LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD

IN TWO VOLUMESVOL. I

LondonMACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITEDNEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN AND COMPANY

1901

_All rights reserved_

_First Edition_ 1894. _Reprinted_ 1901

{Edward FitzGerald: p0. Jpg}

PREFACE

In compliance with a very generally expressed wish that the Letters ofEdward FitzGerald should be separated from his Literary Remains, they arenow issued with some additions to their number which have not beforeappeared. It was no part of my plan to form a complete collection of hisletters, but rather to let the story of his life be told in such of themas gave an indication of his character and pursuits. It would have beeneasy to increase the number considerably had I printed all that Ipossess, but it seemed better to create the desire for more than to incurthe reproach of having given more than enough. 

Since these volumes were completed a large number of letters, addressedby FitzGerald to his life-long friend Mrs. Kemble, have come into thepossession of Messrs. Richard Bentley and Son, and will shortly maketheir appearance. By the desire of Mr. George Bentley I have undertakento see them through the press. 

WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT. 

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 31 _March_, 1894. 

NOTE

In vol. Ii. P. 181 the date 1875, which was conjectural, has been changedto 1878, in which year September 22--the day on which the letter waswritten--was a Sunday. There was a Musical Festival at Norwich in bothyears, and the same Oratorios were performed, and this led me to put theletter out of its place. 

W. A. W. 

PREFACE TO LETTERS AND LITERARY REMAINS

After Mr. FitzGerald's death in June 1883 a small tin box addressed to mewas found by his executors, containing among other things correctedcopies of his printed works, and the following letter, which must havebeen written shortly after my last visit to him at Easter that year:

 WOODBRIDGE: _May_ 1/83. 

 MY DEAR WRIGHT, I do not suppose it likely that any of my works should be reprinted after my Death. Possibly the three Plays from the Greek, and Calderon's Magico: which have a certain merit in the Form they are cast into, and also in the Versification. 

 However this may be, I venture to commit to you this Box containing Copies of all that I have corrected in the way that I would have them appear, if any of them ever should be resuscitated. 

 The C. Lamb papers are only materials for you, or any one else, to use at pleasure. 

 The Crabbe volume would, I think, serve for an almost sufficient Selection from him; and some such Selection will have to be made, I believe, if he is to be resuscitated. Two of the Poems--'The Happy Day' and 'The Family of Love'--seem to me to have needed some such abridgement as the 'Tales of the Hall, ' for which I have done little more than hastily to sketch the Plan. For all the other Poems, simple Extracts from them will suffice: with a short notice concerning their Dates of Composition, etc. , at the Beginning. 

 My poor old Lowestoft Sea-slang may amuse yourself to look over perhaps. 

 And so, asking your pardon for inflicting this Box upon you I am ever sincerely yours

 E. F. G. 

In endeavouring to carry out these last wishes of my friend I thoughtthat of the many who know him only as a translator some would be glad tohave a picture of him as he appeared to the small circle of his intimateacquaintances. The mere narrative of the life of a man of leisure andliterary tastes would have contained too few incidents to be of generalinterest, and it appeared to me best to let him be his own biographer, telling his own story and revealing his own character in his letters. Fortunately there are many of these, and I have endeavoured to give sucha selection from them as would serve this purpose, adding a few wordshere and there to connect them and explain what was not sufficientlyevident. As the letters begin from the time that he left College andcontinue with shorter or longer intervals till the day before his death, it was only necessary to introduce them by a short sketch of his earlylife in order to make the narrative complete. 

FitzGerald's letters, like his conversation, were perfectly unaffectedand full of quiet humour. In his lonely life they were the chief meanshe had of talking with his friends, and they were always welcome. Inreply to one of them Carlyle wrote: 'Thanks for your friendly humanletter; which gave us much entertainment in the reading (at breakfasttime the other day), and is still pleasant to think of. One gets so many_in_human letters, ovine, bovine, porcine, etc. , etc. : I wish you wouldwrite a little oftener; when the beneficent Daimon suggests, fail not tolend ear to him. ' Another, who has since followed him 'from sunshine tothe sunless land, ' and to whom he wrote of domestic affairs, said, 'Thestriking feature in his correspondence with me is the exquisitetenderness of feeling which it exhibits in regard to all family matters;the letters might have been written by a mother or a sister. ' He said ofhimself that his friendships were more like loves, and as he was constantin affectionate loyalty to others, he might also say with Brutus, In all my life I found no man but he was true to me. 

The Poet-Laureate, on hearing of his death, wrote to the late SirFrederic Pollock: 'I had no truer friend: he was one of the kindliest ofmen, and I have never known one of so fine and delicate a wit. I hadwritten a poem to him the last week, a dedication, which he will neversee. '

When Thackeray, not long before he died, was asked by his daughter whichof his old friends he had loved most, he replied, 'Why, dear old Fitz, tobe sure; and Brookfield. '

And Carlyle, quick of eye to discern the faults and weaknesses of others, had nothing but kindliness, with perhaps a touch of condescension, 'forthe peaceable, affectionate, and ultra-modest man, and his innocent _farniente_ life. '

It was something to have been intimate with three such friends, and onecan only regret that more of his letters addressed to them have not beenpreserved. Of those written to the earliest and dearest friend of all, James Spedding, not one is left. 

One of his few surviving contemporaries, speaking from a lifelongexperience, described him with perfect truth as an eccentric man ofgenius, who took more pains to avoid fame than others do to seek it. 

His love of music was one of his earliest passions, and remained with himto the last. I cannot refrain from quoting some recollections of thelate Archdeacon Groome, a friend of his College days, and so near aneighbour in later life that few letters passed between them. 'He was atrue musician; not that he was a great performer on any instrument, butthat he so truly appreciated all that was good and beautiful in music. Hewas a good performer on the piano, and could get such full harmonies outof the organ that stood in one corner of his entrance room at LittleGrange as did good to the listener. Sometimes it would be a bit from oneof Mozart's Masses, or from one of the finales of some one of his orBeethoven's Operas. And then at times he would fill up the harmonieswith his voice, true and resonant almost to the last. I have heard himsay, "Did you never observe how an Italian organ-grinder will sometimesput in a few notes of his own in such perfect keeping with the air whichhe was grinding?" He was not a great, but he was a good composer. Someof his songs have been printed, and many still remain in manuscript. Thenwhat pleasant talk I have had with him about the singers of our earlyyears; never forgetting to speak of Mrs. Frere of Downing, as the mostperfect private singer we had ever heard. And so indeed she was. Whothat had ever heard her sing Handel's songs can ever forget the purity ofher phrasing and the pathos of her voice? She had no particle of vanityin her, and yet she would say, "Of course, I can sing Handel. I was apupil of John Sale, and he was a pupil of Handel. " To her old age shestill retained the charm of musical expression, though her voice was buta thread. And so we spoke of her; two old men with all the enthusiasticadmiration of fifty years ago. Pleasant was it also to hear him speak ofthe public singers of those early days. Braham, so great, spite of hisvulgarity; Miss Stephens, so sweet to listen to, though she had no voiceof power; and poor Vaughan, who had so feeble a voice, and yet was alwayscalled "such a chaste singer. " How he would roar with laughter, when Iwould imitate Vaughan singing

 His hiddeus (_sic_) love provokes my rage, Weak as I am, I must engage, from Acis and Galatea. Then too his reminiscences of the said Acis andGalatea as given at the Concerts for Ancient Music. "I can see them now, the dear old _creeters_ with the gold eye-glasses and their turbans, noddling their heads as they sang

 O the pleasures of the plains!"

'These old _creeters_ being, as he said, the sopranos who had sung firstas girls, when George the Third was king. 

'He was a great lover of our old English composers, specially of Shield. Handel, he said, has a scroll in his marble hand in the Abbey on whichare written the first bars of

 I know that my Redeemer liveth;

and Shield should hold a like scroll, only on it should be written thefirst bars of

 A flaxen-headed ploughboy. 

'He was fond of telling a story of Handel, which I, at least, have neverseen in print. When Handel was blind he composed his "Samson, " in whichthere is that most touching of all songs, specially to any one whosepowers of sight are waning--"Total Eclipse. " Mr. Beard was the greattenor singer of the day, who was to sing this song. Handel sent for him, "Mr. Beard, " he said, "I cannot sing it as it should be sung, but I cantell you how it ought to be sung. " And then he sang it, with whatstrange pathos need not be told. Beard stood listening, and when it wasfinished said, with tears in his eyes, "But Mr. Handel, I can never singit like that. " And so he would tell the story with tears in his voice, such as those best remember, who ever heard him read some piece of hisdear old Crabbe, and break down in the reading. '

With this I will conclude, and I have only now to express my sincerethanks to all who have entrusted me with letters addressed to themselvesor to those whom they represent. It has been my endeavour to justifytheir confidence by discretion. To Messrs. Richard Bentley and Son I amindebted for permission to reprint Virgil's Garden from the Temple BarMagazine. {0a}

The portrait is from a photograph by Cade and White of Ipswich taken in1873. 

WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT. 

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 20 May, 1889. 

LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD

Edward FitzGerald was born at Bredfield House in Suffolk, an old Jacobeanmansion about two miles from Woodbridge, on the 31st of March, 1809. Hewas the third son of John Purcell, who married his cousin Mary FrancesFitzGerald, and upon the death of her father in 1818 took the name andarms of FitzGerald. In 1816 Mr. Purcell went to France, and for a timesettled with his family at St. Germains. FitzGerald in later life wouldoften speak of the royal hunting parties which he remembered seeing inthe forest. They afterwards removed to Paris, occupying the house inwhich Robespierre had once lived, and here FitzGerald had for hisdrillmaster one of Napoleon's Old Guard. Even at this early period thevivacious humour which afterwards characterized him appears to have shewnitself, for his father writing to some friends in England speaks oflittle Edward keeping the whole family in good spirits by his unfailingfun and droll speeches. The dramatic circumstances of the assassinationof M. Fualdes, a magistrate at Rodez, in 1817, and the remarkable trialwhich followed, fastened themselves on FitzGerald's memory, and he wasfamiliar with all the details which he had heard spoken of when quite achild in Paris. In 1821 he was sent to King Edward the Sixth's School atBury St. Edmunds, where his two elder brothers were already under thecharge of Dr. Malkin, who, like himself in after life, was a greatadmirer of Crabbe. Among his schoolfellows were James Spedding and hiselder brother, W. B. Donne, J. M. Kemble, and William Airy the brother ofSir George Airy, formerly Astronomer-Royal. I have often heard him saythat the best piece of declamation he had ever listened to was Kemble'srecitation of Hotspur's speech, beginning 'My liege, I did deny noprisoners, ' on a prize day at Bury. When he left for Cambridge in 1826the Speddings were at the head of the School. He was entered at Trinityon 6th February 1826 under Mr. (afterwards Dean) Peacock and went intoresidence in due course in the following October, living in lodgings atMrs. Perry's (now Oakley's), No. 19 King's Parade. James Spedding didnot come up till the year following, and his greatest friends in laterlife, John Allen, afterwards Archdeacon of Salop, W. M. Thackeray, and W. H. Thompson, afterwards Master of Trinity, were his juniors at theUniversity by two years. The three Tennysons were also hiscontemporaries, but it does not appear that he knew them till after hehad left Cambridge. Indeed, in a letter to Mrs. Richmond Ritchie (MissThackeray), written in 1882, he says of the Laureate, 'I can tell younothing of his College days; for I did not know him till they were over, though I had seen him two or three times before. I remember him well--asort of Hyperion. '

FitzGerald was unambitious of University distinctions and was not in thetechnical sense a reading man, but he passed through his course in aleisurely manner, amusing himself with music and drawing and poetry, andmodestly went out in the Poll in January 1830, after a period of suspenseduring which he was apprehensive of not passing at all. Immediatelyafter taking his degree he went to stay with his brother-in-law, Mr. Kerrich, at Geldestone Hall, near Beccles, where he afterwards spent muchof his time. While there, and still undecided as to his futuremovements, he writes to his friend John Allen that his father had to someextent decided for him by reducing his allowance, a measure which wouldcompel him to go and live in France. It was apparently not inconsequence of this, for the difficulty with his father wassatisfactorily arranged, that he went in the spring of 1830 to Paris, where his aunt, Miss Purcell, was living. Thackeray joined him for ashort time in April, but left suddenly, and was the bearer of a hurriedletter written by FitzGerald at the Palais Royal to the friend who was atthis time his chief correspondent. 

 'If you see Roe (the Engraver, not the Haberdasher) give him my remembrance and tell him I often wish for him in the Louvre: as I do for you, my dear Allen: for I think you would like it very much. There are delightful portraits (which you love most), and statues so beautiful that you would for ever prefer statues to pictures. There are as fine pictures in England: but not one statue so fine as any here. There is a lovely and very modest Venus: and the Gladiator: and a very majestic Demosthenes, sitting in a chair, with a roll of writing in his hands, and seemingly meditating before rising to speak. It is quite awful. '

FitzGerald remained in France till about the end of May, and beforeleaving wrote again to Allen, not perhaps altogether seriously, yet withmore truth than he imagined, of his future mode of life. 

 'I start for England in a week, as I purpose now: I shall go by Havre de Grace and Southampton, and stay for a month or two perhaps at Dartmouth, a place on the Devonshire coast. Tell Thackeray that he is never to invite me to his house, as I intend never to go: not that I would not go out there rather than any place perhaps, but I cannot stand seeing new faces in the polite circles. You must know I am going to become a great bear: and have got all sorts of Utopian ideas into my head about society: these may all be very absurd, but I try the experiment on myself, so I can do no great hurt. Where I shall go in the summer I know not. '

In the end he made Southampton his headquarters and spent several weeksthere, going on short excursions to visit some college acquaintances. InNovember he was at Naseby, where his father had a considerable estate, including the famous battlefield, of which we shall hear more in hislater correspondence. 'This place is solitary enough, ' he writes to JohnAllen, 'but I am well off in a nice farm-house. I wish you could comeand see the primitive inhabitants, and the fine field of Naseby. Thereare grand views on every side: and all is interesting. . . . Do youknow, Allen, that this is a very curious place with odd fossils: andmixed with bones and bullets of the fight at Naseby; and the identicalspot where King Charles stood to see the battle. . . . I do wish you andSansum were here to see the curiosities. Can't you come? I am quite theKing here I promise you. . . . I am going to-day to dine with theCarpenter, a Mr. Ringrose, and to hear his daughter play on thepianoforte. Fact. 

'My blue surtout daily does wonders. At Church its effect is trulydelightful. '

It was at Naseby, in the spring of the following year (1831), that hemade his earliest attempt in verse, the earliest at any rate which hasyet been discovered. Charles Lamb, writing to Moxon in August, tellshim, 'The Athenaeum has been hoaxed with some exquisite poetry, that was, two or three months ago, in Hone's Book. . . . The poem I mean is inHone's Book as far back as April. I do not know who wrote it; but 'tis apoem I envy--_that_ and Montgomery's "Last Man": I envy the writers, because I feel I could have done something like them. ' It first appearedin Hone's Year Book for April 30, 1831, with the title 'The Meadows inSpring, ' and the following letter to the Editor. 'These verses are inthe old style; rather homely in expression; but I honestly profess tostick more to the simplicity of the old poets than the moderns, and tolove the philosophical good humor of our old writers more than the sicklymelancholy of the Byronian wits. If my verses be not good, they are goodhumored, and that is something. ' With a few verbal changes they weresent to the Athenaeum, and appeared in that paper on July 9, 1831, accompanied by a note of the Editor's, from which it is evident that hesupposed them to have been written by Lamb. 

_To the Editor of the Athenaeum_. 

SIR, These verses are something in the old style, but not the worse for that:not that I mean to call them good: but I am sure they would not have beenbetter, if dressed up in the newest Montgomery fashion, for which Icannot say I have much love. If they are fitted for your paper, you arewelcome to them. I send them to you, because I find only in your paper alove of our old literature, which is almost monstrous in the eyes ofmodern ladies and gentlemen. My verses are certainly not in the presentfashion; but, I must own, though there may not be the same merit in thethoughts, I think the style much better: and this with no credit tomyself, but to the merry old writers of more manly times. 

Your humble servant, EPSILON. 

 'Tis a dull sight To see the year dying, When winter winds Set the yellow wood sighing: Sighing, oh! sighing. 

 When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire: Oh, pile a bright fire!

 And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings-- Oh, drearily sings!

 I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling!

 But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I, Reading of summer And chivalry-- Gallant chivalry!

 Then with an old friend I talk of our youth-- How 'twas gladsome, but often Foolish, forsooth: But gladsome, gladsome!

 Or to get merry We sing some old rhyme, That made the wood ring again In summer time-- Sweet summer time!

 Then go we to smoking, Silent and snug: Nought passes between us, Save a brown jug-- Sometimes!

 And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends So merrily-- So merrily!

 And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together!

 Thus, then, live I, Till, 'mid all the gloom, By heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room. Shining, shining!

 Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green!

 I jump up, like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!

I had very little hesitation, from internal evidence alone, inidentifying these verses with those which FitzGerald had written, as hesaid, when a lad, or little more than a lad, and sent to the Athenaeum, but all question has been set at rest by the discovery of a copy in acommon-place book belonging to the late Archdeacon Allen, with theheading 'E. F. G. , ' and the date 'Naseby, Spring, 1831. ' This copydiffers slightly from those in the Year Book and in the Athenaeum, and inplace of the tenth stanza it has, So winter passeth Like a long sleep From falling autumn To primrose-peep. 

But although at this time he appears to have written nothing more himselfhe was not unmindful of what was done by others, for in May 1831 hewrites to Allen, 'I have bought A. Tennyson's poems. How good Marianais!' And again a year later, after a night-ride on the coach to London, 'I forgot to tell you that when I came up in the mail, and fell a dozingin the morning, the sights of the pages in crimson and the funerals whichthe Lady of Shalott saw and wove, floated before me: really, the poem hastaken lodging in my poor head. '

The correspondence will now for the most part tell its own story, andwith it all that is to be told of FitzGerald's life. 

In October and November 1831 he was for three weeks in town withThackeray, and in the following summer was thinking of joining him atHavre when he wrote to his friend Allen. 

[SOUTHAMPTON]_July_ 31, _Tuesday_ [1832. ]

MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . And now I will tell you of a pilgrimage I made that put me in mindof you much. I went to Salisbury to see the Cathedral, but more to walkto Bemerton, George Herbert's village. It is about a mile and half fromSalisbury alongside a pleasant stream with old-fashioned watermillsbeside: through fields very fertile. When I got to Bemerton I scarcelyknew what to do with myself. It is a very pretty village with the Churchand Parsonage much as Herbert must have left it. But there is nomemorial of him either in or outside the walls of the church: thoughthere have been Bishops and Deans and I know not what all so close athand at Salisbury. This is a great shame indeed. I would gladly put upa plain stone if I could get the Rector's leave. I was very sorry to seeno tablet of any kind. The people in the Cottages had heard of a verypious man named Herbert, and had read his books--but they don't knowwhere he lies. I have drawn the church and village: the little woodcutof it in Walton's Lives is very like. I thought I must have passed alongthe spot in the road where he assisted the man with the fallen horse: andto shew the benefit of good examples, I was serviceable that very eveningin the town to some people coming in a cart: for the driver was drunk anddriving furiously home from the races, and I believe would have fallenout, but that some folks, amongst whom I was one, stopped the cart. Thislong history is now at an end. I wanted John Allen much to be with me. Inoticed the little window into which Herbert's friend looked, and saw himkneeling so long before the altar, when he was first ordained. 

* * * * *

In the summer and autumn of this year FitzGerald spent some weeks atTenby and was a good deal with Allen to whom he wrote on his return toLondon. 

LONDON, _Nov_. 21, 1832. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, I suppose it must seem strange to you that I should like writing letters:and indeed I don't know that I do like it in general. However, here Isee no companions, so I am pleased to talk to my old friend John Allen:which indeed keeps alive my humanity very much. . . . I have been aboutto divers Bookshops and have bought several books--a Bacon's Essays, Evelyn's Sylva, Browne's Religio Medici, Hazlitt's Poets, etc. Thelatter I bought to add to my Paradise, which however has stood still oflate. I mean to write out Carew's verses in this letter for you, andyour Paradise. As to the Religio, I have read it again: and keep myopinion of it: except admiring the eloquence, and beauty of the notions, more. But the arguments are not more convincing. Nevertheless, it is avery fine piece of English: which is, I believe, all that you contendfor. Hazlitt's Poets is the best selection I have ever seen. I haveread some Chaucer too, which I like. In short I have been reading a gooddeal since I have been here: but not much in the way of knowledge. 

. . . As I lay in bed this morning, half dozing, I walked in imaginationall the way from Tenby to Freestone by the road I know so well: by thewater-mill, by Gumfreston, Ivy tower, and through the gates, and the longroad 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 verybeautiful. . . . 

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 amangry at your saying that your conscience pricks you for not havingwritten to me before. I am of that superior race of men, that are quitecontent to hear themselves talk, and read their own writing. But, inseriousness, I have such love of you, and of myself, that once everyweek, at least, I feel spurred on by a sort of gathering up of feelingsto vent myself in a letter upon you: but if once I hear you say that itmakes 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, whodo not love writing, cannot think that any one else does: but I am sorryto say that I have a very young-lady-like partiality to writing to thosethat I love. . . . I have been reading Shakespeare's Sonnets: and Ibelieve 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 Hazlittcall Warton's the finest sonnets? There is the air of pedantry andlabour in his. But Shakespeare's are perfectly simple, and have the veryessence of tenderness that is only to be found in the best parts of hisRomeo and Juliet besides. I have truly been lapped in these Sonnets forsome time: they seem all stuck about my heart, like the ballads that usedto 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 tobe in the same page. I could talk for an hour about them: but it is notfit 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 thatthere is a French proverb, 'In October, de Englishman shoot de pheasant:in November he shoot himself. ' This I suppose is the case with me: soaway with November, as soon as may be. 'Canst thou my Clora' is beingput in proper musical trim: and I will write it out for you when all isright. I am sorry you are getting so musical: and if I take your adviceabout so big a thing as Christianity, take you mine about music. I amsure that this pleasure of music grows so on people, that many of thehours that you would have devoted to Jeremy Taylor, etc. Will be melteddown into tunes, and the idle train of thought that music puts us into. Ifancy I have discovered the true philosophy of this: but I think you musthave heard me enlarge. Therefore 'satis. '

I have gabbled on so long that there is scarce room for my quotation. Butit shall come though in a shapeless manner, for the sake of room. Haveyou got in your Christian Poet, a poem by Sir H. Wotton--'How happy is heborn 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 descriptionof a fellow walking in Spring, and looking here and there, and prickingup his ears, as different birds sing. 'What bird so sings, but doth sowail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: "Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue, "she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! whois't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear: against heaven'sgate 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 howthe jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring: "Cuckoo" towelcome in the Spring. ' This is very English, and pleasant, I think: andso 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 asbreathe content, and virtue: I count 'Back and syde' to breathe both ofthese, with a little good drink over. 

_Wednesday_ [28 _Nov. _ 1832]. 

