can get _good books_, which indeed I more and more
rarely can.
Like yourself I have gone through _Spedding_, seven long long volumes,
not skipping except where I had got the sense with me, and generally
reading all of Bacon's own that was there: I confess to you I found it a
most creditable and even surprising Book, offering the most perfect and
complete image both of Bacon and of Spedding, and distinguished as the
hugest and faithfullest bit of literary navvy work I have ever met with
in this generation. Bacon is washed clean down to the natural skin; and
truly he is not nor ever was unlovely to me; a man of no culpability to
speak of; of an opulent and even magnificent intellect, but all in the
magnificent prose vein. Nothing or almost nothing of the 'melodies
eternal' to be traced in him. Spedding's Book will last as long as there
is any earnest memory held of Bacon, or of the age of James VI., upon
whom as upon every stirring man in his epoch Spedding has shed new
veritable illumination; in almost the whole of which I perfectly
coincided with Spedding. In effect I walked up to the worthy man's
house, whom I see but little, to tell him all this; and that being a
miss, I drove up, Spedding having by request called here and missed me,
but hitherto we have not met; and Spedding I doubt not could contrive to
dispense with my eulogy. There is a grim strength in Spedding, quietly,
very quietly invincible, which I did not quite know of till this Book;
and in all ways I could congratulate the indefatigably patient, placidly
invincible and victorious Spedding.
Adieu, dear F. I wish you a right quiet and healthy winter, and beg to
be kept in memory as now probably your oldest friend.
Ever faithfully yours, dear F.,
T. CARLYLE.
_To W. H. Thompson_.
[9 _Nov._ 1874.]
MY DEAR MASTER,
I think there can be no criminal breach of Confidence in your taking a
Copy, if you will, of C[arlyle]'s Letter. Indeed, you are welcome to
keep it:--there was but one Person else I wished to show it to, and she
(a _She_) can do very well without it. I sent it to you directly I got
it, because I thought you would be as pleased as I was with C.'s encomium
on Spedding, which will console him (if he needs Consolation) for the
obduracy of the World at large, myself among the number. I can indeed
fully assent to Carlyle's Admiration of Spedding's History of the
_Times_, as well as of the Hero who lived in them. But the Question
still remains--was it worth forty years of such a Life as Spedding's to
write even so good an Account of a few, not the most critical, Years of
English History, and to leave Bacon (I think) a little less well off than
when S. began washing him: I mean in the eyes of candid and sensible men,
who simply supposed before that Bacon was no better than the Men of his
Time, and now J. S. has proved it. I have no doubt that Carlyle takes up
the Cudgels because he thinks the World is now going the other way. If
Spedding's Book had been praised by the Critics--Oh Lord!
But what a fine vigorous Letter from the old Man! When I was walking my
Garden yesterday at about 11 a.m. I thought to myself 'the Master will
have had this Letter at Breakfast; and a thought of it will cross him
tandis que le Predicateur de Ste Marie soit en plein Discours, etc.' . . .
If Lord Houghton be with you pray thank him for the first _ebauche_ of
Hyperion he sent me. Surely no one can doubt which was the first Sketch.
_To Miss Anna Biddell_.
12 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT.
_Jan._ 18/75.
DEAR MISS BIDDELL,
I am sending you a Treat. The old Athenaeum told me there was a Paper by
'Mr. Carlyle' in this month's Magazine; and never did I lay out half-a-
crown better. And you shall have the Benefit of it, if you will. Why,
Carlyle's Wine, so far from weak evaporation, is only grown better by
Age: losing some of its former fierceness, and grown mellow without
losing Strength. It seems to me that a Child might read and relish this
Paper, while it would puzzle any other Man to write such a one. I think
I must write to T. C. to felicitate him on this truly 'Green Old Age.'
Oh, it was good too to read it here, with the old Sea (which also has not
sunk into Decrepitude) rolling in from that North: and as I looked up
from the Book, there was a Norwegian Barque beating Southward, close to
the Shore, and nearly all Sail set. Read--Read! you will, you must, be
pleased; and write to tell me so.
This Place suits me, I think, at this time of year: there is Life about
me: and that old Sea is always talking to one, telling its ancient Story.
LOWESTOFT. _Febr._ 2/75.
DEAR MISS BIDDELL,
I am _so_ glad (as the Gushingtons say) that you like the Carlyle. I
have ordered the second Number and will send it to you when I have read
it. Some People, I believe, hesitate in their Belief of its being T. C.
or one of his School: I don't for a moment: if for no other reason than
that an Imitator always exaggerates his Model: whereas this Paper, we
see, _un_exaggerates the Master himself: as one would wish at his time of
Life. . . .
I ran over for one day to Woodbridge, to pay Bills, etc. But somehow I
was glad to get back here. The little lodging is more to my liking than
my own bigger rooms and staircases: and this cheerful Town better (at
this Season) than my yet barren Garden. One little Aconite however
looked up at me: Mr. Churchyard (in his elegant way) used to call them
'New Year's Gifts.'
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