P. S. I sealed up my letter yesterday, forgetting to finish. I writethus soon 'becase I gets a frank. ' You shall benefit by another bit ofpoetry. I do not admit it into my Paradise, being too gloomy: but itwill 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 moreheadlong melancholy than Milton's, which are distinctly copied fromthese, as you must confess. And now this is a very long letter, and thebest thing you can do when you get to the end, is to Da Capo, and readwhat I ordered you about answering. My dear fellow, it is a greatpleasure 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 youliked the verses I sent you. The news of this week is that Thackeray hascome to London, but is going to leave it again for Devonshire directly. He came very opportunely to divert my Blue Devils: notwithstanding, we donot 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 isas full of good humour and kindness as ever. The next news is that a newvolume 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 thatyou and your Brother were once telling me at Bosherston, of threeGenerals 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 canfind some notice of it. . . . 

I have been poring over Wordsworth lately: which has had much effect inbettering 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 isdiverted to become a cause of sympathy and interest with Nature andmankind: and this I think Wordsworth tends to do. I think I told you ofShakespeare's sonnets before: I cannot tell you what sweetness I find inthem. 

 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 youthe two last verses about Clora: though it is more complete and betterwithout them: strange to say. You must have the goodness to repeat thoseyou know over first, and then fall upon these: for there is a sort ofreasoning in them, which requires proper order, as much as a propositionof Euclid. The first of them is not to my liking, but it is too muchtrouble about a little thing to work it into a better. You have the twofirst 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 huntingabout the town for an ancient drinking cup, which I may use when I am inmy house, in quality of housekeeper. Have the goodness to make myremembrances to all at that most pleasant house Freestone: I am quiteserious in telling you how it is by far the pleasantest family I ever wasamong. 

My sister is far better. We walk very much and see such sights as thetown 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 mycue, 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 longletter once a week to you: but it is next to talking to you: and afterhaving 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? Itis 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 Ithink I have achieved a victory over my evil spirits here: for they havefull opportunity to come, and I often observe their approaches, buthitherto I have managed to keep them off. Lord Bacon's Essay onFriendship is wonderful for its truth: and I often feel its truth. Hesays that with a Friend 'a man _tosseth_ his thoughts, ' an admirablesaying, which one can understand, but not express otherwise. But I feelthat, being alone, one's thoughts and feelings, from want ofcommunication, become heaped up and clotted together, as it were: and solie like undigested food heavy upon the mind: but with a friend one_tosseth_ them about, so that the air gets between them, and keeps themfresh 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 thatit does not press into a heavy lump, but is tossed about in the air, andseparated, 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 notbeing one. I am a very lazy fellow, who do nothing: and this I have beendoing in different places ever since I saw you last. I have not beenwell for the last week: for I am at present rather liable to be oversetby any weariness (and where can any be found that can match the effect oftwo Oratorios?), since for the last three months I have lived onvegetables--that is, I have given up meat. When I was talking of this toVipan, he told me that you had once tried it, and given it up. I shallhear your account of its effect on you. The truth is, that mine is thewrong time of life to begin a change of that kind: it is either tooearly, or too late. But I have no doubt at all of the advantage ofgiving up meat: I find already much good from it, in lightness andairiness of head, whereas I was always before clouded and more or lessmorbid after meat. The loss of strength is to be expected: I shall keepon and see if that also will turn, and change into strength. I havealmost Utopian notions about _vegetable diet_, begging pardon for makinguse of such a vile, Cheltenhamic, phrase. Why do you not bring up yourchildren to it? To be sure, the chances are, that, after guarding theirvegetable morals for years, they would be seduced by some roast partridgewith bread sauce, and become ungodly. This actually happened to the sonof a Dr. Newton who wrote a book {23} about it and bred up his childrento it--but all such things I will tell you when I meet you. Gods! it isa pleasant notion that one is about to meet an old acquaintance in a dayor two. 

Believe me then your most sincere friend, E. FITZGERALD. 

Pipes--are their names ever heard with you? I have given them up, exceptat 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 excellentadvice: I am still determined to give the diet I have proposed a goodtrial: a year's trial. I agree with you about vegetables, and soups: butmy diet is chiefly _bread_: which is only a little less nourishing thanflesh: 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 Ithink, in more lightness of spirits: which is a great good. But I shallsee in time. 

I am living in London in the quarter of the town which I have noticedabove: in a very happy bachelor-like way. Would you would come up herefor a few days. I can give you bed, board, etc. Do have some businessin town, please. Spedding is here: taking lessons of drawing, before hegoes for good into Cumberland: whither, for my sake and that of all hisfriends, 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 awfulHamlet 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. Iam going to-night to see Macready in Macbeth: I have seen him before init: 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 greatpleasure in reading in my rambling way. I hear of Kemble lately that hehas been making some discoveries in Anglo-Saxon MSS. At Cambridge that, they say, are important to the interests of the church: and there is talkof publishing them, I believe. He is a strange fellow for that fieryindustry 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 ischiefly meditating on the purging and subliming of what he has alreadydone: and repents that he has published at all yet. It is fine to seehow 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 wasreally the elements of great genius ill-sorted: in fact, a genius with ascrew loose, as we used to say. I shall shew you this book when I seeyou: to me there is particular interest in this man's writing anddrawing, from the strangeness of the constitution of his mind. He was aman that used to see visions: and make drawings and paintings ofAlexander the Great, Caesar, etc. , who, he declared, stood before himwhile 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 firstday. I have doubted whether it would be most considerate to return youthanks 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, asany book is, that notes down facts alone, especially about health. Iwish 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 seethings in the light of that theory; and whatever is brought to me toconvince me to the contrary is only wrought and tortured to my view ofthe question. This lasts till a reaction is brought about by some of theusual means: as time, and love of novelty, etc. I am still veryobstinate and persist in my practices. I do not think Stark is aninstance of vegetable diet: consider how many things he tried grosslyanimal: lard, and butter, and fat: besides thwarting Nature in every wayby eating when he wanted not to eat, and the contrary. Besides theeditor says in the preface that he thinks his death was brought about asmuch by vexation as by the course of his diet: but I suppose the truth isthat vexation could not have had so strong hold except upon a weakenedbody. However, altogether I do not at all admit Stark to be anyinstance: 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'sestablishment (where I had never been before), and the subject happenedto be about Vegetable Diet: but it was only the termination of a formerlecture, 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 uponthis subject? I do not feel it to be disgusting to talk of myself uponthis subject, because I think there is great interest in the subjectitself. So I shall say that I am just now very well: in fine spirits. Ihave only eaten meat once for many weeks: and that was at a party where Idid not like to be singled out. Neither have I tasted wine, except twoor 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 consolationfor my wounded judgement: that first cut is a fine thing. So much forthis. . . . Have you heard that Arthur Malkin is to be married? to aMiss Carr, with what Addison might call a pleasing fortune: or perhapsNicholas Rowe. 'Sweet, pleasing friendship, etc. Etc. ' Mrs. Malkin isin high spirits about it, I hear: and I am very glad indeed. God sendthat you have not heard this before: for a man likes to be the firstteller of a pretty piece of news. Spedding and I went to see Macready inHamlet the other night: with which he was pretty well content, but notwholly. For my part, I have given up deciding on how Hamlet should beplayed: or rather have decided it shouldn't be played at all. I takepleasure in reading things I don't wholly understand; just as the oldwomen like sermons: I think it is of a piece with an admiration of allNature around us. I think there is a greater charm in the half meaningsand glimpses of meaning that come in through Blake's wilder visions:though his difficulties arose from a very different source fromShakespeare's. But somewhat too much of this. I suspect I have foundout this as an useful solution, when I am asked the meaning of any thingthat 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 thesunshine 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 itvery much. Don't you think it would make a nice book to publish all thepapers about Sir Roger de Coverley alone, with illustrations byThackeray? It is a thing that is wanted: to bring that standard of theold English Gentleman forward out of the mass of little topics, andfashions, that occupy the greater part of the Spectator. Thackeray hasillustrated my Undine in about fourteen little coloured drawings--verynicely. . . . 

I am here in the country in brave health: rising at six withal: andpruning of rose trees in the garden. Why don't you get up early? in thesummer at least. The next time we meet in town I mean to get an artistto make me your portrait: for I often wish for it. It must be looking atme. Now write very soon: else I shall be gone: and know that I am yourvery 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 thirdletter all the way from here to Pembrokeshire for no earthly purpose: butI have just received yours: and you will know how very welcome all yourletters are to me when you see how the perusal of this one has excited meto such an instant reply. It has indeed been a long time coming: but itis all the more delicious. Perhaps you can't imagine how wistfully Ihave 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 beangry with you: but then I thought that I was sure you would come ahundred miles to serve me, though you were too lazy to sit down to aletter. 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 ofletters with any anxiety: but I am an idle fellow, of a very ladyliketurn of sentiment: and my friendships are more like loves, I think. Yourletter found me reading the Merry Wives of Windsor too: I had beenlaughing aloud to myself: think of what another coat of happiness cameover my former good mood. You are a dear good fellow, and I love youwith all my heart and soul. The truth is I was anxious about thisletter, as I really didn't know whether you were married or not--or ill--Ifancied 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 anoble kind of Journal it was! There is certaintly a good deal of whatmay 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 realabsolute wisdom. The little book you speak of I will order and buy. Iheard 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 everaffectionate 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--thesecond 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 thetheatre: 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 disgraceany 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 barebeyond anything I ever saw: and one begins to hope that it has touchedthe bottom of its badness, and will rise again. I was looking the otherday at Sir W. Davenant's alteration of Macbeth: who dies, saying, 'Farewell, vain world: and that which is vainest in't, Ambition!'

Edgeworth, whom I think you remember at Cambridge, is come to live intown: and I see him often at the Museum. The want of books chiefly drovehim from Italy: besides that he tells me he likes a constant change ofscenes and ideas, and would be always about if he could. He is a veryoriginal man I think, and throws out much to be chewed and digested: buthe is deficient in some elements that must combine to govern my love andadmiration. He has much imagination of head, but none of heart: perhapsthese are absurd distinctions: but I am no hand at these definitions. Hisgreat study is metaphysics: and Kant is his idol. He is rather withoutcompany in London, and I wish much to introduce him to such men as Iknow: but most of your Apostolic party who could best exchange ideas withhim are not in town. He is full of his subjects, and only wantsopponents to tilt at. . . . 

The life of Coleridge {32} is indeed an unsatisfactory thing: I believethat everybody thinks so. You seem to think that it is purposelyunsatisfactory, or rather dissatisfactory: but it seems to me to proceedfrom a kind of enervation in De Quincey. However, I don't know how hesupports himself in other writings. . . . 

To fill up my letter I send you a sonnet of C. Lamb's, out of his AlbumVerses--please to like it--'Leisure. '

_To John Allen_. 

MANCHESTER, _May_ 23, 1835. 

DEAR ALLEN, I think that the fatal two months have elapsed, by which a letter shallbecome due to me from you. Ask Mrs. Allen if this is not so. Mind, Idon't speak this upbraidingly, because I know that you didn't know whereI was. I will tell you all about this by degrees. In the first place, Istaid at Mirehouse till the beginning of May, and then, going homeward, spent a week at Ambleside, which, perhaps you don't know, is on theshores of Winandermere. It was very pleasant there: though it was to bewished that the weather had been a little better. I have scarce doneanything since I saw you but abuse the weather: but these four last dayshave made amends for all: and are, I hope, the beginning of summer atlast. Alfred Tennyson staid with me at Ambleside: Spedding was forced togo home, till the last two days of my stay there. I will say no more ofTennyson than that the more I have seen of him, the more cause I have tothink him great. His little humours and grumpinesses were so droll, thatI was always laughing: and was often put in mind (strange to say) of mylittle unknown friend, Undine--I must however say, further, that I feltwhat Charles Lamb describes, a sense of depression at times from theovershadowing of a so much more lofty intellect than my own: this (thoughit may seem vain to say so) I never experienced before, though I haveoften been with much greater intellects: but I could not be mistaken inthe universality of his mind; and perhaps I have received some benefit inthe now more distinct consciousness of my dwarfishness. I think that youshould keep all this to yourself, my dear Allen: I mean, that it is onlyto you that I would write so freely about myself. You know most of mysecrets, and I am not afraid of entrusting even my vanities to so true aman. . . . 

Pray, do not forget to say how the Freestone party are. My heart jumpedto them, when I read in a guide book at Ambleside, that from Scawfell (amountain in Westmoreland) you could see Snowdon. Perhaps you will notsee the chain of ideas: but I suppose there was one, else I don't knowhow it was that I tumbled, as it were, from the very summit of Scawfell, upon the threshold of Freestone. The mind soon traverses Wales. I havenot been reading very much--(as if you ever expected that I did!)--but Imean, not very much for me--some Dante, by the aid of a Dictionary: andsome Milton--and some Wordsworth--and some Selections from Jeremy Taylor, Barrow, etc. , compiled by Basil Montagu--of course you know the book: itis published by Pickering. I do not think that it is very well done: butit has served to delight, and, I think, to instruct me much. Do you knowSouth? He must be very great, I think. It seems to me that our oldDivines will hereafter be considered our Classics--(in Prose, I mean)--Iam not aware that any other nations have such books. A single selectionfrom Jeremy Taylor is fine: but it requires a skilful hand to put manydetached bits from him together: for a common editor only picks out theflowery, metaphorical, morsels: and so rather cloys: and gives quite awrong estimate of the Author, to those who had no previous acquaintancewith him: for, rich as Taylor's illustrations, and grotesque as hisimages, are, no one keeps a grander proportion: he never huddlesillustration upon the matter so as to overlay it, nor crowds images toothick together: which these Selections might make one unacquainted withhim to suppose. This is always the fault of Selections: but Taylor isparticularly liable to injury on this score. What a man he is! He hassuch a knowledge of the nature of man, and such powers of expressing itsproperties, that I sometimes feel as if he had had some exact counterpartof my own individual character under his eye, when he lays open thedepths of the heart, or traces some sin to its root. The eye of hisportrait expresses this keen intuition: and I think I should less like tohave stood with a lie on my tongue before him, than before any other Iknow of. . . . 

I beg you to give my best remembrances to your lady, who may be alwayssure that in all I wish of well for you, she is included: so that I takeless care to make mention of her separately. . . . 

WHERSTEAD, _July_ 4, 1835. 

DEAR ALLEN, . . . My brother John's wife, always delicate, has had an attack thisyear, which she can never get over: and while we are all living in thishouse cheerfully, she lives in separate rooms, can scarcely speak to us, or see us: and bears upon her cheek the marks of death. She has shewngreat Christian dignity all through her sickness: was the only cheerfulperson when they supposed she could not live: and is now very composedand happy. You say sometimes how like things are to dreams: or, as Ithink, to the shifting scenes of a play. So does this place seem to me. All our family, except my mother, are collected here: all my brothers andsisters, with their wives, husbands, and children: sitting at differentoccupations, or wandering about the grounds and gardens, discoursing eachtheir separate concerns, but all united into one whole. The weather isdelightful: and when I see them passing to and fro, and hear theirvoices, it is like scenes of a play. I came here only yesterday. I havemuch to tell you of: I mean, much in my small way: I will keep all till Isee you, for I don't know with what to begin in a letter. . . . 

Edgeworth introduced me to his wife and sister-in-law, who are veryhandsome Spanish ladies, seemingly of excellent sense. The wife is thegentler, and more feminine: and the sister more regularly handsome, andvivacious. I think that he is a very remarkable man: and I like him morethe more I see of him. 

What you say of Tennyson and Wordsworth is not, I think, wholly just. Idon't think that a man can turn himself so directly to the service ofmorality, unless naturally inclined: I think Wordsworth's is a naturalbias that way. Besides, one must have labourers of different kinds inthe vineyard of morality, which I certainly look up to as the chiefobject of our cultivation: Wordsworth is first in the craft: but Tennysondoes no little by raising and filling the brain with noble images andthoughts, which, if they do not direct us to our duty, purify and cleanseus from mean and vicious objects, and so prepare and fit us for thereception of the higher philosophy. A man might forsake a drunken partyto read Byron's Corsair: and Byron's Corsair for Shelley's Alastor: andthe Alastor for the Dream of Fair Women or the Palace of Art: and then Iwon't say that he would forsake these two last for anything ofWordsworth's, but his mind would be sufficiently refined andspiritualised to admit Wordsworth, and profit by him: and he might keepall the former imaginations as so many pictures, or pieces of music, inhis mind. But I think that you will see Tennyson acquire all that atpresent you miss: when he has _felt_ life, he will not die fruitless ofinstruction to man as he is. But I dislike this kind of criticism, especially in a letter. I don't know any one who has thought out anything so little as I have. I don't see to any end, and should keepsilent till I have got a little more, and that little better arranged. 

I am sorry that all this page is filled with this botheration, when Ihave a thousand truer and better things that I want to talk to you about. I will write to you again soon. If you please to write (but consider itno call upon you, for the letter I have just got from you is a stock thatwill last me in comfort this long while) I shall be at Wherstead allJuly--after that I know not where, but probably in Suffolk. Farewell, mybest of fellows: there is no use saying how much I wish that all yoursorrow will be turned to hope, and all your hope to joy. As far as wemen can judge, you are worthy of all earthly happiness. 

* * * * *

At the end of July, 1835, FitzGerald writes from Wherstead to Thackeray, who was then in Paris studying art:

 'My Father is determined to inhabit an empty house of his about fourteen miles off: {38} and we are very sorry to leave this really beautiful place. The other house has no great merit. So there is nothing now but packing up sofas, and pictures, and so on. I rather think that I shall be hanging about this part of the world all the winter: for my two sisters are about to inhabit this new house alone, and I cannot but wish to add my company to them now and then. . . . 

 'My dear boy, God bless thee a thousand times over! When are we to see thee? How long are you going to be at Paris? What have you been doing? The drawing you sent me was very pretty. So you don't like Raphael! Well, I am his inveterate admirer: and say, with as little affectation as I can, that his worst scrap fills my head more than all Rubens and Paul Veronese together--"the mind, the mind, Master Shallow!" You think this cant, I dare say: but I say it truly, indeed. Raphael's are the only pictures that cannot be described: no one can get words to describe their perfection. Next to him, I retreat to the Gothic imagination, and love the mysteries of old chairs, Sir Rogers, etc. In which thou, my dear boy, art and shalt be a Raphael. To depict the true old English gentleman, is as great a work as to depict a Saint John, and I think in my heart I would rather have the former than the latter. There are plenty of pictures in London--some good Water-colours by Lewis--Spanish things. Two or three very vulgar portraits by Wilkie, at the Exhibition: and a big one of Columbus, half good, and half bad. There is always a spice of vulgarity about Wilkie. There is an Eastlake, but I missed it. Etty has boats full of naked backs as usual: but what they mean, I didn't stop to enquire. He has one picture, however, of the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, which is sublime: though I believe nobody saw it, or thought about it but myself. '

About the same time that FitzGerald went to Boulge, George Crabbe, thePoet's eldest son and biographer, was appointed to the Vicarage of theadjoining parish of Bredfield, and a friendship sprang up between themwhich was only terminated by Mr. Crabbe's death in 1857. 

_To John Allen_. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, _October_ 31, 1835. 

DEAR ALLEN, I don't know what has come over me of late, that I have not written toyou, nor any body else for several months. I am sure it is not from anydecrease of affection towards you. I now begin a letter merely on thescore of wanting one from you: to let me know how you are; and Mrs. Allentoo, especially. I hope to hear good news of her. Many things may havehappened to you since I saw you: you may be a Bishop, for anything Iknow. I have been in Suffolk ever since I saw you. We are come tosettle at this place: and I have been enjoying capital health in my oldnative air. I meant to have come to London for the winter: but mysisters are here, and I do not like to leave them. This parish is a verysmall one: it scarce contains fifty people: but that next to it, Bredfield, has more than four hundred: and some very poor indeed. Wehope to be of some use: but the new Poor Laws have begun to be set afoot, and we don't know who is to stop in his cottage, or who is to go to theWorkhouse. How much depends upon the issue of this measure! I am nopolitician: but I fear that no political measure will ever adjust matterswell between rich and poor. . . . 

I have just read Southey's Life of Cowper; that is to say, the firstVolume. It is not a book to be read by every man at the fall of theleaf. It is a fearful book. Have you read it? Southey hits hard atNewton in the dark; which will give offence to many people: but Iperfectly agree with him. At the same time, I think that Newton was aman of great power. Did you ever read his life by himself? Pray do, ifyou have not. His journal to his wife, written at sea, contains some ofthe most beautiful things I ever read: fine feeling in very fine English. . . . 

Pray do write to me: a few lines soon are better than a three-decker amonth hence: for I really want to know where and how you are: and so be agood boy for once in your life. Ever yours lovingly, E. F. G. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

LONDON, _March_ [21], 1836. 

DEAR DONNE, . . . As to the sponsorship, I was sure that you and Mrs. Donne wouldreceive my apology as I meant it. Indeed I wish with you that peoplewould speak their minds more sincerely than it is the custom to do; andrecoin some of the every day compliments into a simpler form: but this isvoted a stale subject, I believe. Anyhow, I will not preach to you whodo not err: not to mention that I cannot by any means set up myself asany model of this virtue: whatever you may say to the contrary. 

I have consulted my friend John Allen concerning your ancestor's sermons:he says that the book is scarce. . . . I think that you should bepossessed of him by all means, considering that you are his descendant. Allen read much of him at the Museum, and has always spoken very highlyof him. As to doctrine, I believe Jeremy Taylor has never been quiteblameless; but then he wrote many folios instead of Donne's one: and Icannot help agreeing with Bayle that one of the disadvantages of muchwriting is, that a man is likely to contradict himself. If he does not_positively_ do so, he may _seem_ to do so, by using differentexpressions for the same thing, which expressions many readers mayconstrue diversely: and this is especially likely to be the case with socopious and metaphorical a writer as Jeremy. 

According to the principles contained in page 1 of this letter I willtell you that I thought the second volume of Southey {42} rather dull. But then I have only read it once; and I think that one is naturallyimpatient of all matter that does not absolutely touch Cowper: I mean, atthe first reading; when one wants to know all about him. I dare say thatafterwards I shall relish all the other relative matter, and contemporaryhistory, which seems indeed well done. I am glad that you are so contentwith the book. We were all talking the other night of Basil Montagu'snew Life of Bacon--have you read it? It is said to be very elaborate andtedious. A good life of Bacon is much wanted. But perhaps it is asdifficult to find a proper historian for him as for anyone that everlived. But enough of grave matters. I have been very little to thePlay: Vandenhoff's Iago I did not see: for indeed what I saw of him inother characters did not constrain me to the theatre to see his Iago. . . 

Spedding is just now furnishing chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields: so thatwe may look on him as a fixture in London. He and I went to dine withTennant at Blackheath last Thursday: there we met Edgeworth, who has gota large house at Eltham, and is lying in wait for pupils: I am afraid hewill not find many. We passed a very delightful evening. Tennant ismaking interest for a school at Cambridge: {43a} but I do not know if heis likely to succeed. And now I have told all the news I know, exceptthat I hear that Sterling {43b} is very ill with an attack on his chest, which keeps him from preaching: and that Trench has been in London. Neither of these men do I know, but I hear of them. 

_To John Allen_. 

[GELDESTONE HALL], _January_ 1, 1837. 

DEAR ALLEN, A merry new year to you and yours. How have you been since I saw you? . . . 

If you can find an old copy of Taylor's Holy Living and Dying cheap andclean at the same time, pray buy it for me. It is for my old friend Mrs. Schutz: and she would not allow me to give it her: so that I give you herdirections. . . . 

I am very deep in my Aristophanes, and find the Edition I bought quitesufficient for my wants. One requires a translation of him less than ofany of the Greeks I have read, because his construction is so clear andbeautiful. Only his long words, and local allusions, make him difficult, so far as I have seen. He has made me laugh heartily, and wonder: but asto your calling him greater than Aeschylus or Sophocles, I do not agreewith you. I have read nothing else. What a nice quiet speech CharlesKemble made on quitting the stage: almost the best I can remember on suchan occasion. Did Spedding hear him? My dear Allen, I should often wishto see you and him of an evening as heretofore at this season in London:but I don't see any likelihood of my coming till February at nearest. Welive here the usual quiet country life: and now that the snow is so deepwe are rather at a loss for exercise. It is very hard work toiling alongthe roads, and besides so blinding to the eyes. I take a spade, andscuppet {44} away the snow from the footpaths. . . . 

Write to me at Boulge Hall, Woodbridge; for I think that the snows willbe passable, and my sisters arrived there, before you write. There's aninsinuation for you. Make my remembrances to Mrs. Allen: and believe me

Yours ever most affectionately, E. FITZGERALD. 

[BOULGE HALL], _Tuesday_, _January_ 10, 1837. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, Another letter in so short a time will surprise you. My old Lady will beglad of a new edition of Jeremy Taylor, beside the old one. I rememberyou once gave me a very nice large duodecimo one: are these to be had, and cheap? It must have a good type, to suit old eyes. When you arepossessed of these and the other books I begged you to ask for (exceptthe Bacon which is for myself) do me one favour more: which is to bookthem per Coach at the White Horse, Piccadilly, directed to Mrs. Schutz, Gillingham Hall, Beccles. I should not have troubled you again, but thatshe, poor lady, is anxious to possess the books soon, as she never looksforward to living through a year: and she finds that Jeremy Taylor soundsa good note of preparation for that last hour which she looks upon asdrawing nigh. I myself think she will live much longer: as she iswonderfully healthy for her time of life--seventy-six. {45} Sometimes Italk to her about you: and she loves you by report. You never grudge anytrouble for your friends: but as this is a little act of kindness for anold and noble lady, I shall apologize no more for it. I will pay you allyou disburse when I come to London. 

I was made glad and sad last night in looking over some of your lettersto me, ever since my stay at Tenby. I wonder within myself if we arechanged since then. Do you remember that day when we sat upon that rockthat runs out into the sea, and looked down into the clear water below? Imust go to Tenby one of these days, and walk that old walk to Freestone. How well I remember what a quiet delight it was to walk out and meet you, when you were coming to stay a week with me once at my lodgings. . . . 

And now, Sir, when you next go to the British Museum, look for a Poetnamed Vaughan. Do you know him? I read some fine sacred poems of his ina Collection of John Mitford's: he selects them from a book of Vaughan'scalled 'Silex Scintillans, ' 1621. He seems to have great fancy andfervour and some deep thought. Yet many of the things are in the tricksyspirit of that time: but there is a little Poem beginning 'They are allgone into a World of Light, ' etc. , which shews him to be capable of much. Again farewell, my dear Allen: give my best remembrances to Mrs. Allen, who must think that I write to you as if you were still a Bachelor. Indeed, I think you had best burn this letter suddenly, after you haveread my commissions. [Greek text]. There--I believe I can construe thatpassage as well as Porson. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE. [1837. ]

MY DEAR ALLEN, Another commission in so short a time is rather too bad: but I know notto whom I can apply but to yourself: for our bookseller here could notget me what I want, seeing that I don't exactly know myself. The book Iwant is an Athenaeus, but the edition I know not: and therefore I applyto you who know my taste. . . . 

There is a small Cottage of my Father's close to the Lawn gates, where Ishall fit up a room most probably. The garden I have already begun towork in. . . . Sometimes when I have sat dreaming about my own comfortsI have thought to myself 'If Allen ever would come and stay with me somedays at my Cottage if I live there'--but I think you would not: 'couldnot' you will say, and perhaps truly. . . . 

I am reading Plutarch's Lives, which is one of the most delightful booksI ever read. He must have been a Gentleman. My Aristophanes is nearlydrained: that is, for the present first reading: for he will never bedry, apply as often as I may. My sisters are reading to me Lyell'sGeology of an Evening: there is an admirable chapter illustrative ofhuman error and prejudice retarding the truth, which will apply to allsciences, I believe: and, if people would consider it, would be morevaluable than the geological knowledge, though that is very valuable, Iam sure. You see my reading is so small that I can soon enumerate all mybooks: and here you have them. . . . 

[BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, 21 _April_, 1837. ]

DEAR ALLEN, Have you done with my Doctor? If you have, will you send him to me here:Boulge Hall, Woodbridge, per Shannon Coach? You may book it at the Boarand Castle, Oxford Street, close by Hanway Passage. This is not far outof your beat. Perhaps I should not have sent for this book (it isBernard Barton the Quaker who asks to read it) but that it gives me anexcuse also to talk a little to you. Ah! I wish you were here to walkwith me now that the warm weather is come at last. Things have beendelayed but to be more welcome, and to burst forth twice as thick andbeautiful. This is boasting however, and counting of the chickens beforethey are hatched: the East winds may again plunge us back into winter:but the sunshine of this morning fills one's pores with jollity, as ifone had taken laughing gas. Then my house is getting on: the books areup in the bookshelves and do my heart good: then Stothard's CanterburyPilgrims are over the fireplace: Shakespeare in a recess: how I wish youwere here for a day or two! My sister is very well and cheerful and wehave kept house very pleasantly together. My brother John's wife is, Ifear, declining very fast: it is very probable that I shall have to goand see her before long: though this is a visit I should gladly bespared. They say that her mind is in a very beautiful state ofpeacefulness. She _may_ rally in the summer: but the odds are muchagainst her. We shall lose a perfect Lady, in the complete sense of theword, when she dies. 

I have been doing very little since I have been here: having accomplishedonly a few Idylls of Theocritus, which harmonize with this opening of thefine weather. Is all this poor occupation for a man who has a soul toaccount for? You think so certainly. My dear Allen, you, with youraccustomed humility, asked me if I did not think you changed when I waslast in London: never did I see man less so: indeed you stand on too surea footing to change, I am persuaded. But you will not thank me fortelling you these things: but I wish you to believe that I rejoice asmuch as ever in the thought of you, and feel confident that you will everbe to me the same best of friends that you ever have been. I owe more toyou than to all others put together. I am sure, for myself, that themain difference in our opinions (considered so destructive to friendshipby so many pious men) is a difference in the Understanding, not in theHeart: and though you may not agree entirely in this, I am confident thatit will never separate you from me. 

Mrs. Schutz is much delighted with the books you got for her: and stillenquires if you hurt your health in searching. This she does in allsimplicity and kindness. She has been very ill all the winter: but I seeby a letter I have just had from her that her mind is still cheerful andthe same. The _mens sana in corpore sano_ of old age is most to bewondered at. 

_To Bernard Barton_. {50a}

LONDON, _April_, 1838. 

DEAR SIR, John, {50b} who is going down into Suffolk, will I hope take this letterand despatch it to you properly. I write more on account of thisopportunity than of anything I have to say: for I am very heavy indeedwith a kind of Influenza, which has blocked up most of my senses, and puta wet blanket over my brains. This state of head has not been improvedby trying to get through a new book much in fashion--Carlyle's FrenchRevolution--written in a German style. An Englishman writes of FrenchRevolutions in a German style. People say the book is very deep: but itappears to me that the meaning _seems_ deep from lying under mysticallanguage. There is no repose, nor equable movement in it: all cut upinto short sentences half reflective, half narrative; so that one laboursthrough it as vessels do through what is called a short sea--small, contrary going waves caused by shallows, and straits, and meeting tides, etc. I like to sail before the wind over the surface of an even-rollingeloquence, like that of Bacon or the Opium Eater. There is also pleasantfresh water sailing with such writers as Addison; is there any _pond_-sailing in literature? that is, drowsy, slow, and of small compass?Perhaps we may say, some Sermons. But this is only conjecture. CertainlyJeremy Taylor rolls along as majestically as any of them. We have hadAlfred Tennyson here; very droll, and very wayward: and much sitting upof nights till two and three in the morning with pipes in our mouths: atwhich good hour we would get Alfred to give us some of his magic music, which he does between growling and smoking; and so to bed. All this hasnot cured my Influenza as you may imagine: but these hours shall beremembered long after the Influenza is forgotten. 

I have bought scarce any new books or prints: and am not sorry to seethat I want so little more. One large purchase I have made however, theBiographie Universelle, 53 Octavo Volumes. It contains everything, andis the very best thing of its kind, and so referred to by all historians, etc. Surely nothing is more pleasant than, when some name crosses one, to go and get acquainted with the owner of the name: and this Biographiereally has found places for people whom one would have thought almost toosmall for so comprehensive a work--which sounds like a solecism, or Bull, does it not?

Now I must finish my letter: and a very stupid one it is. Here is asentence of Warburton's that, I think, is very wittily expressed: thoughwhy I put it in here is not very discoverable. 'The Church, like the Arkof Noah, is worth saving: not for the sake of the unclean beasts thatalmost filled it, and probably made most noise and clamour in it, but forthe little corner of rationality, that was as much distressed by thestink within, as by the tempest without. ' Is it not good? It is out ofhis letters: {52} and the best thing in them. It is also the best thingin mine. 

With kind remembrances to Miss Barton, believe me, Yours veryaffectionately

E. FITZGERALD. 

[LONDON, 8 _June_, 1838. ]

DEAR SIR, I have just come home after accompanying my Father and Lusia to theirstarting place in the City: they are off for Suffolk for some days. Ishould have written to you by them: but I only just now found your letteron the mantelpiece: there it has lain some days during which I have beenruralising in Bedfordshire. Delicious has it been there: such weather, such meadows, to enjoy: and the Ouse still wandering along at his easethrough pretty villages and vales of his own beautifying. I am much inlove with Bedfordshire: it beats our part of the world: and I am sure youwould like it. But here I am come back to London for another three weeksI suppose. . . . 

I should much like to see your Platonic Brother. By your account he musthave a very perfect mental organization: or, phrenologically speaking, hemust be fully and equally furnished with the bumps of ideality andcausality: which, as Bacon would say, are the two extreme poles on whichthe perfect 'sound and roundabout' intellect is balanced. A greatdeficiency of the causality bump causes me to break short in a longdiscussion which I meant to have favoured you with on this subject. Ihope to meet your Brother one of these days: and to learn much from him. 'Guesses at Truth' I know very well: the two Brothers are the Hares: onea fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge; the other Author of some Sermonswhich I think you had from me this winter. 'The Guesses' are well worthreading; nay, buying: very ingenious, with a good deal of pedantry and_onesidedness_ (do you know this German word?), which, I believe, chieflycomes from the Trinity Fellow, who was a great pedant. I have just readMrs. Austin's Characteristics of Goethe: which I will bring for you whenI come. It is well worth knowing something of the mind of certainly agreat man, and who has had more effect on his age than any one else. There is something almost fearful in the energy of his intellect. I wishindeed you were in London to see all these pictures: I am sure theirgreatness would not diminish your pleasure in your own small collection. Why should it? There is as genuine a feeling of Nature in one ofNursey's sketches as in the Rubenses and Claudes here: and if that isevident, and serves to cherish and rekindle one's own sympathy with theworld about one, the great end is accomplished. I do not know very muchof Salvator: is he not rather a melodramatic painter? No doubt, veryfine in his way. But Claude and the two Poussins are the great idealpainters of Landscape. Nature looks more stedfast in them than in otherpainters: all is wrought up into a quietude and harmony that seemeternal. This is also one of the mysterious charms in the Holy Familiesof Raffaelle and of the early painters before him: the faces of theMadonnas are beyond the discomposure of passion, and their very draperiesbetoken an Elysian atmosphere where wind never blew. The best painter ofthe unideal Christ is, I think, Rembrandt: as one may see in his pictureat the National Gallery, and that most wonderful one of our Saviour andthe Disciples at Emmaus in the Louvre: there they sit at supper as theymight have sat. Rubens and the Venetian Painters did neither one thingnor the other: their Holy figures are neither ideal nor real: and it isincongruous to see one of Rubens' brawny boors dressed up in the idealred and blue drapery with which the early Italians clothed their figuresof Christ. But enough of all this. I have seen Trench's Sabbation, andlike it much: how do you like those centuries of couplets, which are aGerman fashion? They are very much in the style of Quarles' Emblems, andother pithy epigrams of that time: only doubtless more artisticallypolished: perhaps profounder. There were some of the same kind inBlackwood some months ago. My paper is out: and I must again say GoodBye. 

_To John Allen_. 

LOWESTOFT, SUFFOLK. _August_ 28 [1838. ]

DEAR ALLEN, . . . When I left town I went into Bedfordshire and loitered about thereand in Northamptonshire till ten days ago: when I came to join my sistersat this watering place on the Suffolk coast. I have been spending a verypleasant time; but the worst of it is that the happier I am with Brownethe sorrier I am to leave him. To put off this most evil day I havebrought him out of Bedfordshire here: and here we are together in apleasant lodging looking out upon the sea, teaching a great black dog tofetch and carry, playing with our neighbour's children, doing the firstfive propositions of Euclid (which _I_ am teaching him!), shooting gullson the shore, going out in boats, etc. All this must have an end: and asusual my pleasure in his stay is proportionably darkened by theanticipation of his going, and go he must in a very few days. Well, Carlyle told us that we are not to expect to be so happy. I have thoughtonce or twice how equally happy I was with you by the seaside at Tenby. You and Browne (though in rather different ways) have certainly made memore happy than any men living. Sometimes I behave very ill to him, andam much ashamed of myself: but enough of this. 

I have been to see two shew places lately: Boughton in Northamptonshire, a seat of the Duke of Buccleugh's, of the Versailles or Clare Hall styleof building, in a very great park planted with the longest avenues I eversaw. But I thought the whole affair gloomy and deserted. There are somefine pictures: and two cartoons said to be by Raffaelle: of which one isthe vision of Ezechiel--I could not judge of their genuineness. Theother place I have seen is Woburn Abbey--the Duke of Bedford's--a fineplace but not much to my taste either. There are very fine picturesthere of all kinds--one room hung with brilliant Canalettis--andaltogether the pictures are better arranged and hung than in any place Ihave seen. But these kind of places have not much character in them: anold Squire's gable-ended house is much more English and aristocratic tomy mind. I wish you had been with me and Browne at an old seat of LordDysart's, Helmingham in Suffolk, the other day. There is a portraitthere of the present Lady Dysart in the prime of her beauty, by SirJoshua. She is now 95. 

. . . I am reading Pindar now and then: I don't much care about him Imust say: though I suppose he is the very best writer in the PoetLaureate style: that is, writing on occasion for so much money. I seegreat merits doubtless--a concise and simple way of saying great things, etc. , but the subjects are not interesting enough to me. I suppose agood poet could have celebrated Dutch Sam {57} as having been descendedfrom King William the Third just as well as Pindar glorifies his boxerswith the mythical histories of the AEacidae, Heraclidae, etc. . . . 

_To Frederic Tennyson_. 

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES, [_April_ 10, 1839. ]

MY DEAR TENNYSON, I see in the last Atlas a notice of the first Concert of the SocietaArmonica--there were you to be found of course seated in black velvetwaistcoat (for I hope you remember these are dress concerts) on one ofthe benches, grumbling at most of the music. You had a long symphony ofBeethoven's in B flat--I forget how it goes, but doubtless there was muchgood in it. The overture to Egmont is also a fine thing. The Atlas(which is the best weekly critic of Music and all other things that Iknow of) gives great [Greek text] to the Societa Armonica: especiallythis season, as the Directors seem determined to replace Donizetti andMercadante by Mozart and Rossini, in the vocal department. A good changedoubtless. I hear no music now: except that for the last week I havebeen staying with Spring Rice's mother in-law Mrs. Frere, {58} one of thefinest judges of Music I know. She was a very fine singer: but her voicefails now. We used to look over the score of Don Giovanni together, andmany a mystery and mastery of composition did she shew me in it. Nowthen there is enough of Music. I wish you would write me a letter, whichyou can do now and then if you will take it into your head, and let meknow how you and my dear old Morton are, and whether you dine and smoketogether as heretofore. If you won't write, tell him to do so: or makeup a letter between you. What new pictures are there to be seen? Haveyou settled yet whether spirit can exist separately from matter? Are youconvinced of the truth of Murphy's Almanac this year? Have you learnedany more Astronomy? I live on in a very seedy way, reading occasionallyin books which every one else has gone through at school: and what I doread is just in the same way as ladies work: to pass the time away. Forlittle remains in my head. I dare say you think it very absurd that anidle man like me should poke about here in the country, when I might bein London seeing my friends: but such is the humour of the beast. But itis not always to be the case: I shall see your good physiognomy one ofthese days, and smoke one of your cigars, and listen to Morton sayingfine and wild things, 'startling the dull ear of night' with paradoxesthat perhaps are truisms in the world where spirits exist independent ofmatter. You two men have made great commotion in my mind, and left yourmarks upon it, I can tell you: more than most of the books I read. Whatis Alfred about, and where is he? Present my homage to him. Don't yourather rejoice in the pickle the King of the French finds himself in? Idon't know why, but I have a sneaking dislike of the old knave. How hemust pine to summon up Talleyrand's Ghost, and what a Ghost it must be, wherever it is!

_To John Allen_. 

[28 _April_, 1839. ]

MY DEAR ALLEN, Some one from this house is going to London: and I will try and write yousome lines now in half an hour before dinner: I am going out for theevening to my old lady who teaches me the names of the stars, and otherchaste information. {59} You see, Master John Allen, that if I do notcome to London (and I have no thought of going yet) and you will notwrite, there is likely to be an end of our communication: not by the waythat I am never to go to London again: but not just yet. Here I livewith tolerable content: perhaps with as much as most people arrive at, and what if one were properly grateful one would perhaps call perfecthappiness. Here is a glorious sunshiny day: all the morning I read aboutNero in Tacitus lying at full length on a bench in the garden: anightingale singing, and some red anemones eyeing the sun manfully notfar off. A funny mixture all this: Nero, and the delicacy of Spring: allvery human however. Then at half past one lunch on Cambridge creamcheese: then a ride over hill and dale: then spudding up some weeds fromthe grass: and then coming in, I sit down to write to you, my sisterwinding red worsted from the back of a chair, and the most delightfullittle girl in the world chattering incessantly. So runs the world away. You think I live in Epicurean ease: but this happens to be a jolly day:one isn't always well, or tolerably good, the weather is not alwaysclear, nor nightingales singing, nor Tacitus full of pleasant atrocity. But such as life is, I believe I have got hold of a good end of it. . . . Give my love to Thackeray from your upper window across the street. {60a}So he has lost a little child: and moreover has been sorry to do so. Well, good-bye my dear John Allen: Auld Lang Syne. My kind regards toyour Lady. 

 Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes: 'T will murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. {60b}

E. F. G. 

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

BEDFORD, _July_ 24, 1839. 

DEAR BARTON, . . . I have brought down here with me Sydney Smith's Works, now firstcollected: you will delight in them: I shall bring them to Suffolk when Icome: and it will not be long, I dare say, before I come, as there is tobe rather a large meeting of us at Boulge this August. I have got thefidgets in my right arm and hand (how the inconvenience redoubles as onementions it)--do you know what the fidgets are?--a true ailment, thoughperhaps not a dangerous one. Here I am again in the land of oldBunyan--better still in the land of the more perennial Ouse, making manya fantastic winding and going much out of his direct way to fertilize andadorn. Fuller supposes that he lingers thus in the pleasant fields ofBedfordshire, being in no hurry to enter the more barren fens ofLincolnshire. So he says. This house is just on the edge of the town: agarden on one side skirted by the public road which again is skirted by arow of such Poplars as only the Ouse knows how to rear--and pleasantlythey rustle now--and the room in which I write is quite cool and opensinto a greenhouse which opens into said garden: and it's all deucedpleasant. For in half an hour I shall seek my Piscator, {61a} and weshall go to a Village {61b} two miles off and fish, and have tea in a pot-house, and so walk home. For all which idle ease I think I must bedamned. I begin to have dreadful suspicions that this fruitless way oflife is not looked upon with satisfaction by the open eyes above. Onereally ought to dip for a little misery: perhaps however all this ease isonly intended to turn sour by and bye, and so to poison one by the verynature of self-indulgence. Perhaps again as idleness is so very great atrial of virtue, the idle man who keeps himself tolerably chaste, etc. , may deserve the highest reward; the more idle, the more deserving. ReallyI don't jest: but I don't propound these things as certain. 

There is a fair review of Shelley in the new Edinburgh: saying the truthon many points where the truth was not easily enunciated, as I believe. 

Now, dear sir, I have said all I have to say: and Carlyle says, you know, it is dangerous to attempt to say more. So farewell for the present: ifyou like to write soon, direct to the Post Office, Bedford: if not, Ishall soon be at Woodbridge to anticipate the use of your pen. 

HALVERSTOWN, {62} _Sunday_, Oct. 20, [1839]. 

MY DEAR SIR, I am very glad that you lifted yourself at last from your mahogany desk, and took such a trip as you describe in your last letter. I don't thinkyou could have made a better in the same given space of time. It is someyears since I have seen the Castle at Windsor, except from Eton. Theview from the Terrace is the noblest I know of, taking it with all itsassociations together. Gray's Ode rises up into the mind as one looksaround--does it not?--a sure proof that, however people may condemncertain conceits and expressions in the poem, the spirit of it isgenuine. 'Ye distant spires, ye antique towers'--very large and noble, like the air that breathes upon one as one looks down along the view. Mybrother John told me he thought the Waterloo gallery very fine: theportraits by Sir Thomas almost as fine as Vandyke. You saw them, ofcourse. You say nothing of having seen the National Gallery in London:indeed I rather fear it is closed these two months. This is a great lossto you: the Rubens landscape you would never have forgot. Thank you forthe picture of my dear old Bredfield which you have secured for me: it ismost welcome. Poor Nursey once made me a very pretty oil sketch of it:but I gave it to Mr. Jenney. By all means have it engraved for thepocket book: it is well worthy. Some of the tall ash trees about it usedto be visible at sea: but I think their topmost branches are decayed now. This circumstance I put in, because it will tell in your verseillustration of the view. From the road before the lawn, people usedplainly to see the topmasts of the men-of war lying in Hollesley bayduring the war. I like the idea of this: the old English house holdingup its enquiring chimneys and weather cocks (there is great physiognomyin weathercocks) toward the far-off sea, and the ships upon it. How wellI remember when we used all to be in the Nursery, and from the window seethe hounds come across the lawn, my Father and Mr. Jenney in theirhunting caps, etc. , with their long whips--all Daguerreotyped into themind's eye now--and that is all. Perhaps you are not civilised enough toknow what Daguerreotype is: no more do I well. We were all going on hereas merrily as possible till this day week, when my Piscator got an orderfrom his Father to go home direct!) So go he would the day after. Iwanted to go also: but they would have me stay here ten days more. So Istay: I suppose I shall be in London toward the end of this week however:and then it will not be long before I pay you a visit. . . . 

I have gone through Homer's Iliad--sorry to have finished it. Theaccounts of the Zoolu people, with Dingarn their king, etc. , {64} giveone a very good idea of the Homeric heroes, who were great brutes: butsuperior to the Gods who governed them: which also has been the case withmost nations. It is a lucky thing that God made Man, and that Man hasnot to make God: we should fare badly, judging by the specimens alreadyproduced--Frankenstein Monster Gods, formed out of the worst androttenest scraps of humanity--gigantic--and to turn destructively upontheir Creators--

 'But be ye of good cheer! I have overcome the world--'

So speaks a gentle voice. 

I found here a Number of Tait's Magazine for August last, containing apaper on Southey, Wordsworth, etc. , by De Quincey. Incomplete anddisproportioned like his other papers: but containing two noble passages:one, on certain years of his own Life when Opium shut him out from theworld; the other, on Southey's style: in which he tells a truth which isobvious, directly it is told. Tait seems to be very well worth ashilling a month: that is the price of him, I see. You have boughtCarlyle's Miscellanies, have you not? I long to get them: but one mustwait till they are out of print before the Dublin booksellers shall haveheard of them. Now here is really a very long letter, and what is more, written with a pen of my own mending--more consolatory to me than to you. Mr. Macnish's inscription {65} for Milton is--

 His lofty spirit was the home Of inspirations high, A mighty temple whose great dome Was hidden in the sky. 

Who Mr. Macnish is, I don't know. Didn't he write some Essays onDrunkenness once? or on Dreams?

Farewell for the present, my dear Sir. We shall soon shake hands again. Ever yours, E. FITZGERALD. 

_To John Allen_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, [4 _April_, 1840]

MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . The country is now showing symptoms of greenness and warmth. Yesterday I walked (not a common thing for me) eleven miles; partly overa heath, covered with furze bushes just come out into bloom, whose odourthe fresh wind blew into my face. Such a day it was, only not so warm aswhen you and I used to sit on those rocks overlooking the sea at Tenby, just eight years ago. I am afraid you are growing too good a Christianfor me, Master Allen, if you know what I mean by that. Don't be alarmedhowever. I have just read the first number of Dickens' new work {66a}:it does not promise much, I think. 

Love to all Coram Street. {66b}

_To Frederic Tennyson_. 

THE CORPORATE TOWN OF BEDFORD, _June_ 7, 1840. 

DEAR FREDERIC, Your letter dated from the Eternal City on the 15th of May reached mehere two days ago. Perhaps you have by this time left Naples to whichyou bid me direct: or will have left it by the time my letter gets there. . . . Our letters are dated from two very different kinds of places: butperhaps equally well suited to the genius of the two men. For I ambecoming more hebete every hour: and have not even the ambition to go upto London all this spring to see the Exhibitions, etc. I live in generalquietly at my brother-in-law's in Norfolk {67} and I look with tolerablecomposure on vegetating there for some time to come, and in due timehanding out my eldest nieces to waltz, etc. , at the County Balls. Peopleaffect to talk of this kind of life as very beautiful and philosophical:but I don't: men ought to have an ambition to stir, and travel, and filltheir heads and senses: but so it is. Enough of what is now generallycalled the subjective style of writing. This word has made considerableprogress in England during the year you have been away, so that peoplebegin to fancy they understand what it means. I have been striving atit, because it is a very _sine qua non_ condition in a book which I havejust been reading, Eastlake's translation of Goethe's Theory of Colours. I recommend it to you, when you can get hold of it. Come back to Englandquick and read my copy. Goethe is all in opposition to Newton: andreduces the primitive colours to two. Whewell, I believe, does notpatronise it: but it is certainly very Baconically put together. Whileyou are wandering among ruins, waterfalls, and temples, and contemplatingthem as you sit in your lodgings, I poke about with a book and a colour-box by the side of the river Ouse--quiet scenery enough--and makehorrible sketches. The best thing to me in Italy would be that you arethere. But I hope you will soon come home and install yourself again inMornington Crescent. I have just come from Leamington: while there, Imet Alfred by chance: we made two or three pleasant excursions together:to Stratford upon Avon and Kenilworth, etc. Don't these names sound verythin amid your warm southern nomenclature? But I'll be bound you wouldbe pleased to exchange all your fine burnt up places for a look at aWarwickshire pasture every now and then during these hot days. . . . 

The sun shines very bright, and there is a kind of bustle in these cleanstreets, because there is to be a grand True Blue dinner in the townHall. Not that I am going: in an hour or two I shall be out in thefields rambling alone. I read Burnet's History--ex pede Herculem. Well, say as you will, there is not, and never was, such a country as OldEngland--never were there such a Gentry as the English. They will be thedistinguishing mark and glory of England in History, as the Arts were ofGreece, and War of Rome. I am sure no travel would carry me to any landso beautiful, as the good sense, justice, and liberality of my goodcountrymen make this. And I cling the closer to it, because I feel thatwe are going down the hill, and shall perhaps live ourselves to talk ofall this independence as a thing that has been. To none of which youassent perhaps. At all events, my paper is done, and it is time to havedone with this solemn letter. I can see you sitting at a window thatlooks out on the bay of Naples, and Vesuvius with a faint smoke in thedistance: a half-naked man under you cutting up watermelons, etc. Haven'tI seen it all in Annuals, and in the Ballet of Massaniello long ago?

_To John Allen_. 

BOULGE HALL, _Sunday_, _July_ 12/40. 

MY DEAR JOHN ALLEN, I wrote a good bit of a letter to you three weeks ago: but, being non-plussed suddenly, tore it up. Lusia says she has had a letter from Mrs. Allen, telling how you had a troublesome and even dangerous passage toTenby: but that there you arrived at last. And there I suppose you are. The _veteris vestigia flammae_, or old pleasant recollections of ourbeing together at that place make me begin another sheet to you. I amalmost convicted in my own mind of ingratitude for not having travelledlong ago to Pembrokeshire, to show my most kind friends of Freestone thatI remember their kindness, and that they made my stay so pleasant as tomake me wish to test their hospitality again. Nothing but my besettingindolence (the strongest thing about me) could have prevented my doingthis. I should like much to see Mr. And Mrs. Allen again, and CarewCastle, and walk along the old road traversed by you and me several timesbetween Freestone and Tenby. Does old Penelly Top stand where it did, faintly discernible in these rainy skies? Do you sit ever upon that rockthat juts out by Tenby harbour, where you and I sat one day seven yearsago, and quoted G. Herbert? Lusia tells me also that nice Mary Allen isto be married to your brother--Charles, I think. She is really one ofthe pleasantest remembrances of womanhood I have. I suppose she sitsstill in an upper room, with an old turnip of a watch (tell her Iremember this) on the table beside her as she reads wholesome books. AsI write, I remember different parts of the house and the garden, and thefields about. Is it absolutely _that_ Mary Allen that is to become Mrs. Charles Allen? Pray write, and let me hear of this from yourself. Another thing also: are you to become our Rector in Sussex? This isanother of Lusia's scandals. I rather hope it is true: but not quite. Lusia is pretty well: better, I think, than when she first came down fromLondon. . . . She makes herself tolerably happy down here: and wishes toexert herself: which is the highest wish a FitzGerald can form. I go onas usual, and in a way that needs no explanation to you: reading alittle, drawing a little, playing a little, smoking a little, etc. Ihave got hold of Herodotus now: the most interesting of all Historians. But I find the disadvantage of being so ill-grounded and bad a scholar: Ican get at the broad sense: but all the delicacies (in which so much ofthe beauty and character of an author lie) escape me sadly. The more Iread, the more I feel this. But what does it all signify? Time goes on, and we get older; and whether my idleness comprehends the distinctions ofthe 1st and 2nd Aorist will not be noted much in the Book of Life, eitheron this or the other side of the leaf. Here is a letter written on thisSunday Night, July 12, 1840. And it shall go to-morrow. My kindremembrances to Mrs. Allen: and (I beg you to transmit them) to all myfore-known friends at Freestone. And believe me yours now as I have beenand hope to be ever affectionately, E. FITZGERALD. 

I shall be here till the end of the month. 

N. B. I am growing bald. 

BOULGE, _July_ 25/40. 

MY DEAR FELLOW, Many thanks for your kind long letter. It brought me back to the greenbefore the house at Freestone, and the old schoolroom in it. I havealways felt within myself that if ever I did go again to Freestone, Ishould puzzle myself and every one else by bringing back old associationsamong existing things: I should have felt awkward. The place remainsquite whole in my mind: Anne Allen's damask cheek forming part of thecolouring therein. I remember a little well somewhere in the woods abouta mile from the house: and those faint reports of explosions from towardsMilford, etc. , which we used to hear when we all walked out together. Youare to thank Mary Allen for her kind wishes: and tell her she need notdoubt that I wish her all good things. I enclose you as you see a littledrawing of a Suffolk farm house close here: copied from a sketch of poorMr. Nursey. If you think it worth giving to Mary Allen, do: it seems, and perhaps is, very namby-pamby to send this: but she and I used to talkof drawings together: and this will let her know that I go on just thesame as I did eight years ago. N. B. It is not intended as a nuptialpresent. 

Now, you need not answer this letter: as you have done remarkably wellalready. I am living (did I tell you this before?) at a little cottageclose by the lawn gates, where I have my books, a barrel of beer which Itap myself (can you tap a barrel of beer?), and an old woman to do forme. I have also just concocted two gallons of Tar water under thedirections of Bishop Berkeley: it is to be bottled off this very dayafter a careful skimming: and then drunk by those who can and will. Itis to be tried first on my old woman: if she survives, I am to begin: andit will then gradually spread into the Parish, through England, Europe, etc. , 'as the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake. ' Good people hereare much scandalized at Thirlwall's being made a Bishop: Isabella {73a}brought home a report from a clergyman that Thirlwall had so bad acharacter at Trinity that many would not associate with him. I do notthink however that I would have made him Bishop: I am all for good andnot great Bishops. Old Evans {73b} would have done better. I am becomean Oxford High Church Divine after Newman: whose sermons are the bestthat ever were written in my judgment. Cecil I have read: and liked forhis good sense. Is the croft at Tenby still green: and does Mary Allentake a turn on it in a riding habit as of old? And I remember a ravineon the horn of the bay opposite the town where the sea rushes up. I meanas you go on past the croft. I can walk there as in a dream. I seeThackeray's book {73c} announced as about to be published, and I hearSpedding has written a Review of Carlyle's Revolution in the Edinburgh. Idon't know a book more certain to evaporate away from posterity thanthat, except it be supported by his other works. Parts may perhaps befound two hundred years hence and translated into Erse by some invertedMacpherson. 'These things seem strange, ' says Herodotus, {73d} [Greektext]. Herodotus makes few general assertions: so when he does makethem, they tell. I could talk more to you, but my paper is out. JohnAllen, I rejoice in you. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

BEDFORD, _Aug_. 31/40. 

DEAR SIR, I duly received your letter. I am just returned from staying three daysat a delightful Inn by the river Ouse, where we always go to fish. Idare say I have told you about it before. The Inn is the cleanest, thesweetest, the civillest, the quietest, the liveliest, and the cheapestthat ever was built or conducted. Its name, the Falcon of Bletsoe. Onone side it has a garden, then the meadows through which winds the Ouse:on the other, the public road, with its coaches hurrying on to London, its market people halting to drink, its farmers, horsemen, and foottravellers. So, as one's humour is, one can have whichever phase of lifeone pleases: quietude or bustle; solitude or the busy hum of men: one cansit in the principal room with a tankard and a pipe and see both thesephases at once through the windows that open upon either. But throughall these delightful places they talk of leading railroads: a sad thing, I am sure: quite impolitic. But Mammon is blind. 

I went a week ago to see Luton, Lord Bute's place; filled with very finepictures, of which I have dreamt since. It is the gallery in Englandthat I most wish to see again: but I by no means say it is the mostvaluable. A great many pictures seemed to me misnamed--especiallyCorreggio has to answer for some he never painted. 

I am thinking of going to Naseby for a little while: after which I shallreturn here: and very likely find my way back to Norfolk before long. Atall events, the middle of October will find me at Boulge, unless theFates are very contrary. 

_To Samuel Laurence_. {75}

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, _Nov_. 9/40. 

DEAR LAURENCE, . . . We have had much rain which has hindered the sporting part of ourcompany: but has not made much difference to me. One or two sunshinydays have made me say within myself, 'how felicitously and at once wouldLaurence hit off an outline in this clear atmosphere. ' For this freshsunlight is not a mere dead medium of light, but is so much vitalchampagne both to sitter and to artist. London will become worse as itbecomes bigger, which it does every hour. 

I don't see much prospect of my going to Cumberland this winter: though Ishould like to go snipe-shooting with that literary shot James Spedding. Do you mean to try and go up Skiddaw? You will get out upon it from yourbedroom window: so I advise you to begin before you go down to breakfast. There is a mountain called Dod, which has felt me upon its summit. It isnot one of the highest in that range. Remember me to Grisedale Pike; avery well-bred mountain. If you paint--put him not only in a good light, but to leeward of you in a strong current of air. . . . 

Farewell for the present. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

LONDON, _Jan_. 16, 1841. 

DEAR FREDERIC, I have just concluded, with all the throes of imprudent pleasure, thepurchase of a large picture by Constable, of which, if I can continue inthe mood, I will enclose you a sketch. It is very good: but how you andMorton would abuse it! Yet this, being a sketch, escapes some ofConstable's faults, and might escape some of your censures. The treesare not splashed with that white sky-mud, which (according to Constable'stheory) the Earth scatters up with her wheels in travelling so brisklyround the sun; and there is a dash and felicity in the execution thatgives one a thrill of good digestion in one's room, and the thought ofwhich makes one inclined to jump over the children's heads in thestreets. But if you could see my great enormous Venetian Picture youwould be extonished. Does the thought ever strike you, when looking atpictures in a house, that you are to run and jump at one, and go rightthrough it into some behind-scene world on the other side, as Harlequinsdo? A steady portrait especially invites one to do so: the quietude ofit ironically tempts one to outrage it: one feels it would close againover the panel, like water, as if nothing had happened. That portrait ofSpedding, for instance, which Laurence has given me: not swords, norcannon, nor all the Bulls of Bashan butting at it, could, I feel sure, discompose that venerable forehead. No wonder that no hair can grow atsuch an altitude: no wonder his view of Bacon's virtue is so rarefiedthat the common consciences of men cannot endure it. Thackeray and Ioccasionally amuse ourselves with the idea of Spedding's forehead: wefind it somehow or other in all things, just peering out of all things:you see it in a milestone, Thackeray says. He also draws the foreheadrising with a sober light over Mont Blanc, and reflected in the lake ofGeneva. We have great laughing over this. The forehead is at present inPembrokeshire, I believe: or Glamorganshire: or Monmouthshire: it is hardto say which. It has gone to spend its Christmas there. 

[A water-colour sketch of Constable's picture. ]

This you see is a sketch of my illustrious new purchase. The two animalsin the water are cows: that on the bank a dog: and that in the glade ofthe wood a man or woman as you may choose. I can't say my drawing givesyou much idea of my picture, except as to the composition of it: and eventhat depends on the colour and disposition of light and shade. Theeffect of the light breaking under the trees is very beautiful in theoriginal: but this can only be given in water-colours on thick paper, where one can scratch out the lights. One would fancy that Constable hadbeen looking at that fine picture of Gainsborough's in the National: theWatering Place: which is superior, in my mind, to all the Claudes there. But this is perhaps because I am an Englishman and not an Italian. 

_To W. H. Thompson_. {79a}

[18_th_ _Feb. _ 1841. ]* BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE. 

* Doesn't this name express heavy clay? {79b}

MY DEAR THOMPSON, I wish you would write to me ten lines to say how you are. You are, Isuppose, at Cambridge: and I am buried (with all my fine parts, what ashame) here: so that I hear of nobody--except that Spedding and I abuseeach other about Shakespeare occasionally: a subject on which you mustknow that he has lost his conscience, if ever he had any. For what didDr. Allen . . . Say when he felt Spedding's head? Why, that all hisbumps were so tempered that there was no merit in his sobriety--then whatwould have been the use of a Conscience to him? Q. E. D. 

Since I saw you, I have entered into a decidedly agricultural course ofconduct: read books about composts, etc. I walk about in the fields alsowhere the people are at work, and the more dirt accumulates on my shoes, the more I think I know. Is not this all funny? Gibbon might elegantlycompare my retirement from the cares and splendours of the world to thatof Diocletian. Have you read Thackeray's little book--the second Funeralof Napoleon? If not, pray do; and buy it, and ask others to buy it: aseach copy sold puts 7. 5_d. _ in T. 's pocket: which is very empty just now, I take it. I think this book is the best thing he has done. What anaccount there is of the Emperor Nicholas in Kemble's last Review, {80a}the last sentence of it (which can be by no other man in Europe but Jackhimself) has been meat and drink to me for a fortnight. The electric eelat the Adelaide Gallery is nothing to it. Then Edgeworth fires awayabout the Odes of Pindar, {80b} and Donne is very aesthetic about Mr. Hallam's Book. {80c} What is the meaning of 'exegetical'? Till I knowthat, how can I understand the Review?

Pray remember me kindly to Blakesley, Heath, and such other potentates asI knew in the days before they 'assumed the purple. ' I am readingGibbon, and see nothing but this d---d colour before my eyes. It changesoccasionally to bright yellow, which is (is it?) the Imperial colour inChina, and also the antithesis to purple (_vide_ Coleridge and Eastlake'sGoethe)--even as the Eastern and Western Dynasties are antithetical, andyet, by the law of extremes, potentially the same (_vide_ Coleridge, etc. ) Is this aesthetic? is this exegetical? How glad I shall be if youcan assure me that it is. But, nonsense apart and begged-pardon-for, pray write me a line to say how you are, directing to this pretty place. 'The soil is in general a moist and retentive clay: with a subsoil or panof an adhesive silicious brick formation: adapted to the growth of wheat, beans, and clover--requiring however a summer fallow (as is generallystipulated in the lease) every fourth year, etc. ' This is not anunpleasing style on Agricultural subjects--nor an uncommon one. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE. [21 March, 1841. ]

DEAR FREDERIC TENNYSON, I was very glad indeed to get a letter from you this morning. You heremay judge, by the very nature of things, that I lose no time in answeringit. I did not receive your Sicilian letter: and have been for a year andhalf quite ignorant of what part of the world you were in. I supposedyou were alive: though I don't quite know why. De non existentibus etnon apparentibus eadem est ratio. I heard from Morton three months ago:he was then at Venice: very tired of it: but lying on such luxurioussofas that he could not make up his mind to move from them. He wanted tomeet you: or at all events to hear of you. I wrote to him, but couldtell him nothing. I have also seen Alfred once or twice since you havegone: he is to be found in certain conjunctions of the stars at No. 8Charlotte Street. . . . All our other friends are in statu quo: Speddingresiding calmly in Lincoln's Inn Fields: at the Colonial all day: at theplay and smoking at night: occasionally to be found in the EdinburghReview. Pollock and the Lawyer tribe travel to and fro between theirchambers in the Temple and Westminster Hall: occasionally varying theirtravels, when the Chancellor chooses, to the Courts in Lincoln's Inn. Asto me, I am fixed here where your letter found me: very rarely going toLondon: and staying there but a short time when I do go. You, Morton, Spedding, Thackeray, and Alfred, were my chief solace there: and onlySpedding is now to be found. Thackeray lives in Paris. 

From this you may judge that I have no such sights to tell of as youhave. Neither do _mortaletti_ ever go off at Boulge: which is perhapsnot to be regretted. Day follows day with unvaried movement: there isthe same level meadow with geese upon it always lying before my eyes: thesame pollard oaks: with now and then the butcher or the washerwomantrundling by in their carts. As you have lived in Lincolnshire I willnot further describe Suffolk. No new books (except a perfectly insaneone of Carlyle, {82} who is becoming very obnoxious now that he is becomepopular), nor new pictures, no music. A game at picquet of two hoursduration closes each day. But for that I might say with Titus--perdididiem. Oh Lord! all this is not told you that you may admire myphilosophic quietude, etc. ; pray don't think that. I should travel likeyou if I had the eyes to see that you have: but, as Goethe says, the eyecan but see what it brings with it the power of seeing. If anything Ihad seen in my short travels had given me any new ideas worth having Ishould travel more: as it is, I see your Italian lakes and cities in thePicturesque Annuals as well as I should in the reality. You have a moreenergetic, stirring, acquisitive, and capacious soul. I mean all thisseriously, believe me: but I won't say any more about it. Morton also isa capital traveller: I wish he would keep notes of what he sees, andpublish them one day. 

I must however tell you that I am becoming a Farmer! Can you believe inthis? I hope we shall both live to laugh over it together. When do youmean to come back? Pray do not let so long a time elapse again withoutwriting to me: never mind a long letter: write something to say you arealive and where. Rome certainly is nearer England than Naples: soperhaps you are coming back. Bring Morton back with you. I will then goto London and we will smoke together and be as merry as sandboys. Wewill all sit under the calm shadow of Spedding's forehead. People talkof a war with America. Poor dear old England! she makes a gallant shewin her old age. If Englishmen are to travel, I am glad that such as youare abroad--good specimens of Englishmen: with the proper fierte aboutthem. The greater part are poor wretches that go to see oranges growing, and hear Bellini for eighteen-pence. I hope the English are as proud anddisagreeable as ever. What an odd thing that the Italians like suchmartial demonstrations as you describe--not at all odd, probably--theirspirit begins and goes off in noise and smoke. It is like all othergrand aspirations. So ---'s Epics crepitate in Sonnets. All I ask ofyou is to write no Sonnets on what you see or hear--no sonnets can soundwell after Daddy Wordsworth, ---, etc. , who have now succeeded in quitespoiling one's pleasure in Milton's--and they are heavy things. Thewords 'subjective and objective' are getting into general use now, andDonne has begun with _aesthetics_ and _exegetical_ in Kemble's review. Kemble himself has written an article on the Emperor Nicholas which mustcrush him. If you could read it, no salvos of _mortalletti_ could everstartle you again. And now my paper is almost covered: and I must sayGood bye to you. This is Sunday March 21--a fine sunny blowing day. Weshall dine at one o'clock--an hour hence--go to Church--then walk--havetea at six, and pass rather a dull evening, because of no picquet. Youwill be sauntering in St. Peter's perhaps, or standing on the Capitolwhile the sun sets. I should like to see Rome after all. Livy's lies(as the aesthetics prove them to be) do at least animate one so far--howfar?--so far as to wish, and not to do, having perfect power to do. 

Oh eloquent, just, and mighty Theory of Mortaletti!

_To W. H. Thompson_. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 26/41. 

MY DEAR THOMPSON, . . . I had a long letter from Morton the other day--he is stillluxuriating at Venice. Also a letter from Frederic Tennyson, who hasbeen in Sicily, etc. , and is much distracted between enjoyment of thoseclimates and annoyance from Fleas. These two men are to be at Rometogether soon: so if any one wants to go to Rome, now is a good time. Iwish I was there. F. Tennyson says that he and a party of Englishmenfought a cricket match with the crew of the Bellerophon on the_Parthenopaean hills_ (query about the correctness of this--I quote frommemory), and _sacked_ the sailors by 90 runs. Is not this pleasant?--thenotion of good English blood striving in worn out Italy--I like that suchmen as Frederic should be abroad: so strong, haughty and passionate. Theykeep up the English character abroad. . . . Have you read poor Carlyle'sraving book about heroes? Of course you have, or I would ask you to buymy copy. I don't like to live with it in the house. It smoulders. Heought to be laughed at a little. But it is pleasant to retire to theTale of a Tub, Tristram Shandy, and Horace Walpole, after being tossed onhis canvas waves. This is blasphemy. Dibdin Pitt of the Coburg couldenact one of his heroes. . . . 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

IRELAND, _July_ 26, 1841. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I got your letter ten days ago in London on my way here. We haveincessant rain, which is as bad as your sciroccos; at least it damps myenergies very much. But people are accustomed to it in Ireland: and myuncle (in whose house I am staying) is just set off with three of hischildren--on horseback--cantering and laughing away in the midst of ahopeless shower. I am afraid some of us are too indolent for suchthings. 

I am glad Morton has taken up painting in good earnest, and I shallencourage him to persevere as much as I can. . . . I have begun to drawa little--the fit comes upon one in summer with the foliage: as tosunshine, so necessary for pictures, I have been obliged to do withoutthat. We have had scarce a ray for a month . . . I have read nothing, except the Annual Register: which is not amiss in a certain state ofmind, and is not easily exhausted. A goodly row of some hundred verythick volumes which may be found in every country town wherever one goesforbid all danger of exhaustion. So long as there is appetite, there isfood: and of that plain substantial nature which, Johnson says, suits thestomach of middle life. Burke, for instance, is a sufficiently poeticalpolitician to interest one just when one's sonneteering age is departing, but before one has come down quite to arid fact. Do you know anything ofpoor Sir Egerton Brydges?--this, in talking of sonnets--poor fellow, hewrote them for seventy years, fully convinced of their goodness, and onlylamenting that the public were unjust and stupid enough not to admirethem also. He lived in haughty seclusion, and at the end of life wrote adoating Autobiography. He writes good prose however, and shews himselfas he is very candidly: indeed he is proud of the display. 

All this is not meant to be a lesson to you who write, everybody says, good sonnets. Sir E. Brydges would have been the same dilettante if hehad written Epics--probably worse. I certainly don't like sonnets, asyou know: we have been spoiled for them by Daddy Wordsworth, ---, and Co. Moxon must write them too forsooth. What do they seem fit for but toserve as little shapes in which a man may mould very mechanically anysingle thought which comes into his head, which thought is not lyricalenough in itself to exhale in a more lyrical measure? The difficulty ofthe sonnet metre in English is a good excuse for the dull didacticthoughts which naturally incline towards it: fellows know there is nodanger of decanting their muddy stuff ever so slowly: they are neitherprose nor poetry. I have rather a wish to tie old Wordsworth's volumeabout his neck and pitch him into one of the deepest holes of his dearDuddon. 

But it is very stupid to write all this to Italy, though it would havedone very well to have canvassed with you and Morton over our pipes inMornington Crescent. I suppose you never will come back to stay long inEngland again: I have given you up to a warmer latitude. If you weremore within reach, I would make you go a trip with me to the West ofIreland, whither I am not confident enough to go alone. Yet I wish tosee it. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

EDGEWORTHSTOWN, _September_ 2/41. 

MY DEAR BARTON, You must allow I am a good correspondent--this half year at least. Thisis Septr. 2, a most horrible day for a Bazaar, judging at least by theweather here. But you may be better off. I came to this house a weekago to visit a male friend, who duly started to England the day before Igot here. I therefore found myself domiciled in a house filled withladies of divers ages--Edgeworth's wife, aged--say 28--his mother aged74--his sister (the great Maria) aged 72--and another cousin orsomething--all these people very pleasant and kind: the house pleasant:the grounds ditto: a good library: . . . So here I am quite at home. Butsurely I must go to England soon: it seems to me as if that must takeplace soon: and so send me a letter directed to me at Mr. Watcham's, Naseby, Thornby. Those places are in England. You may put Northamptonafter Thornby if you like. I am going to look at the winding up of theharvest there. 

I am now writing in the Library here: and the great Authoress is as busyas a bee making a catalogue of her books beside me, chattering away. Weare great friends. She is as lively, active, and cheerful as if she werebut twenty; really a very entertaining person. We talk about WalterScott whom she adores, and are merry all the day long. I have read aboutthirty-two sets of novels since I have been here: it has rained nearlyall the time. 

I long to hear how the Bazaar went off: and so I beg you to tell me allabout it. When I began this letter I thought I had something to say: butI believe the truth was I had nothing to do. When you see my dear Major{89} give him my love, and tell him I wish he were here to go toConnemara with me: I have no heart to go alone. The discomfort of Irishinns requires a companion in misery. This part of the country is poorerthan any I have yet seen: the people becoming more Spanish also in faceand dress. Have you read The Collegians? {90a}

I have now begun to sketch heads on the blotting paper on which my paperrests--a sure sign, as Miss Edgeworth tells me, that I have said quiteenough. She is right. Good-bye. In so far as this country is Ireland Iam glad to be here: but inasmuch as it is not England I wish I werethere. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

NASEBY, _Septr_. 28/41. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, . . . Do you know that I wanted you to come down by the railroad and seeme here: where there is nothing else to be seen but myself: which wouldhave been a comfort to you. I have been staying here three weeks alone, smoking with farmers, looking at their lands, and taking long walksalone: during which (as well as when I was in Ireland) I made suchsketches as will make you throw down your brush in despair. I wish youwould ask at Molteno's or Colnaghi's for a new Lithographic print of ahead of Dante, after a fresco by Giotto, lately discovered in some chapel{90b} at Florence. It is the most wonderful head that ever wasseen--Dante at about twenty-seven years old: rather younger. TheEdgeworths had a print in Ireland: got by great interest in Florencebefore the legitimate publication: but they told me it was to be abroadin September. If you can get me a copy, pray do. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

Imo piano. No. O. Strada del Obelisco. NASEBY. [_Oct_. 1841. ]

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I am surprised you think my scanty letters are worth encouraging, especially with such long and excellent answers as that I have just gotfrom you. It has found its way down here: and oddly enough does yourItalian scenery, painted, I believe, very faithfully upon my inner eye, contrast with the British barrenness of the Field of Naseby. Yet herewas fought a battle of some interest to Englishmen: and I am persuadingfarmers to weed well the corn that grows over those who died there. No, no; in spite of your Vesuviuses and sunshine, I love my poor dear bravebarren ugly country. Talk of your Italians! why, they are extinguishedby the Austrians because they don't blaze enough of themselves to burnthe extinguisher. Only people who deserve despotism are forced to sufferit. We have at last good weather: and the harvest is just drawing to aclose in this place. It is a bright brisk morning, and the loadedwaggons are rolling cheerfully past my window. But since I wrote what isabove a whole day has passed: I have eaten a bread dinner: taken a lonelywalk: made a sketch of Naseby (not the least like yours of Castellamare):played for an hour on an old tub of a piano: and went out in my dressing-gown to smoke a pipe with a tenant hard by. That tenant (whose name isLove, by the bye) was out with his folks in the stack yard: getting inall the corn they can, as the night looks rainy. So, disappointed of myprojected 'talk about runts' and turnips, I am come back--with a gooddeal of animal spirits at my tongue's and fingers' ends. If I weretransported now into your room at Castellamare, I would wag my tongue farbeyond midnight with you. These fits of exultation are not very commonwith me: as (after leaving off beef) my life has become of an even greypaper character: needing no great excitement, and as pleased with Nasebyas Naples. . . . 

I am reading Schlegel's lectures on the History of Literature: a nicejust book: as also the comedies of Congreve, Vanbrugh, and Farquhar: thelatter very delightful: as also D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation, agood book. When I am tired of one I take up the other: when tired ofall, I take up my pipe, or sit down and recollect some of Fidelio on thepianoforte. Ah Master Tennyson, we in England have our pleasures too. Asto Alfred, I have heard nothing of him since May: except that some onesaw him going to a packet which he believed was going to Rotterdam. . . . When shall you and I go to an Opera again, or hear one of Beethoven'sSymphonies together? You are lost to England, I calculate: and I amgiven over to turnips and inanity. So runs the world away. Well, if Inever see you again, I am very very glad I _have_ seen you: and got theidea of a noble fellow all ways into my head. Does this seem like humbugto you? But it is not. And that fine fellow Morton too. Pray writewhen you can to me: and when my stars shine so happily about my head asthey do at this minute, when my blood feels like champagne, I will answeryou. . . 

When you go to Florence, get to see a fresco portrait of Dante by Giotto:newly discovered in some chapel there. Edgeworth saw it, and has broughthome a print which is (he says) a tolerable copy. It is a most awfulhead: Dante, when about twenty-five years old. The likeness to thecommon portraits of him when old is quite evident. All his great poemseems in it: like the flower in the bud. I read the last cantos of theParadiso over and over again. I forget if you like him: but, if Iunderstand you at all, you must. Farewell!

P. S. Just heard from Edgeworth that Alfred is in London 'busy preparingfor the press'!!!

_To Bernard Barton_. 

LONDON, _November_ 27/41. 

DEAR BARTON, I am afraid you were disappointed last night at finding no picture by theShannon. {93} Mayhap you had asked Mr C[hurchyard] to come and give hisjudgment upon it over toasted cheese. But the truth is, the picture hasjust been varnished with mastick varnish, which is apt to chill with thecold at this season of the year: and so I thought it best to keep it byme till its conveyance should be safer. I hope that on Monday you willget it. But I must tell you that, besides the reason of the varnish, Ihave had a sneaking desire to keep the picture by me, and not to lose itfrom my eyes just yet. I am in love with it. I washed it myself verycarefully with only sweet salad oil: perfectly innocuous as you mayimagine: and that, with the new lining, and the varnishing, has at leastmade the difference between a dirty and a clean beauty. And now, whoeverit may be painted by, I pronounce it a very beautiful picture: tender, graceful, full of repose. I sit looking at it in my room and like itmore and more. All this is independent of its paternity. But if I amasked about that, I should only answer on my own judgment (not a good onein such a matter, as I have told you) that it is decidedly byGainsborough, and in his best way of conception. My argument would be ofthe Johnsonian kind: if it is not by G. , who the devil is it by? Thereare some perhaps feeble touches here and there in the tree in the centre, though not in those autumnal leaves that shoot into the sky to the right:but who painted that clump of thick solemn trees to the left of thepicture:--the light of evening rising like a low fire between theirboles? The cattle too in the water, how they stand! The picture must bean original of somebody's: and if not of Gainsborough's--whose? It isbetter painted far than the Market Cart in the National Gallery: but notbetter, only equal (in a sketchy way) to the beautiful evening WateringPlace. 

Now I have raised your expectations too high. But when you have lookedat the picture some time, you will agree with me. I say all this insober honesty, for upon my word, whether it be by Gainsborough or not, itis a kind of pang to me to part from the picture: I believe I should likeit all the better for its being a little fatherless bastard which I havepicked up in the streets, and made clean and comfortable. Yet, if yourfriend tells you it is by G. I shall be glad you should possess it. Anyhow, never part with it but to me. 

I must tell you my friend Laurence still persists it is not byGainsborough: but I have thrown him quite overboard. Oh the comfort ofindependent self confidence! Said Laurence also observed thatGainsborough was the Goldsmith of Painters: which is perhaps true. Ishould like to know if he would know an original of Goldsmith, if I readsomething to him. He is a nice fellow this Laurence by the way. 

Our prospect of going down to Suffolk this year is much on the wane: theDoctor has desired that Lusia should remain in town. Though I shouldlike much to see you and others, yet I am on the whole glad that mysisters should stay here, where they are likely to be better off. Ishall stay with them, as I am of use. I may however run down one day togive you a look. I wish you would enquire and let me know how Mr. Jenney{96} is: he was not well when my Father was in Suffolk. Only _don't askhimself_: he hates that. And now farewell. This is a long letter: butlook at it by way of notice when the picture comes to you. If it doesnot come on Monday don't be angry: but it probably will. 

BRIGHTON, _Dec_. 29, 1841. 

MY DEAR BARTON, The account you give of my old Squire 'that he is in a poorish way' doesnot satisfy me: and I want you to ask Mr. Jones the surgeon, whom youknow, and who used to attend on the Squire, --to ask him, I say, how thatSquire is. He has been ill for the last two or three winters, and maynot be worse now than before. He is one of our oldest friends: andthough he and I have not very much in common, he is a part of my countryof England, and involved in the very idea of the quiet fields of Suffolk. He is the owner of old Bredfield House in which I was born--and theseeing him cross the stiles between Hasketon and Bredfield, and ridingwith his hounds over the lawn, is among the scenes in that novel calledThe Past which dwell most in my memory. What is the difference betweenwhat has been, and what never has been, _none_? At the same time thisSquire, so hardy, is indignant at the idea of being ill or laid up: soone must inquire of him by some roundabout means. . . . 

We had a large party here last night: Horace Smith came: like his brotherJames, but better looking: and said to be very agreeable. Do you [know]that he gives a dreadful account of Mrs. Southey: that meek and Christianpoetess: he says, she's a devil in temper. He told my mother so: had youheard of this? I don't believe it yet: one ought not so soon, ought one?

Goodbye. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

MONDAY. 

MY DEAR DONNE, Thompson tells me you are writing a Roman History. But you have not beenasked to Lecture at the Ipswich Mechanics' Institution, as I have--'anysubject except controversial Divinity, and party Politics. ' In themeantime I have begun Livy: I have read one book, and can't help lookingat the four thick octavos that remain--

 Oh beate Sesti, Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. {97}

But it is very stately reading. As to old Niebuhr, it is mean to attackold legends that can't defend themselves. And what does it signify inthe least if they are true or not? Whoever _actively_ believed thatRomulus was suckled by a wolf? But I have found in Horace a proper mottofor those lumbering Germans:

 Quis Parthum paveat? quis gelidum Scythen? Quis Germania quos horrida parturit Foetus? {98}

_To Bernard Barton_. 

[GELDESTONE, _Jan_. 1842. ]

MY DEAR SIR, You tell my Father you mean to write a Poem about my invisibility--andsomehow it seems strange to myself that I have been so long absent fromWoodbridge. It was a toss up (as boys say--and perhaps Gods) whether Ishould go now:--the toss has decided I should not. On the contrary I amgoing to see Donne at Mattishall: a visit, which having put off afortnight ago, I am now determined to pay. But if I do not see youbefore I go to London, I shall assuredly be down again by the latter partof February: when toasted cheese and ale shall again unite our souls. Youneed not however expect that I can return to such familiar intercourse asonce (in former days) passed between us. New honours in society havedevolved upon me the necessity of a more dignified deportment. A letterhas been sent from the Secretary of the Ipswich Mechanics' Institutionasking me to Lecture--any subject but Party Politics or ControversialDivinity. On my politely declining, another, a fuller, and a morepressing, letter was sent urging me to comply with their demand: Ianswered to the same effect, but with accelerated dignity. I am nowawaiting the third request in confidence: if you see no symptoms of itsbeing mooted, perhaps you will kindly propose it. I have prepared ananswer. Donne is mad with envy. He consoles himself with having got aRoman History to write for Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia. {99} What apity it is that only Lying Histories are readable. I am afraid Donnewill stick to what is considered the Truth too much. 

This is a day like May: I and the children have been scrambling up anddown the sides of a pit till our legs ache. 

_Jan_. 24/42. 

DEAR BARTON, You mistake. The Poacher was bought in his shell--for 3 pounds--did Inot name that price? As you desire a packing case, I will order one today: and I hope you will have him down on Wednesday, just when your Bankwork is over, and you will be glad of such good company. One of myfriends thought the picture must have been an anticipation of Bill Sykes:put a cap and feathers on his head and you make him Iago, Richard theThird, or any other aristocratic villain. I really think the picture isa very good one of its kind: and one that you will like. {100a}

I am going to get my large Constable very lightly framed, and shall bringit down into Suffolk with me to shew you and others. I like it more andmore. 

. . . There is something poetical, and almost heroic, in this Expeditionto the Niger--the motives lofty and Christian--the issue so disastrous. Do you remember in A. Cunningham's Scottish Songs {100b} one called 'TheDarien Song'? It begins

 We will go, maidens, go, To the primrose {100c} woods and mourn, etc. 

Look for it. It applies to this business. Some Scotch young folks wentout to colonize Darien, and never came back. 

 Oh there were white hands wav'd, And many a parting hail, As their vessel stemm'd the tide, And stretch'd her snowy sail. 

I remember reading this at Aldbro', and the sound of the sea hangs aboutit always, as upon the lips of a shell. 

Farewell for the present. We shall soon be down amongst you. 

P. S. I think Northcote drew this picture from life: and I have no doubtthere is some story attached to it. The subject may have been some greatmalefactor. You know that painters like to draw such at times. Northcotecould not have painted so well but from life. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

LONDON, _February_ 6, 1842. 

DEAR FREDERIC, These fast-following letters of mine seem intended to refute a chargemade against me by Morton: that I had only so much impulse ofcorrespondence as resulted from the receipt of a friend's letter. Is itvery frivolous to write all these letters, on no business whatsoever?What I think is, that one will soon be going into the country, where onehears no music, and sees no pictures, and so one will have nothing towrite about. I mean to take down a Thucydides, to feed on: like a wholeParmesan. But at present here I am in London: last night I went to seeAcis and Galatea brought out, with Handel's music, and Stanfield'sscenery: really the best done thing I have seen for many a year. As Isat alone (alone in spirit) in the pit, I wished for you: and now Sundayis over: I have been to church: I have dined at Portland Place: {102} andnow I come home to my lodgings: light my pipe: and will whisper somethingover to Italy. You talk of your Naples: and that one cannot understandTheocritus without having been on those shores. I tell you, you can'tunderstand Macready without coming to London and seeing his revival ofAcis and Galatea. You enter Drury Lane at a quarter to seven: the pit isalready nearly full: but you find a seat, and a very pleasant one. Boxdoors open and shut: ladies take off their shawls and seat themselves:gentlemen twist their side curls: the musicians come up from under thestage one by one: 'tis just upon seven: Macready is very punctual: Mr. T. Cooke is in his place with his marshal's baton in his hand: he lifts itup: and off they set with old Handel's noble overture. As it is playing, the red velvet curtain (which Macready has substituted, not wisely, forthe old green one) draws apart: and you see a rich drop scene, allfestooned and arabesqued with River Gods, Nymphs, and their emblems; andin the centre a delightful, large, good copy of Poussin's great landscape(of which I used to have a print in my rooms) where the Cyclops is seenseated on a mountain, looking over the sea-shore. The overture ends, thedrop scene rises, and there is the sea-shore, a long curling bay: the seaheaving under the moon, and breaking upon the beach, and rolling the surfdown--the stage! This is really capitally done. But enough ofdescription. The choruses were well sung, well acted, well dressed, andwell grouped; and the whole thing creditable and pleasant. Do you knowthe music? It is of Handel's best: and as classical as any man who worea full-bottomed wig could write. I think Handel never gets out of hiswig: that is, out of his age: his Hallelujah chorus is a chorus not ofangels, but of well-fed earthly choristers, ranged tier above tier in aGothic cathedral, with princes for audience, and their military trumpetsflourishing over the full volume of the organ. Handel's gods are likeHomer's, and his sublime never reaches beyond the region of the clouds. Therefore I think that his great marches, triumphal pieces, andcoronation anthems, are his finest works. There is a little bit ofAuber's, at the end of the Bayadere when the God resumes his divinity andretires into the sky, which has more of pure light and mystical solemnitythan anything I know of Handel's: but then this is only a scrap: andAuber could not breathe in that atmosphere long: whereas old Handel'scoursers, with necks with thunder clothed and long resounding pace, nevertire. Beethoven thought more deeply also: but I don't know if he couldsustain himself so well. I suppose you will resent this praise ofBeethoven: but you must be tired of the whole matter, written as it is inthis vile hand: and so here is an end of it. . . . And now I am going toput on my night-cap: for my paper is nearly ended, and the iron tongue ofSt. Paul's, as reported by an East wind, has told twelve. This is thelast news from the city. So Good night. I suppose the violets will begoing off in the Papal dominions by the time this letter reaches you: mycountry cousins are making much of a few aconites. Love to Morton. 

P. S. I hope these foolish letters don't cost you and Morton much: Ialways pay 1_s. _ 7_d. _ for them here: which ought to carry such levitiesto Hindostan without further charge. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

LONDON, _February_ 21/42. 

I have just got home a new coat for my Constable: which coat cost 33shillings: just the same price as I gave for a Chesterfield wrapper (asit is called) for myself some weeks ago. People told me I was notimproved by my Chesterfield wrapper: and I am vext to see how little myConstable is improved by his coat of Cloth of Gold. But I have been toldwhat is the use of a frame lately: only as it requires nice explanation Ishall leave it till I see you. Don't you wish me to buy that littleEvening piece I told you of? worth a dozen of your Paul Veroneses puttogether. 

When I rate you (as you call it) about shewing my verses, letters, etc. , you know in what spirit I rate you: thanking you all the time for yourgenerous intention of praising me. It would be very hard, and notdesirable, to make you understand why my Mama need not have heard theverses: but it is a very little matter: so no more of it. As to my doinganything else in that way, I know that I could write volume after volumeas well as others of the mob of gentlemen who write with ease: but Ithink unless a man can do better, he had best not do at all; I have notthe strong inward call, nor cruel-sweet pangs of parturition, that provethe birth of anything bigger than a mouse. With you the case isdifferent, who have so long been a follower of the Muse, and who have hada kindly, sober, English, wholesome, religious spirit within you that hascommunicated kindred warmth to many honest souls. Such a creature asAugusta--John's wife--a true Lady, was very fond of your poems: and Ithink that is no mean praise: a very good assurance that you have notwritten in vain. I am a man of taste, of whom there are hundreds bornevery year: only that less easy circumstances than mine at present arecompel them to one calling: that calling perhaps a mechanical one, whichoverlies all their other, and naturally perhaps more energetic impulses. As to an occasional copy of verses, there are few men who have leisure toread, and are possessed of any music in their souls, who are not capableof versifying on some ten or twelve occasions during their natural lives:at a proper conjunction of the stars. There is no harm in takingadvantage of such occasions. 

This letter-writing fit (one must suppose) can but happen once in one'slife: though I hope you and I shall live to have many a little bargainfor pictures. But I hold communion with Suffolk through you. In thisbig London all full of intellect and pleasure and business I feelpleasure in dipping down into the country, and rubbing my hand over thecool dew upon the pastures, as it were. I know very few people here: andcare for fewer; I believe I should like to live in a small house justoutside a pleasant English town all the days of my life, making myselfuseful in a humble way, reading my books, and playing a rubber of whistat night. But England cannot expect long such a reign of inward quiet asto suffer men to dwell so easily to themselves. But Time will tell us:

 Come what come may, Time and the Hour runs through the roughest day. {106}

It is hard to give you so long a letter, so dull an one, and written inso cramped a hand, to read in this hardworking part of your week. Butyou can read a bit at odd times, you know: or none at all. Anyhow 'tistime to have done. I am going to walk with Lusia. So farewell

P. S. I always direct to you as 'Mr. Barton' because I know not ifQuakers ought to endure Squiredom. How I long to shew you my Constable!

Pray let me know how Mr. Jenney is. I think that we shall get down toSuffolk the end of next week. 

LONDON, _Febr_. 25/42. 

MY DEAR BARTON, Your reason for liking your Paul Veronese (what an impudence to talk soto a man who has just purchased a real Titian!) does not quite disprovemy theory. You like the picture because you like the verses you oncemade upon it: you associate the picture (naturally enough) with them: andso shall I in future, because I like the verses too. But then you askfurther, what made you write the verses if you were not moved by thepicture imprimis? Why you know the poetic faculty does wonders, asShakespeare tells us, in imagining the forms of things unseen, etc. , andso you made a merit where there was none: and have liked that merit eversince. But I will not disturb you any further in your enjoyment: if youhave a vision of your own, why should I undo it?

Yesterday I was busily employed in painting over my Opie, which hadsuffered by heat, or something of that kind. I borrowed Laurence'spalette and brushes and lay upon the floor two hours patching over andrenovating. The picture is really greatly improved, and I am morereconciled to it. It has now to be varnished: and then I hope some foolwill be surprised into giving 4 pounds for it, as I did. I have selectedan advantageous position for it in a dealer's shop, just under a richwindow that excludes the light. 

On second thoughts I shall not send you down my Twilight: but bring itwith me. I like it much, and do not repent the purchase. As to thedifficulty of bringing down so many pictures, I shall travel by thesteamer; which will bear any quantity. The great new purchase, spoken ofin yesterday's letter, will also go with me: it will be insured at a highvaluation before it is entrusted to the Deep, of whose treasures I don'tat all wish it to become one. My Titian is a great hit: if not by him, it is as near him as ever was painted. But you would not care six strawsfor it. The history of the finest theory of colouring lies in those fewinches of canvas. But Laurence (who has gone for some days into thecountry) must see it, and tell me about it. He is so good a judge, thatI ought never to talk till I have first heard his verdict. 

I was amused at a passage in Clarissa the other day, which gives one someidea of what the average state of the arts was among the gentry of ahundred years ago. Miss Howe, in drawing up a character of her lostClarissa, says that among other things she had a fine taste for thePencil: had not time to practise it much, but 'was an absolute mistressof the "should be, "' and then proceeds thus: 'To give a familiar instancefor the sake of young Ladies: she (untaught) observed _when but a child_, that the Sun, Moon, and Stars, never appeared at once: and were thereforenever to be in one piece: that bears, tygers, lions, were not natives ofan English climate, and should not therefore have a place in an Englishlandscape: that these ravagers of the forest consorted not with lambs, kids, or fawns: nor kites, hawks, or vultures, with doves, partridges, and pheasants. ' Such was a prodigy in those days. It is easy to sneerat this passage: but whoever has read anything of the Masques, etc. , ofJames's time, will readily recall what absurdities were brought together, even by the good Scholars of the day: and therefore will not wonder atthe imperfect Natural History that was found in young Ladies' Drawings, and samplers. I remember now to have seen wonderful combinations ofphenomena in those samplers which are occasionally to be found hung up inthe parlours of Country Inns, and Farm houses. 

These letters succeed like the ghosts of Banquo's progeny before the eyesof Macbeth. Lucky that time itself draws on too close for this letter to'hold a glass that shews you many more. ' You did not answer my questionabout the Gainsboroughs. So I won't ask you another. 

SONNET ON MY NEW PICTURE. 

Oh Twilight! Twilight!!

Rot me, if I am in a poetical humour: I can't translate the picture intowords. 

LONDON, _March_ 5, 1842. 

MY DEAR BARTON, Before the cavalcade and suite of Hardinge's (a melancholy procession)reaches you, I think this letter will. You need not envy me mypurchases, which are imprudent ones: both because I can't well affordthem, and because I have no house to put them. And yet all this gives asense of stolen enjoyment to them. I am yet haunted with the ghost of aBattle-piece (little in my way) at a shop in Holborn: by whom I know not:but so good as to be cheap at 4 pounds: 10_s. _, which the man wants forit. My Twilight _is_ an upright picture: about a foot wide, and rathermore than a foot high. 

Mr. Browne has declined taking my Opie, unless in conjunction with someothers which I won't part with: so the Forest Girl must set up her stallat a Broker's. I doubt she will never bring me the money I gave for her. She is the only bad speculation of the season. Were she but sold, Ishould be rejoicing in the Holborn Battle Piece. After this year howeverI think I shall bid complete adieu to picture-_hunting_: only taking whatcomes in my way. There is a great difference between these two things:both in the expense of time, thought, and money. Who can sit down toPlato while his brains are roaming to Holborn, Christie's, Phillips's, etc. ?

My Father talks of going down to Suffolk early next week. Whether Ishall accompany him is not certain. Do you remember what a merry GoodFriday you and I passed last year? I suppose I shall find the bankscovered with primroses, the very name carries a dew upon it. 

 'As one who long in populous city pent, etc. ' {111}

Good-bye. I am going to pay my compliments at Portland Place, and thento walk in a contrary direction to Holborn. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

[31 _March_, 1842. ]

DEAR FREDERIC, . . . Concerning the bagwigs of composers. Handel's was not a bagwig, which was simply so named from the little stuffed black silk watch-pocketthat hung down behind the back of the wearer. Such were Haydn's andMozart's--much less influential on the character: much less ostentatiousin themselves: not towering so high, nor rolling down in following curlsso low as to overlay the nature of the brain within. But Handel wore theSir Godfrey Kneller wig: greatest of wigs: one of which some greatGeneral of the day used to take off his head after the fatigue of thebattle, and hand over to his valet to have the bullets combed out of it. Such a wig was a fugue in itself. I don't understand your theory abouttrumpets, which have always been so little spiritual _in use_, that theyhave been the provocatives and celebrators of physical force from thebeginning of the world. '_Power_, ' whether spiritual or physical, is themeaning of the trumpet: and so, well used, as you say, by Handel in hisapproaches to the Deity. The fugue in the overture to the Messiahexpresses perhaps the thorny wandering ways of the world before the voiceof the one in the wilderness, and before 'Comfort ye my people, etc. 'Mozart, I agree with you, is the most universal musical genius: Beethovenhas been too analytical and erudite: but his inspiration is neverthelesstrue. I have just read his Life by Moscheles: well worth reading. Heshewed no very decided preference for music when a child, though he wasthe son of a composer: and I think that he was, strictly speaking, moreof a thinker than a musician. A great genius he was somehow. He wasvery fond of reading: Plutarch and Shakespeare his great favourites. Hetried to think in music: almost to reason in music: whereas perhaps weshould be contented with _feeling_ in it. It can never speak verydefinitely. There is that famous 'Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, etc. , 'in Handel: nothing can sound more simple and devotional: but it is onlylately adapted to these words, being originally (I believe) a love songin Rodelinda. Well, lovers adore their mistresses more than their God. Then the famous music of 'He layeth the beams of his chambers in thewaters, etc. , ' was originally fitted to an Italian pastoral song--'Nasceal bosco in rozza cuna, un felice pastorello, etc. ' That part whichseems so well to describe 'and walketh on the wings of the wind' fallshappily in with 'e con l'aura di fortuna' with which this pastorellosailed along. The character of the music is ease and largeness: as theshepherd lived, so God Almighty walked on the wind. The music breathesease: but words must tell us who takes it easy. Beethoven's Sonata--Op. 14--is meant to express the discord and gradual atonement of two lovers, or a man and his wife: and he was disgusted that every one did not seewhat was meant: in truth, it expresses any resistance graduallyovercome--Dobson shaving with a blunt razor, for instance. Music is sofar the most universal language, that any one piece in a particularstrain symbolizes all the analogous phenomena spiritual or material--ifyou can talk of spiritual phenomena. The Eroica symphony describes thebattle of the passions as well as of armed men. This is long and muddydiscourse: but the walls of Charlotte Street present little else, especially during this last week of Lent, to twaddle about. TheCambridge Dons have been up in town for the Easter vacation: so we havesmoked and talked over Peacock, Whewell, etc. Alfred is busy preparing anew volume for the press: full of doubts, troubles, etc. The reviewerswill doubtless be at him: and with justice for many things: but some ofthe poems will outlive the reviewers. Trench, Wordsworth, Campbell, andTaylor, also appear in new volumes this Spring, and Milnes, I hear, talksof publishing a popular edition of his poems. He means, a cheap one. Nothing has been heard of Spedding: {114a} but we all conclude, from thenature of the case, that he has not been scalped. 

_To W. F. Pollock_. {114b}

BOULGE HALL, _May_ 11/42. 

DEAR POLLOCK, . . . I have just been reading the great Library of Athanasius. {114c}Certainly only you and I and Thackeray understand it. When men likeSpedding quote to me such a passage as 'Athanasius alas is innocent ofmany smiles, etc. , ' they shew me they don't understand it. The beauty--ifone may dare to define--lies more in such expressions as 'adjusting thebeaks of the macaws, etc. ' I have laughed outright (how seldom one doesthis alone!) at the Bishops' meeting. 'Mr. Talboys--that candle behindDr. Allnut--really that I should be obliged--. ' I suppose this would bethe most untranslateable book in the world. I never shall forget how Ilaughed when I first read it. 

[GELDESTONE HALL, 22 _May_ 1842. ]

DEAR POLLOCK, . . . So Alfred is come out. {115a} I agree with you quite about theskipping-rope, etc. But the bald men {115b} of the Embassy would tellyou otherwise. I should not wonder if the whole theory of the Embassy, perhaps the discovery of America itself, was involved in that very Poem. Lord Bacon's, honesty may, I am sure, be found there. Alfred, whateverhe may think, cannot trifle--many are the disputes we have had about hispowers of badinage, compliment, waltzing, etc. His smile is rather agrim one. I am glad the book is come out, though I grieve for theinsertion of these little things, on which reviewers and dull readerswill fix; so that the right appreciation of the book will be retarded adozen years. . . . 

The rain will not come and we are burnt up, and in despair. But thecountry never looked more delicious than it does. I am as happy here aspossible, though I don't like to boast. I am going to see my friendDonne in ten days, he is writing the dullest of histories--one of Rome. What the devil does it signify setting us in these days right as to theLicinian Rogation, and Livy's myths? Every school-boy knew that Livylied; but the main story was clear enough for all the purposes ofexperience; and, that being so, the more fabulous and entertaining thesubsidiary matter is the better. Tell Thackeray not to go into Punchyet. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES. SUNDAY, _May_ 22/42. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, . . . I read of the advertisements of sales and auctions, but don't envyyou Londoners while I am here in the midst of _green idleness_, as LeighHunt might call it. What are pictures? I am all for pure spirit. Youhave of course read the account of Spedding's forehead landing inAmerica. English sailors hail it in the Channel, mistaking it for BeachyHead. There is a Shakespeare cliff, and a Spedding cliff. Good oldfellow! I hope he'll come back safe and sound, forehead and all. 

I sit writing this at my bedroom window, while the rain (long-looked for)patters on the window. I prophesied it to-day: which is a great comfort. We have a housefull of the most delightful children: and if the rainwould last, and the grass grow, all would be well. I think the rain willlast: I shall prophesy so when I go down to our early dinner. For it isSunday: and we dine children and all at one o'clock: and go to afternoonchurch, and a great tea at six--then a pipe (except for the youngladies)--a stroll--a bit of supper--and to bed. Wake in the morning atfive--open the window and read Ecclesiasticus. A proverb says that'everything is fun in the country. '

My Constable has been greatly admired, and is reckoned quite genuine byour great judge, Mr. Churchyard. Mr. C. Paints himself: (not in _body_colours, as you waggishly insinuate) and nicely too. He understandsGainsborough, Constable, and old Crome. Have you ever seen pictures bythe latter? some very fine. He was a Norwich man. 

BOULGE HALL, _June_ 19/42. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, Keep the head of Raffaelle as long as you please. I am glad that one ofthe three pictures at all events is worth something. I anticipated thatMorton's friend would spoil them in the carriage: friends always do. Keepthem all, like my other pictures, at your house: and make what use ofthem you please. The head of Dante is, I suppose, the same as the one L. Hunt shewed us engraved in a book: a theatrical one, I thought. . . . Have you been to any auction-rooms? I have forgot all about them: andcan live very well without pictures. I believe one loses all one'stastes in the country: and one is not the less happy. We have hadglorious weather: new pease and young potatoes--fresh milk (how good!)and a cool library to sit in of mornings. . . . 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BEDFORD, _August_ 16, 1842. 

DEAR TENNYSON, I have been long hoping for a letter from you: it has come this morning, and repays me for all waiting. While you and Morton write to me aboutItaly I shall never go to see it. And yet your account of Cicero'svilla, I confess, gives me a twinge. But of this I am sure: if I saw allthese fine things with the bodily eye, I should but see them as a scenein a play, with the additional annoyance of being bitten with fleasperhaps, and being in a state of transition which is not suitable to me:whereas while you see them, and will represent them to me, I see themthrough your imagination, and that is better than any light of my own. This is very true, I assure you: and you and Morton have given me quite adifferent view of Italy to what I had before: a much more enchanting one, but not the more likely to seduce me into making the false step of tryingto realize it for myself. . . . In the mean time how tired and boredwould you be to take one of my travels--a voyage of eight miles fromBedford perhaps--travelled twenty times before--every winding of theriver, every church-spire, every country pot house and the quality of itsbeer, well known. No surprise at all. Nil admirari--I find that oldHorace is a good fellow-traveller in England: so is Virgil. It is oddthat those fellows living in the land they did live in should have talkedso coldly about it. As to Alfred's book, I believe it has sold well: butI have not seen him for a long while, and have had no means of hearingabout the matter except from Thompson, who told me that very many copieshad been sold at Cambridge, which indeed will be the chief market forthem. Neither have I seen any notice of them in print except that in theExaminer; and that seemed so quiet that I scarce supposed it was byForster. Alfred himself is, I believe, in Kent at present. And now, mydear Frederic, why do you think of returning to England? Depend upon ityou are better off as you are. You will never turn magistrate nor bean-dibbler, nor make yourself of use in the country, and therefore whyshould you not live where you like to live best? When I read of yourlaughing and singing and riding into Naples with huge self-supplyingbeakers full of the warm South I am sure you had best stay where you are. I should indeed be very glad to see you again: but then I should misshearing from you: and you would only come here to abuse us all and goback again. You Tennysons are born for warm climates. As to poorEngland, I never see a paper, but I think with you that she is on the go. I used to dread this: but somehow I now contemplate it as a necessarything, and, till the shoe begins to pinch me sorely, walk on with someindifference. It seems impossible the manufacturers can go on as theyare: and impossible that the demand for our goods can continue as of oldin Europe: and impossible but that we must get a rub and licking in someof our colonies: and if all these things come at once, why then thedevil's in it. I used to think as you do about France and the French:and we all agreed in London that France should be divided among the otherpowers as Poland was: but Donne has given me pause: he says that Franceis the great counteracting democratic principle to Russia. This may be:though I think Russia is too unwieldly and rotten-ripe ever to make ahuge progress in conquest. What is to be thought of a nation where theupper classes speak the language of another country, and have varnishedover their honest barbarism with the poorest French profligacy andintrigue? Russia does not seem a whole to me. In the mean time, allgoes on toward better and better, as is my firm belief: and humanitygrows clear by flowing, (very little profited by any single sage orhero), and man shall have wings to fly and something much better thanthat in the end. . . . 

I draw a very little, and think of music as I walk in the fields: buthave no piano in this part of the world. . . . I hear there is a finenew Symphony by Mendelssohn, who is by far our best writer now, and insome measure combines Beethoven and Handel. I grow every day more andmore to love only the old God save the King style: the common chords, those truisms of music, like other truisms so little understood in thefull. Just look at the mechanism of Robin Adair. 

Now pray write to me again when you can. You don't know how much Irejoice in your letters. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

BEDFORD, _Thursday_, [_August_, 1842. ]

DEAR LAURENCE, . . . I have heard from Morton and F. Tennyson; the letter of the lattervery descriptive and fine. He is summering at Castellamare, and Mortonat Sorrento. What must Italy be if we are complaining of heat here!

I have just been naming all Mr. Browne's pictures for him. This he hasinsisted on for three years, and at last this very hot day after an earlydinner pens and paper were brought out and I have been writing down awfulcalumnies about Cuyp, Both, etc. Who could have painted Catharine ofMedicis, do you know? We are afraid to call it Vandyke, as he lived (Ibelieve) a century after her: and Mr. B. Won't give up its beingCatharine's portrait. So here we are in a fix. I went to see LordNorthampton's place Castle Ashby a week ago: expected pictures, and sawvery bad ones. The house is very handsome, built by Inigo Jones. 

I weigh 14 stone--fact. 

_To John Allen_. 

[KEYSOE, _August_ 1842. ]

MY DEAR JOHN ALLEN, . . . I am much _entete_ at present about one Matthews, {122} a preacherat Bedford, who would do very well for Manchester in opposition toChartists, etc. If you are here on a Friday or a Sunday go and hear him. I would gladly subscribe to remove him from Bedford. All this you willthink absurd; and so perhaps it is. 

I have been reading Stobaeus' Anthology as I saunter in the fields: apretty collection of Greek aphorisms in verse and prose. The bits ofMenander and the comic poets are very acceptable. And this is really allI have looked at all this summer. 

BEDFORD, _August_ 29/42. 

MY DEAREST FELLOW, Your letter reached me this morning and gave me much pleasure. An oldacquaintance is not the worse for its wear, I think. This very time tenyears ago we were in Wales together: I at Mr. Rees' boarding-house atTenby: and there I made chance acquaintance with the whiskered man {123}at whose house I am now staying:--then a boy of sixteen. He is now a manof business, of town-politics, and more intent on the first of Septemberthan on anything else in the world. I see very little of him. . . . 

I occasionally read sentences about the Virtues out of this collection ofStobaeus, and look into Sartor Resartus, which has fine things in it: anda little Dante and a little Shakespeare. But the great secret of all isthe not eating meat. To that the world must come, I am sure. Only itmakes one grasshopper foolish. I also receive letters from Morton and F. Tennyson full of fine accounts of Italy, finer than any I ever read. Theycame all of a sudden on Cicero's villa--one of them at least, theFormian--with a mosaic pavement leading thro' lemon gardens down to thesea, and a little fountain as old as the Augustan age bubbling up asfresh, Tennyson says, 'as when its silver sounds mixed with the deepvoice of the orator as he sate there in the stillness of the noon day, devoting the siesta-hours to study. ' When I first read of these things Iwish to see them; but, on reflection, I am sure I see them much better insuch letters as these. 

I have seen one good picture about here: a portrait of O. Cromwell byLely--so said--unlike other Lelys, but very carefully painted: and, Ishould think, an original portrait. . . I also read Hayley's Life ofRomney the other day. Romney wanted but education and reading to makehim a very fine painter: but his ideal was not high nor fixed. Howtouching is the close of his life! He married at nineteen, and, becauseSir Joshua and others had said that marriage spoilt an artist, almostimmediately left his wife in the North, and scarce saw her till the endof his life: when, old, nearly mad, and quite desolate, he went back toher, and she received him, and nursed him till he died. This quiet actof hers is worth all Romney's pictures; even as a matter of Art, I amsure. 

Whether this letter will ever reach you, I don't know. I am going in twodays to Naseby for a little while, and shall then find my way home toSuffolk for the greater part of the Winter and Spring, I suppose. 

 O beate Sesti, Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. 

I think of hiring a house in some country town like this, but nearerSuffolk, and there have my books, etc. I want a house much: and a verysmall one will content me, with a few old women close by to play cardswith at night. What a life, you will say!

 His virtues walked then humble round, Nor knew a pause, nor felt a void: And sure the Eternal Master found His single talent well employ'd. 

That was not in playing picquet, I doubt. What fine lines of Johnson's{125} these!

* * * * *

On the 15th of September 1842 FitzGerald first made Carlyle's personalacquaintance. He always spoke of his having first gone to Chelsea incompany with Thackeray, and in the Notes which he left of his excavationsat Naseby he repeats what he frequently told myself and others. But hismemory was clearly at fault, for in a letter to Pollock, written on the16th, but dated by mistake the 17th, of September, he says, 'I have comeup to London for two days on a false errand: and am therefore going backin a pet, to Naseby. . . . I enquired at Spedding's rooms to-day: he isexpected by the 20th, which is near. Laurence is the only person I knowin town. . . . He and I went to see Carlyle at Chelsea yesterday. Thatgenius has been surveying the field of battle of Naseby in company withDr. Arnold, who died soon after, poor man! I doubt (from Carlyle'sdescription) if they identified the very ground of the carnage. . . . Ihave heard nothing of Thackeray for these two months. He was to havevisited an Irish brother of mine: but he has not yet done so. I calledat Coram Street yesterday, and old John seemed to think he was yet inIreland. ' With this correction I now give the Memorandum referred to, which FitzGerald entrusted to my keeping together with several ofCarlyle's letters. An attempt to put up a monument on the real site ofthe battle proved abortive, as will appear hereafter. 

 'About the middle of September 1842, W. M. Thackeray took me to tea with Carlyle whom I had not previously known. He was then busy with Cromwell; had just been, he told us, over the Field of Naseby in company with Dr. Arnold of Rugby, and had sufficiently identified the Ground of the Battle with the contemporaneous Accounts of it. As I happened to know the Field well--the greater part of it then belonging to my Family--I knew that Carlyle and Arnold had been mistaken--misled in part by an Obelisk which my Father had set up as on the highest Ground of the Field, but which they mistook for the centre-ground of the Battle. This I told Carlyle, who was very reluctant to believe that he and Arnold could have been deceived--that he could accept no hearsay Tradition or Theory against the Evidence of his own Eyes, etc. However, as I was just then going down to Naseby, I might enquire further into the matter. 

 '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 thefollowing letter of instructions from Carlyle, written three days aftertheir interview. 

CHELSEA, 18 _Sept_. , 1842. 

MY DEAR SIR, Profiting by the unexpected fact that _you_ are now master of NasebyBattlefield, I have gone over the whole matter once more, probably forthe twentieth time; I have copied you my illegible pencil-notes, and re-verified everything, --that so, if you can understand the meaning (whichwill be difficult, I fear), you may append to it what commentary, collected on the spot, you may judge edifying. Let me, however, againimpress 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 differentsides; 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 incomparison. I wish you had Sprigge's complete Plan of the Battle: butyou have it not; you have only that foolish Parson's {128} very dim copyof it, and must help yourself with that. 

The things I wish you to give me are first: The whole story of yourBlacksmith, or other oral Chronicler, be it wise and credible, be itabsurd and evidently false. Then you can ask, whether there remains anytradition of a windmill at Naseby? One stands in the Plan, not far fromNorth of the village, probably some 300 yards to the west of where theass of a column now stands: the whole concern, of fighting, rallying, flying, killing and chasing, transacted itself to the _west_ of that, --onthe 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_ dispersiontook place. Therefore, again, pray ask. 

Where precisely any dead bodies are known to have been found? Where andwhen the _last_-found was come upon; what they made of it, --whether noAntiquarian kept a tooth; at any rate, a button or the like? Cannon-ballsought to be found, especially musket-balls, down in that hollow, and onthe slope thitherward: is any extant cabinet master of one?

Farther, are there, on the high ground N. W. Or W. Of Naseby village, anytraces still discoverable of such names as these: 'Lantford hedges' (orperhaps 'hedge'); a kind of thicket running _up_ the slope, towards thewestern environs of Naseby village, nearly from the North;--Fairfax haddragoons hidden here, who fired upon Rupert's right, as he chargedupwards: 'Rutput Hill': 'Fanny Hill' (according to Rushworth, 'FamnyHill' in Sprigge), --probably two swellings in the ground, that liebetween the south end of Lantford Hedges and the village; 'Lean LeafHill' seemingly another swelling, parallel to these, which reaches inwith its slope _to_ the very village--from the west: 'Mill Hill' fartherto the east (marked as due west from the windmill, which of course musthave stood upon a part of it), lying therefore upon the north part of thevillage? Is it possible, in spite of all ditching and enclosure bills, there may still some vestige of these names adhere to some fields ormessuages; 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, andthe Harboro' Height are like! I suppose one sees Sibbertoft steeple, butno houses, from Naseby Height? Also that it was undoubtedly Clipston (asthe good Dr. Arnold and I supposed) that we saw there. Dr. A. And Icame, as I find, thro' Crick, West Hadden, Cold Ashby; and crossed theWelford and Northampton road, perhaps some three miles from Naseby. 

On the whole, my dear Sir, here seems to be work enough for you! Butafter all is it not worth your while on other accounts? Were it not amost legitimate task for the Proprietor of Naseby, a man of scholarship, intelligence and leisure, to make himself completely acquainted with thetrue state of all details connected with Naseby Battle and itslocalities? Few spots of ground in all the world are memorabler to anEnglishman. 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 stillfly to you, and to several other quarters; but with railways andtub-gigs, and my talent for insomnolence, and fretting myself tofiddlestrings with all terrestrial locomotion whatsoever--alas, alas!

Believe me always, My dear Sir, Very truly yoursT. CARLYLE. 

FitzGerald's letter to Carlyle, giving an account of the first results ofhis excavations, has apparently not been preserved, but it was promptlyacknowledged. 

CHELSEA, _Saturday_, 25 [24] _Septr_. , 1842. 

MY DEAR SIR, You will do me and the Genius of History a real favour, if you persist inthese 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 alsoclear, have only looked up towards it from the slope of Mill Hill. Werenot the weather so wet, were not, etc. , etc. , so many _etceteras_, Icould almost think of running up to join you still! But that isevidently unfeasible at present. 

The opening of that burial-heap blazes strangely in my thoughts: theseare the very jawbones that were clenched together in deadly rage, on thisvery ground, 197 years ago! It brings the matter home to one, with astrange veracity, --as if for the first time one saw it to be no fable andtheory but a dire fact. I will beg for a tooth and a bullet;authenticated by your own eyes and word of honour!--Our Scotch friendtoo, making turnip manure of it, he is part of the Picture. I understandalmost all the Netherlands battlefields have already given up their bonesto British husbandly; why not the old English next? Honour to thrift. Ifof 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. Iwant 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 lieabout North by West from Naseby Church, perhaps near a mile off. Yousay, one cannot see Dust Hill at all, much less any farm house of DustHill, from that Naseby Height?

But why does the Obelisk stand there? It might as well stand at CharingCross; the blockhead that it is! I again wish I had wings: alas, I wishmany things; that the gods would but annihilate Time and Space, whichwould include all things!

In great haste, Yours most truly, T. CARLYLE. 

The following letters will partly supply the place of the missing letterto 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 grownmore fat than ever, which is quite as much reason for not writing. Ihave 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 lastnight. He had just returned from the neighbourhood of Bury. He is fullof Cromwell, and, funny enough, went over from Rugby to Naseby thisspring with poor Dr. Arnold. They saw nothing, and walked over what wasnot the field of battle. I want him to go down with me: but he thinks itwould be too expensive. So I have engaged to collect what matter I canfor him on the spot. At the beginning of October I expect to be back inEast Anglia for the winter. Frail is human virtue. I thought I hadquite got over picture dealing, when lo! walking in Holborn this day Ilooked into a shop just to shew the strength of my virtue, and fell. Thataccursed Battle Piece--I have bought it--and another picture of deadchaffinches, which Mr. C[hurchyard] will like, it is so well done: Iexpect you to give high prices for these pictures--mind that: and beginto economize in household matters. Leave off sugar in tea and make allyour household do so. Also write to me at Naseby, Welford, Northampton. That's my direction--such a glorious country, Barton. I wrote you aletter a week ago, but never posted it. So now goodbye. I shall bringdown the Chaffinches with me to Suffolk. Trade has been very bad, thedealers tell me. My fruit Girl still hangs up at a window--an unpleasantsight. 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 Fatherrequiring my services in Suffolk early in October. Laurence has made asort of promise to come and see me here next Saturday: I wanted him tocome 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 Obeliskplanted by my Papa on the wrong site intimates. Poor Carlyle got intosad error from that deluding Obelisk: which Liston used to call (in thiscase with truth) an Obstacle. I am afraid Carlyle will make a mad messof Cromwell and his Times: what a poor figure Fairfax will cut! I amvery tired of these heroics; and I can worship no man who has but asquare 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. Theyreally attune perfectly well with the plains and climate of Naseby. Valpy(whose edition I have) cannot quite follow Virgil's plough--in itsconstruction at least. But the main acts of agriculture seem to havechanged very little, and the alternation of green and corn crops is agood dodge. And while I heard the fellows going out with their horses toplough 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 shallcome down with me, whenever that desirable event takes place. In themean while here I am as before: but having received a long andinteresting letter from Carlyle asking information about this Battlefield, I have trotted about rather more to ascertain names of places, positions, etc. After all he will make a mad book. I have just seensome of the bones of a dragoon and his horse who were found foundered ina morass in the field--poor dragoon, much dismembered by time: his lessworthy members having been left in the owner's summer-house for the lasttwenty years have disappeared one by one: but his skull is kept safe inthe 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 ofconvenience. This is what Sir Thomas Browne calls 'making a man act hisAntipodes. ' {135} I have got a fellow to dig at one of the great generalgraves 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 thefull harvest moon wonder at them as they lie turned up after lying hid2400 revolutions of hers. Think of that warm 14th of June when theBattle was fought, and they fell pell-mell: and then the country peoplecame and buried them so shallow that the stench was terrible, and theputrid matter oozed over the ground for several yards: so that the cattlewere observed to eat those places very close for some years after. Everyone to his taste, as one might well say to any woman who kissed the cowthat pastured there. 

Friday, 23rd. We have dug at a place, as I said, and made such a trenchas would hold a dozen fellows: whose remains positively make up themould. The bones nearly all rotted away, except the teeth which arequite good. At the bottom lay the _form_ of a perfect skeleton: most ofthe bones gone, but the pressure distinct in the clay: the thigh and legbones yet extant: the skull a little pushed forward, as if there werescanty 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 theidentification of the graves identifies also where the greatest heat ofthe battle was. Do you wish for a tooth?

As I began this antiquarian account in a letter to you, so I havefinished it, that you may mention it to my Papa, who perhaps will beamused at it. Two farmers insisted on going out exploring with me allday: one a very solid fellow, who talks like the justices in Shakespeare:but who certainly was inspired in finding out this grave: the other aScotchman full of intelligence, who proposed the flesh-soil for manurefor turnips. The old Vicar, whose age reaches halfway back to the day ofthe Battle, stood tottering over the verge of the trench. Carlyle hasshewn great sagacity in guessing at the localities from the vaguedescriptions of contemporaries: and his short _pasticcio_ of the battleis 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 aboutthe very thing he fought to prevent--the restoration of an unrestrictedmonarchy. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

NASEBY, _Septr_. 28/42. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, I am sorry you did not come, as the weather has become fine, and thiswild wide country looks well on these blowing days, with flying shadowsrunning over the distance. Carlyle wrote me a long letter of questionsconcerning the field of Battle, its traditions, etc. So I have trottedabout, examined the natives, and answered a great many of his queries asfully, but as shortly, as I could. However I suppose he growlssuperciliously at my letter, which was necessarily rather a long one. Ihave also, in company with two farmers, opened one of the reputed gravesin which the killed were said to be reposited: and there sure enough wefound decayed bones, skulls, arms, legs, etc. , and very sound teeth--theonly sound part. For many bodies put together corrupt one another ofcourse, and 200 years have not contributed to their preservation. Peoplehad often dug about the field before and found nothing; and we tried twoor three other spots with no success. I am going to dig once more in aplace 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 daresay I shall pass through London on my way to Suffolk: and then perhapssee the trans-Atlantic Secretary. {138}

Don't trouble yourself to write answers to my gossip. I have just beenat our Church where we have had five clergymen to officiate: two inshovel-hats. Our Vicar is near ninety; we have two curates: and an oldClergyman and his Archdeacon son came on a visit. The son having ashovel-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 permanentabode, which I think I am well qualified to decide on now. But in thisvery judgment I may be most of all mistaken. I do not love London enoughto pitch my tent there: Woodbridge, Ipswich, or Colchester--won't one ofthem do? . . . 

I have been reading Burton's Anatomy {139} lately: a captivating bookcertainly. That story of his going to the bridge at Oxford to listen tothe bargemen's slang, etc. , he reports of the old Democritus, hisprototype: so perhaps biographers thought it must be Burton's taste also. Or perhaps Burton took to doing it after example. I cannot help fancyingthat I see the foundation (partly) of Carlyle's style in Burton: onepassage quite like part of Sartor Resartus. Much of Barton's Biographymay be picked up out of his own introduction to the Anatomy. Maurice'sIntroductory Lecture I shall be very glad to have. I do not fancy Ishould read his Kingdom of Christ, should I? You know. 

I have had bad cold and cough which still hang about me: this dampcottage 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 Ishall be in London, as proposed, in another fortnight--more or less--andshall pig there in a garret for two months. We will go to picture salesand buy bad pictures: though I have scarce money left. But I am reallyat last going to settle in some spooney quarters in the country, andwould fain carry down some better forms and colours to put about me. Icannot get the second or third best: but I can get the imitations of thebest: 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-shelvedbook--its doctrine of Government I am no judge of: but what English thosefellows wrote! I cannot read the modern mechanique after them. 'Thisfree-born Nation lives not upon the dole or Bounty of One Man, butdistributing her Annual Magistracies and Honours with her own hand isherself King People. ' Harrington must be a better writer than Milton. One finds books of this kind in these country houses: and it is pleasantto 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 standidle, just the same as ever. 'Repeal' is faintly chalked on a wall hereand there. I have been to see a desperate collection of pictures by theRoyal Academy: among them old unsaleables by Maclise and Uwins. 

What I write for however is to say that the first volume of Titmarsh'sIreland is at 39 Portland Place; and that I wish you would ask for itthere and get it. Keep the two volumes for a time. It is all true. Iordered a bath here when I got in: the waiter said it was heated to 90degrees, but it was scalding: he next locked me up in the room instead ofmy locking him out. 

Keep an eye on the little Titian, and I shall really make the venture ofborrowing 30 pounds to invest in it. Tell Rochard you must have it. Imay never be able to get a bit of Titian in my life again: and I shalldoubtless 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 ofEngland. There are the Wicklow hills (mountains we call them) in theoffing--quite high enough. In spite of my prejudice for a level, I findmyself every day unconsciously verging towards any eminence that gives methe freest view of their blue ranges. One's thoughts take wing to thedistance. I fancy that moderately high hills (like these) are theticket--not to be domineered over by Mont Blancs, etc. But this may beonly a passing prejudice. 

We hear much less of Repeal here than in London: and people seem amusedat the troops and waggons of gunpowder that are to be met now and thenupon 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 greetsone'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 fulltide 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 bea fortnight before I set sail for England. Where shall I pitch my tent?that is the question. Whither shall those treasures of ancient artdescend, and be reposited there for ever?

I have been looking over the old London Magazine. Lamb's papers come indelightfully: read over the Old China the night you get this, andsympathize with me. The account of the dish of green pease, etc. , is thetrue 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 wentto Pool-a-Phooka, the Leap of the Goblin Horse. What is that, do yousuppose? Why, a cleft in the mountains down and through which the riverLiffey (not very long born from the earth) comes leaping and roaring. Cold veal pies, champagne, etc. , make up the enchantment. We dabbled inthe water, splashed each other, forded the river, climbed the rocks, laughed, sang, eat, drank, and were roasted, and returned home, the sunsinking 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 heartfeltregrets of all the people of Ireland with me. 

Where is my dear old Alfred? Sometimes I intend to send him a quotationfrom 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: andgoes to sleep on the sofa of evenings. At odd moments he looks intoSpinoza and Petrarch. People respect him very much in those parts. OldMiss Edgeworth is wearing away: she has a capital bright soul which evennow shines quite youthfully through her faded carcase. . . . I had theweakest dream the other night that ever was dreamt. I thought I sawThomas Frognall Dibdin--and that was all. Tell this to Alfred. Carlyletalks of coming to see Naseby: but I leave him to suit the weather to histaste. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE, _Sunday_, _Dec_. 10/1843. 

DEAR FREDERIC, Either you wrote me word yourself, or some one told me, that you meant towinter at Florence. So I shall direct to the Poste Restante there. Yousee I am not settled at the Florence of Suffolk, called Ipswich, yet: butI am perhaps as badly off; being in this most dull country house quitealone; a grey mist, that seems teeming with half formed snow, all overthe landscape before my windows. It is also Sunday morning: ten of theclock by the chime now sounding from the stables. I have fed on breadand milk (a dreadfully opaque diet) and I await the morning Church inhumble hope. It will begin in half an hour. We keep early hours in thecountry. So you will be able exactly to measure my aptitude and fullnessfor letter writing by the quantity written now, before I bolt off forhat, gloves, and prayerbook. I always put on my thickest great coat togo to our Church in: as fungi grow in great numbers about the communiontable. And now, to turn away from Boulge, I must tell you that I went upto London a month ago to see old Thackeray, who had come there to havehis eyes doctored. I stayed with him ten days and we were as usualtogether. Alfred came up 'in transitu' from Boxley to Cheltenham; helooked, and said he was, ill: I have never seen him so hopeless: and I amreally anxious to know how he is. . . . I remember the days of thesummer when you and I were together, quarrelling and laughing--these Iremember with pleasure. Our trip to Gravesend has left a perfume withme. I can get up with you on that everlastingly stopping coach on whichwe tried to travel from Gravesend to Maidstone that Sunday morning: wornout with it, we got down at an inn, and then got up on another coach--andan old smiling fellow passed us holding out his hat--and you said, 'Thatold fellow must go about as Homer did'--and numberless other turns ofroad 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 nobell, pack myself up as warmly as I can, and be off. So good-bye tilltwelve o'clock. --'Tis five minutes past twelve by the stable clock: so Isaw as I returned from Church through the garden. Parson and Clerk gotthrough the service see saw like two men in a sawpit. In the garden Isee the heads of the snowdrops and crocuses just out of the earth. Another year with its same flowers and topics to open upon us. Shenstonesomewhere sings, {146a}

 Tedious again to mark the drizzling day, Again to trace the same sad tracts of snow: Or, lull'd by vernal airs, again survey The selfsame hawthorn bud, and cowslips blow. 

I rely on you and all your family sympathizing in this. So do Isometimes: anyhow, people complimenting each other on the approach ofSpring and such like felicitations are very tiresome. Our very year isof a paltry diameter. But this is not proper language for Mark Tapley, whose greatest bore just now is having a bad pen; but the letter isended. So he is jolly and yours as ever. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Decr_. 21/43. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, I hope you got safe and sound to London: as I did to this placeyesterday. Those good Tetter people! I have got an attachment to themsomehow. I left Jane {146b} in a turmoil as to which picture ofW[ilkinson] she was to take. I advised her to take a dose of Time, whichalways operates so gently. 

I have been down to Woodbridge to-day and had a long chat withChurchyard, whom I wish you had seen, as also his Gainsborough sketches. He is quite clear as to Gainsborough's general method, which was (hesays) to lay all in (except the sky, of course) with pure colour, quiteunmixed with white. The sketch he has is certainly so; but whether itever could have been wrought up into a deep finish, I don't know. C. Says yes it could: that Gainsborough began nearly all his pictures so. Hehas tried it over and over again (he says) and produced exactly the sameeffect with pure colour, laid on very thin over a light brown ground:asphaltum and blue producing just such a green as many of the trees inthis sketch are of. The sky put in afterwards. 

He thinks this the great secret of landscape painting. He shewed me thepassage quoted by Burnet {147} from Rubens' maxims (where and what arethey?) 'Begin by painting in your shadows lightly, taking care that _no_white be suffered to glide into them--_it is the poison of a pictureexcept in the lights_. If ever your shadows are corrupted by theintroduction of this baneful colour, your tones will no longer be warmand transparent, but heavy and leaden. It is not the same in the lights:they may be loaded with colour as much as you think proper. '

Here is a technical letter, you see, from a man who is no artist, andvery ignorant, as you think, I dare say. Try a head in this way. Youhave tried a dozen, you say. Very well then. 

I will send up your cloak, which is barely bigger than a fig leaf, when Ican. On Saturday I give supper to B. Barton and Churchyard. I wish youcould be with us. We are the chief wits of Woodbridge. And one man hassaid that he envies our conversations! So we flatter each other in thecountry. 

* * * * *

Of FitzGerald's way of life at this time I have the following notes whichwere given me by the late Rev. George Crabbe, Rector of Merton, thegrandson of the poet, at whose house he died. 

 'FitzGerald was living at Boulge Cottage when I first knew him: a thatched cottage of one storey just outside his Father's Park. No one was, I think, resident at the Hall. His mother would sometimes be there a short time, and would drive about in a coach and four black horses. This would be in 1844, when he was 36. He used to walk by himself, slowly, with a Skye terrier. I was rather afraid of him. He seemed a proud and very punctilious man. I think he was at this time going often of an evening to Bernard Barton's. He did not come to us, except occasionally, till 1846. He seemed to me when I first saw him much as he was when he died, only not stooping: always like a grave middle-aged man: never seemed very happy or light-hearted, though his conversation was most amusing sometimes. His cottage was a mile from Bredfield. He was very fond, I think, of my Father; though they had several coolnesses which I believe were all my Father's fault, who took fancies that people disliked him or were bored by him. E. F. G. Had in his cottage an old woman to wait on him, Mrs. Faiers; a very old-fashioned Suffolk woman. He was just as careful not to make her do anything as he was afterwards with Mrs. Howe. {149} He would never ring the bell, if there was one, of which I am not sure. Sometimes he would give a little dinner--my Father, Brooke, B. Barton, Churchyard--everything most hospitable, but not comfortable. 

 'In 1846 and 1847 he does not seem to have come much to Bredfield. Perhaps he was away a good deal. He was often away, visiting his mother, or W. Browne, or in London, or at the Kerriches'. In 1848, 1849, and 1850 he was a great deal at Bredfield, generally dropping in about seven o'clock, singing glees with us, and then joining my Father over his cigar, and staying late and often sleeping. He very often arranged concerted pieces for us to sing, in four parts, he being tenor. He sang very accurately but had not a good voice. 

 'While E. F. G. Was at Boulge, he always got up early, eat his small breakfast, stood at his desk reading or writing all the morning, eat his dinner of vegetables and pudding, walked with his Skye terrier, and then often finished the day by spending the evening with us or the Bartons. He did not visit with the neighbouring gentlefolks, as he hated a set dinner party. '

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _February_ 24/44. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I got your letter all right. But you did not tell me where to direct toyou again; so I must send to the Poste Restante at Florence. I have alsoheard from Morton, to whom I despatched a letter yesterday: and now setabout one to you. As you live in two different cities, one may writeabout the same things to both. You told me of the Arno being frozen, andeven Italian noses being cold: he tells me the Spring is coming. I tellyou that we have had the mildest winter known; but as good weather, whenit does come in England, is always unseasonable, and as an old proverbsays that a green Yule makes a fat kirk-yard, so it has been with us: theextraordinary fine season has killed heaps of people with influenza, debilitated others for their lives long, worried everybody with colds, etc. I have had three influenzas: but this is no wonder: for I live in ahut with walls as thin as a sixpence: windows that don't shut: a claysoil safe beneath my feet: a thatch perforated by lascivious sparrowsover my head. Here I sit, read, smoke, and become very wise, and amalready quite beyond earthly things. I must say to you, as Basil Montaguonce said, in perfect charity, to his friends: 'You see, my dear fellows, I like you very much, but I continue to advance, and you remain where youare (you see), and so I shall be obliged to leave you behind me. It isno fault of mine. ' You must begin to read Seneca, whose letters I havebeen reading: else, when you come back to England, you will be nocompanion to a man who despises wealth, death, etc. What are picturesbut paintings--what are auctions but sales! All is vanity. Erige animumtuum, mi Lucili, etc. I wonder whether old Seneca was indeed such ahumbug as people now say he was: he is really a fine writer. About threehundred years ago, or less, our divines and writers called him the divineSeneca; and old Bacon is full of him. One sees in him the upshot of allthe Greek philosophy, how it stood in Nero's time, when the Gods had wornout a good deal. I don't think old Seneca believed he should live again. Death is his great resource. Think of the _rocococity_ of a gentlemanstudying Seneca in the middle of February 1844 in a remarkably dampcottage. 

I have heard from Alfred also, who hates his water life--[Greek text] hecalls it--but hopes to be cured in March. Poor fellow, I trust he may. He is not in a happy plight, I doubt. I wish I lived in a pleasantcountry where he might like to come and stay with me--but this is one ofthe ugliest places in England--one of the dullest--it has not the meritof being bleak on a grand scale--pollard trees over a flat clay, withregular hedges. I saw a stanza in an old book which seemed to describemy condition rather--

 Far from thy kyn cast thee: Wrath not thy neighbour next thee, In a good corn country rest thee, And sit down, Robin, and rest thee. {152}

Funny advice, isn't it? I am glad to hear Septimus is so much improved. I beg you will felicitate him from me: I have a tacit regard of the truesort for him, as I think I must have for all of the Tennyson build. Isee so many little natures about that I must draw to the large, even iftheir faults be on the same scale as their virtues. You and I shall Isuppose quarrel as often as we meet: but I can quarrel and never be theworse with you. How we pulled against each other at Gravesend! Youwould stay--I wouldn't--then I would--then we did. Do you remember theface of that girl at the Bazaar, who kept talking to us and looking allround the room for fresh customers--a way women have--that is, a way ofdoing rather gracefully? Then the gentleman who sang Ivy green; a veryextraordinary accentuation, it seemed to me: but I believe you admired itvery much. Really, if these little excursions in the company of one'sfriends leave such a pleasant taste behind in the memory, one shouldcourt them oftener. And yet then perhaps the relish would grow less: itis the infrequency that gives them room to expand. I shall never get toItaly, that seems clear. My great travel this year will be to Carlisle. Quid prosit ista tua longa peregrinatio, etc. Travelling, you know, is avanity. The _soul_ remains the same. An amorem possis fugare, anlibidinis exsiccari, an timorem mortis depellere? What then will you sayto Pollock's being married! I hear he is to be. Ad matrimonium fugis?Miser! Scaevola noster dicere solebat, etc. Excuse my overflowing withphilosophy. I am going this evening to eat toasted cheese with thatcelebrated poet Bernard Barton. And I must soon stir, and look about formy great coat, brush myself, etc. It blows a harrico, as Theodore Hookused to say, and will rain before I get to Woodbridge. Those poormistaken lilac buds there out of the window! and an old Robin, ruffled upto his thickest, sitting mournfully under them, quite disheartened. Foryou must know the mild winter is just giving way to a remarkably severespring. . . . I wish you were here to smoke a pipe with me. I play ofevenings some of Handel's great choruses which are the bravest musicafter all. I am getting to the true John Bull style of music. I delightin Handel's Allegro and Penseroso. Do you know the fine pompous joyouschorus of 'These pleasures, Mirth, if thou canst give, etc. '? Handelcertainly does in music what old Bacon desires in his Essay on Masques, 'Let the songs be loud and cheerful, not puling, etc. ' One might thinkthe Water music was written from this text. 

* * * * *

About this time FitzGerald was engaged in collecting information forCarlyle on the subject of Cromwell's Lincolnshire campaign, and it is tothis he refers in the following fragment of a letter to Mrs. Charlesworthand the letters which follow. 

 But as Carlyle is like to make good use of what we can find him, and make a good English Hero of Oliver--something of a Johnsonian figure--I hope you will try and pester these Lincoln ladies and gentlemen. I wrote to Livesey: who once, he says, had a butler named Oliver Cromwell. That is the nearest approach to history I make through him. 

 My brother John, after being expected every day this week, wrote positively to say he could not come to day: and accordingly was seen to drive up to the Hall two hours ago. *

 Believe me, dear Mrs. Charlesworth, yours thankfully, E. FITZGERALD. 

 * N. B. I am not at the Hall: but in the Cottage. Pray give my compliments to all your party

 _March_ /44. 

BOULGE [1844]. 

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, Contributions from the fens or anywhere else will be good. We must getout all from the Allenbys. I think I remember in Carlyle's notes thatthe _hill_ in Winsby (where the farm house is) was the scene of a daringattack of Cromwell's: but my memory is bad. Your correspondent says thatbones, spurs, and _urns_ have been found there: the latter look rather asif the hill were of _Roman note_. I should like it to be clearly told, _exactly where_ the relics were dug up: whether on the hill or on thelevel said to extend from the hill to the west. Mrs. Allenby's firstletter says _that_ was probably the field of battle: her son says thehill itself was. Also, _exactly what the relics were_. These two pointsare the chief I can see to need thorough sifting. I sent Carlyle theletter: he is now I dare say groaning over it. I have threatened to turnthe correspondence entirely into his hands: so Miss Charlesworth mayexpect that. I go to town (I hope for a very short time) next week. Johnis yet here: we all like his wife much. Farewell. Yours everthankfully, E. FITZGERALD. 

Poor old Mrs. Chaplin {155} is dead! I have found an old lady here toreplace her. 

BOULGE, Friday [1844]. 

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, I am sorry for the trouble you have. But I must hope that all that is tobe got from such good authority as the Allenbys will be got, as toWinsby. _Slash Lane_ promises very well. From the Allenbys let us becontent to reap Winsby field _only_: as it seems they once farmed it, andlet us get as good an account as possible of the look of the field, SlashLane, the records and traditions of the place, and what remains were dugup, and _exactly where_; for that generally shows where the stress of thebattle was. It is best to keep people to one point: else they wander offinto generalities: as for instance what the Lady tells of War Scytheshung up in Horncastle Church: which, cruel as Oliver was, we must referback to an earlier warfare than his, I doubt. Pray thank MissCharlesworth: and believe me yours ever, E. FITZGERALD. 

BOULGE, _March_ 5/44. 

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, I have heard again from Carlyle who has sent me, a letter from Dr. Cookson, which I am to burn or send, as I think best. Before I do so, Ishould be glad to speak to Miss Charlesworth on the matter again: and asmy brother is going off on one of his comet excursions to-morrow (atleast so he purposed an hour ago) I shall go with him to Ipswich, unlessit snows, etc. , and shall walk to Bramford. My humble request thereforeis nothing more than that you will be so good as to lock up Miss C. TillI have come and consulted as to what is best to be done: and how best toaddress this Doctor: whom I conclude she knows. 

However, I only mean that if the day is pretty fair I may hope to findsome of you at home: and Mr. Charlesworth well again. 

Yours very truly, E. FITZGERALD. 

[19 CHARLOTTE STREET, RATHBONE PLACE, ]LONDON, _April_ 11/44. 

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, I last night smoked a pipe with Carlyle. He has had two large packetsfrom Dr. Cookson, who shows alacrity enough to do what is asked, and mayturn up something. But he has chiefly spoken of Winsby: and yourAllenbys had so well cleared all that matter up with their map, etc. , that the Doctor was going over needless ground. I hope we may be assuccessful with some other field: or rather that Cookson will anticipateus and save us all trouble. 

London is very hateful to me. I long to spread wing and fly into thekind clean air of the country. I see nobody in the streets half sohandsome as Mr. Reynolds {157} of our parish: all clever, composed, satirical, selfish, well dressed. Here we see what the World is. I amsure a great City is a deadly Plague: worse than the illness so calledthat came to ravage it. I tried to persuade Carlyle to leave his filthyChelsea, but he says his wife likes London. I get radishes to eat forbreakfast of a morning: with them comes a savour of earth that brings allthe delicious gardens of the world back into one's soul, and almost drawstears from one's eyes. 

With renewed thanks believe me ever yours, E. FITZGERALD. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , _April_ 11/44. 

DEAR BARTON, I am still indignant at this nasty place London. Thackeray, whom I cameup to see, went off to Brighton the night after I arrived, and has not re-appeared: but I must wait some time longer for him. Thank Miss Bartonmuch for the _kit_; if it is but a kit: my old woman is a great lover ofcats, and hers has just _kitted_, and a wretched little blind pulingtabby lizard of a thing was to be saved from the pail for me: but if MissBarton's is a _kit_, I will gladly have it: and my old lady's shall bedisposed of--not to the pail. Oh rus, quando te aspiciam? Construethat, Mr. Barton. --I am going to send down my pictures to Boulge, if Ican secure them: they are not quite secure at present. If they vanish, Isnap my fingers at them, Magi and all--there is a world (alas!) elsewherebeyond pictures--Oh, oh, oh, oh--

I smoked a pipe with Carlyle yesterday. We ascended from his dining roomcarrying pipes and tobacco up through two stories of his house, and gotinto a little dressing room near the roof: there we sat down: the windowwas open and looked out on nursery gardens, their almond trees inblossom, and beyond, bare walls of houses, and over these, roofs andchimneys, and roofs and chimneys, and here and there a steeple, and wholeLondon crowned with darkness gathering behind like the illimitableresources of a dream. I tried to persuade him to leave the accursed den, and he wished--but--but--perhaps he _didn't_ wish on the whole. 

When I get back to Boulge I shall recover my quietude which is now all ina ripple. But it is a shame to talk of such things. So Churchyard hascaught another Constable. Did he get off our Debach boy that set theshed on fire? Ask him that. Can'st thou not minister to a minddiseased, etc. 

A cloud comes over Charlotte Street and seems as if it were sailingsoftly on the April wind to fall in a blessed shower upon the lilac budsand thirsty anemones somewhere in Essex; or, who knows?, perhaps atBoulge. Out will run Mrs. Faiers, and with red arms and face of woe haulin the struggling windows of the cottage, and make all tight. Beauty Bob{159} will cast a bird's eye out at the shower, and bless the useful wet. Mr. Loder will observe to the farmer for whom he is doing up a dozen ofQueen's Heads, that it will be of great use: and the farmer will agreethat his young barleys wanted it much. The German Ocean will dimple withinnumerable pin points, and porpoises rolling near the surface sneezewith unusual pellets of fresh water--

 Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder?

Oh this wonderful wonderful world, and we who stand in the middle of itare all in a maze, except poor Matthews of Bedford, who fixes his eyesupon a wooden Cross and has no misgiving whatsoever. When I was at hischapel on Good Friday, he called at the end of his grand sermon on someof the people to say merely this, that they believed Christ had redeemedthem: and first one got up and in sobs declared she believed it: and thenanother, and then another--I was quite overset:--all poor people: howmuch richer than all who fill the London Churches. Theirs is the kingdomof Heaven!

This is a sad farrago. Farewell. 

_To Mrs. Charlesworth_. 

[27 _April_, 1844?]

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, Thank you over and over again for your letter. The last packet withsketches, etc. , came all safe yesterday: and Carlyle is much pleased. Wemay say that Winsby Field is exhausted now. I should like however tohave some sketch of the _relics_: the shape of the stone jugs: their sizespecified. The _helmet_ could be identified with the military fashion ofsome reign, as represented in prints, pictures, etc. But on the whole, the Allenbys have done capitally: and so have you: and so have I: and soI hope will Carlyle one day. He begs seriously to thank you and theAllenbys. 

He was much distressed at Dr. Cookson's death: {161} and said how heshould feel it when he came to think of it alone. Such is the man: hewill call all the wits in London dilettanti, etc. , but let a poor fellowdie, and the Scotch heart flows forth in tears. 

If any one can be found to do half as much for Gainsborough (which was animportant battle) as has been done for Winsby, why, the Lincolnshirecampaign will be handsomely reported. At Grantham there is no such greatinterest, it appears. 

I hope to get out of London to my poor old Boulge next week. I have seenall my friends so as to satisfy them that I am a duller country fellowthan I was, and so we shall part without heart-breaking on either side. It is partly one's fault not to be up to the London mark: but as there isa million of persons in the land fully up to it, one has the less call torepent in that respect. I confess that Mr. Reynolds is a better sight tome than old rouged Lady Morgan and all such. 

I hope it will not be long before I visit you at Bramford. In the meanwhile believe me with best regards to all your family, yours ever verytruly, EDWARD FITZGERALD. 

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , ETC. _Saturday_. 

DEAR MRS. CHARLESWORTH, I received your last packet just as I was setting off for Suffolk. Isent part of it to Carlyle. I enclose you what answer he makes me thismorning. If Miss Charlesworth will take the pains to read his dispatchof Gainsboro' Fight, and can possibly rake out some information on thedoubtful points, we shall help to lay that unquiet spirit of historywhich now disturbs Chelsea and its vicinity. Please to keep the papersafe: for it must have been a nuisance to write it. 

I lament your renewed misfortune: but I cannot wonder at it. Thesethings are not got rid of in a year. Isabella is in England with herhusband, at Hastings. 

Believe me yours ever thankfully, E. FITZGERALD. 

BOULGE, _May_ 7/44. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _May_ 24/44. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I think you mean never to write to me again. But you should, for I enjoyyour letters much for years after I have got them. They tell me all Ishall know of Italy, beside many other good things. I received oneletter from you from Florence, and as you gave me no particulardirection, I wrote to you at the Poste Restante there. I am now inditingthis letter on the same venture. As my location is much more permanent, I command you to respond to me the very day you get this, warmed intosuch faint inspiration as my turnip radiance can kindle. You have seen aturnip lantern perhaps. Well, here I continue to exist: having broken myrural vegetation by one month in London, where I saw all the oldfaces--some only in passing, however--saw as few sights as possible, leaving London two days before the Exhibition opened. This is not out ofmoroseness or love of singularity: but I really supposed there could benothing new: and therefore the best way would [be] to come new to itoneself after three or four years absence. I see in Punch a humorouscatalogue of supposed pictures; Prince Albert's favourite spaniel andbootjack, the Queen's Macaw with a Muffin, etc. , by Landseer, etc. , inwhich I recognize Thackeray's fancy. He is in full vigour play and payin London, writing in a dozen reviews, and a score of newspapers: andwhile health lasts he sails before the wind. I have not heard of Alfredsince March. . . . Spedding devotes his days to Lord Bacon in theBritish Museum: his nights to the usual profligacy. . . . My dearFrederic, you must select some of your poems and publish them: we wantsome bits of strong genuine imagination to help put to flight these--etc. Publish a book of fragments, if nothing else but single lines, or elsethe whole poems. When will you come to England and do it? I dare say Ishould have stayed longer in London had you been there: but the wits weretoo much for me. Not Spedding, mind: who is a dear fellow. But onefinds few in London _serious_ men: I mean _serious_ even in fun: with atrue purpose and character whatsoever it may be. London melts away allindividuality into a common lump of cleverness. I am amazed at thehumour and worth and noble feeling in the country, however much railroadshave mixed us up with metropolitan civilization. I can still find theheart of England beating healthily down here, though no one will believeit. 

You know my way of life so well that I need not describe it to you, as ithas undergone no change since I saw you. I read of mornings; the sameold books over and over again, having no command of new ones: walk withmy great black dog of an afternoon, and at evening sit with open windows, up to which China roses climb, with my pipe, while the blackbirds andthrushes begin to rustle bedwards in the garden, and the nightingale tohave the neighbourhood to herself. We have had such a spring (bating thelast ten days) as would have satisfied even you with warmth. And suchverdure! white clouds moving over the new fledged tops of oak trees, andacres of grass striving with buttercups. How old to tell of, how new tosee! I believe that Leslie's Life of Constable (a very charming book)has given me a fresh love of Spring. Constable loved it above allseasons: he hated Autumn. When Sir G. Beaumont who was of the oldclassical taste asked him if he did not find it difficult to place _hisbrown tree_ in his pictures, 'Not at all, ' said C. , 'I never put one inat all. ' And when Sir George was crying up the tone of the old masters'landscapes, and quoting an old violin as the proper tone of colour for apicture, Constable got up, took an old Cremona, and laid it down on thesunshiny grass. You would like the book. In defiance of all this, Ihave hung my room with pictures, like very old fiddles indeed: but Iagree with Sir George and Constable both. I like pictures that are notlike nature. I can have nature better than any picture by looking out ofmy window. Yet I respect the man who tries to paint up to the freshnessof earth and sky. Constable did not wholly achieve what he tried at: andperhaps the old masters chose a soberer scale of things as more withinthe compass of lead paint. To paint dew with lead!

I also plunge away at my old Handel of nights, and delight in the Allegroand Penseroso, full of pomp and fancy. What a pity Handel could not havewritten music to some great Masque, such as Ben Jonson or Milton wouldhave written, if they had known of such a musician to write for. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

_May_, 1844. 

DEAR LAURENCE, I hope your business is settled by this time. I have seen praise of yourpicture in the Athenaeum, which quoted also the Chronicle's good opinion. I am very glad of all this and I hope you will now set to work, and paintaway with ease and confidence, forgetting that there is such a hue asbottle-green {166} in the universe (it was tastefully omitted from therainbow, you see); and, in spite of what Moore says, paint English peoplein English atmospheres. Your Coningham was rather orange, wasn't he? Buthe was very good, I thought. Dress your ladies in cheerful dresses, notquite so vulgar as Chalon's. . . . I heard from my sister that you hadfinished Wilkinson to the perfect content of all: I had charged herparticularly not to allow Mrs. W. To intercede for any smirk oralteration whatever. 

My Venetian pictures look very grand on my walls, which previously hadbeen papered with a still green (not bottled) on purpose to receive them. On my table is a long necked bottle with three flowers just now in it . . . A tuft of rhododendron, a tuft of scarlet geranium, and a tuft of whitegilli-flower. Do you see these in your mind's eye? I wish you couldcome down here and refresh your sodden eyes with pure daylight, buddingoak trees, and all the changes of sky and cloud. To live to make sonnetsabout these things, and doat upon them, is worse Cockneyism thanrejoicing in the sound of Bow Bells for ever so long: but here one hasthem whether one will or no: and they are better than Lady Morgan and ---at a rout in Harley Street. Maclise is a handsome and fine fellow, Ithink: and Landseer is very good natured. I long for my old Alfredportrait here sometimes: but you had better keep it for the present. W. Browne and Spedding are with me, good representatives one of the VitaContemplativa, the other of the Vita Attiva. Spedding, if you tell himthis, will not allow that he has not the elements of Action in him: norhas he not: nor has not the other those of contemplation: but eachinclines a different way notwithstanding. I wish you and Spedding couldcome down here: though there is little to see, and to eat. When youwrite you must put _Woodbridge_ after Boulge. This letter of yours wentto Bury St. Edmunds, for want of that. I hear Alfred Tennyson is in verygood looks: mind and paint him _quickly_ when he comes to town; lookingfull at you. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , RATHBONE PLACE. [1844. ]

DEAR BARTON, I got here but yesterday, from Bedford, where I left W. Browne in trainto be married to a rich woman. When I heard that they could not haveless than five hundred a year, I gave up all further interest in thematter: for I could not wish a reasonable couple more. W. B. May bespoilt if he grows rich: that is the only thing could spoil him. Thistime ten years I first went to ride and fish with him about the riverOuse--he was then 18--quick to love and quick to fight--full ofconfidence, generosity, and the glorious spirit of Youth. . . . I shallgo to Church and hope he mayn't be defiled with the filthy pitch. Oh! ifwe could be brought to open our eyes. I repent in ashes for reviling theDaddy who wrote that Sonnet against damned Riches. 

I heard a man preach at Bedford in a way that shook my soul. Hedescribed the crucifixion in a way that put the scene before hispeople--no fine words, and metaphors: but first one nail struck into onehand, and then into another, and one through both feet--the cross liftedup with God in man's image distended upon it. And the sneers of thepriests below--'Look at that fellow there--look at him--he talked ofsaving others, etc. ' And then the sun veiled his face in Blood, etc. Icertainly have heard oratory now--of the Lord Chatham kind, only Matthewshas more faith in Christ than Pitt in his majority. I was almost as muchtaken aback as the poor folks all about me who sobbed: and I hate thisbeastly London more and more. It stinks all through of churchyards andfish shops. As to pictures--well, never mind them. Farewell!

In the chapel opposite this house preaches Robert Montgomery!

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , RATHBONE PLACE. [13 _June_ 1844. ]

Oh, Barton man! but I am grilled here. Oh for to sit upon the banks ofthe dear old Deben, with the worthy collier sloop going forth into thewide world as the sun sinks! I went all over Westminster Abbey yesterdaywith a party of country folks, to see the tombs. I did this to vindicatemy way of life. Then we had a smoke with Carlyle and he very gloomyabout the look of affairs, as usual. I am as tired this morning as ifI'd walked fifty miles. Morton, fresh from Italy, agrees that London isnot fit to live in. I can't write, nor can you read perhaps. Sofarewell. Early next week (unless I go round by Bedford) I expect to seegood Woodbridge. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

BOULGE, _July_ 4/44. 

DEAR LAURENCE, I have but lately returned from Holbrook, where I saw your last portraitof Wilkinson. It is very capital, and gives my sister and all herneighbours great satisfaction. Jane indeed can talk of nothing else. Iwill say this however, with my usual ignorance and presumption, that Ithink the last day's sitting made it a little heavier than when I left itunfinished. Was it that the final glazing was somewhat too thick? Ionly mention this as a very slight defect, which I should not haveobserved had I not seen its penultimate state, and were I not acrotchetty stickler for lightness and ease. But I hope and trust youwill now do all your future sketches in oil in the same way in which thisis done: the long brush, the wholesome distance between canvas, painter, and sitter, and the few sittings. For myself, I have always been sure ofthis: but I can assert it to you with more confidence now, seeing thatevery one else seems to agree with me, if I may judge by the generalapproval of this specimen of the long brush. Besides, such a method mustshorten your labour, preserve the freshness of your eye and spirit, andalso ensure the similitude of the sitter to himself by the veryspeediness of the operation. 

Mills was very much delighted at W. 's portrait. What will you say of mewhen I tell you that I did not encourage him to have his wife painted byyou, as he seemed to purpose! You will pray heaven to deliver you fromyour friends. But notwithstanding this, I am sure this last portraitwill bring you sitters from this part of the country. Perhaps you willnot find it easy to forgive me this. I must tell you that Mrs. Mills, who sets up to be no judge of pictures, but who never is wrong aboutanything, instantly pitched on your portrait of Coningham as the best inthe Exhibition, without seeing who it was by: and when she referred tothe Catalogue, called out to her husband 'Why this is by E. F. G. 'sfriend Mr. Laurence. '

July 18. You see that all up to this was written a fortnight ago. I didnot finish, for I did not know where to direct. And now I shall finishthis portrait of my mind, you see, in a different aspect perhaps to thatwith which I set out. On looking over what I wrote however, I stick toall I said about the painting: as to Mrs. Mills, whose case seems torequire some extenuation on my part, I fancied she was one of thosepersons' faces you would not take to: and so not succeed in. It israther a pretty face, without meaning, it seems to me: and yet she hasmeaning in her. Mills has already had one portrait of her, whichdiscontents all, and therefore it was I would not advise any painter whodid not understand the art of _Millinery_ well: for if the face does notwholly content, there is the dress to fall back on. I fancy Chalon woulddo the business. 

I hear you have been doing some brother or brother in law of Mrs. Lumsden. Mind what I have told you. I may not be a good judge ofpainting, but I can judge of what people in general like. . . . 

_To John Allen_. 

(About July 16, 1844 J. A. )

MY DEAR GOOD ALLEN, Let me hear from you, if even but a line, before you leave London on yoursummer excursion, whithersoever that is to be. I conclude you gosomewhere; to Hampshire, or to Tenby. . . . 

I have nothing to tell you of myself. Here I exist, and read scraps ofbooks, garden a little, and am on good terms with my neighbours. TheTimes paper is stirring up our farming society to the root, and some goodwill come of it, I dare say, and some ill. Do you know of any good bookson Education? not for the poor or Charity schools, but on modernGentlemen's grammar schools, etc. Did not Combe write a book? But he isthe driest Scotch Snuff. I beg leave to say that this letter is writtenwith a pen of my own making: the first I have made these twenty years. Idoubt after all it is no proof of a very intelligent pen-Creator, butonly of a lucky slit. The next effort shall decide. Farewell, my dearFellow. Don't forget unworthy me. We shall soon have known each othertwenty years, and soon thirty, and forty, if we live a little while. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

GELDESTONE, 22 _August_ 1844. 

MY DEAR BARTON, You will think I have forgot you. I spent four pleasant days with Donne:who looks pale and thin, and in whose face the grey is creeping up fromthose once flourishing whiskers to the skull. It is doing so with me. Weare neither of us in what may be called the first dawn of boyhood. Donnemaintains his shape better than I do, but sorrow I doubt has done that:and so we see why the house of mourning is better than the stalled ox. For it is a grievous thing to grow poddy: the age of Chivalry is gonethen. An old proverb says that 'a full belly neither fights nor flieswell. '

I also saw Geldart at Norwich. He paints, and is deep in religiousthoughts also: he has besides the finest English good sense about him:and altogether he is a man one goes to that one may learn from him. Iwalked much about Norwich and was pleased with the old place. 

Here I see my old friend Mrs. Schutz, and play with the children. Havingshown the little girl the prints of Boz's Curiosity Shop, I have made ashort abstract of Little Nelly's wanderings which interests her much, leaving out the Swivellers, etc. For children do not understand howmerriment should intrude in a serious matter. This might make a nicechild's book, cutting out Boz's sham pathos, as well as the real fun; andit forms a kind of Nelly-ad, {174a} or Homeric narration of the child'swandering fortunes till she reaches at last a haven more desirable thanany in stony Ithaca. 

Lusia is to be married {174b} on the 2nd, I hear; and I shall set out forLeamington where the event takes place in the middle of next week. Whether I shall touch in my flight at Boulge is yet uncertain: so don'torder any fireworks just at present. I hear from Mr. Crabbe he isdelighted with D'Israeli's Coningsby, which I advised him to read. Haveyou read it? The children still wonder what Miss Charlesworth meant whenshe said that she didn't mean what she said. I tell them it is a new wayof thinking of young England. I have exercised the children's mindsgreatly on the doctrine of Puseyitical reticence (that is not the word)but I find that children, who are great in the kingdom of Heaven, are allfor blurting out what they mean. Farewell for the present. Ever yours, E. F. G. 

If war breaks out with France, I will take up arms as a volunteer underMajor Pytches. Pytches and Westminster Abbey!

LEAMINGTON, _Sept. _ 28/44. 

MY DEAR BARTON, . . . I expect to be here about a week, and I mean to give a day tolooking over the field of Edgehill, on the top of which, I haveascertained, there is a very delightful pot-house, commanding a veryextensive view. Don't you wish to sit at ease in such a high tower, witha pint of porter at your side, and to see beneath you the ground that wasgalloped over by Rupert and Cromwell two hundred years ago, in one of therichest districts of England, and on one of the finest days in October, for such my day is to be?

In the meanwhile I cast regretful glances of memory back to my garden atBoulge, which I want to see dug up and replanted. I have bought anemoneroots which in the Spring shall blow Tyrian dyes, and Irises of a newerand more brilliant prism than Noah saw in the clouds. I have bought apicture of my poor quarrelsome friend Moore, just to help him; for Idon't know what to do with his picture. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Oct_. 10/44. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, You will think I have wholly cut you. But I wrote half a letter to youthree months ago; and mislaid it; spent some time in looking for it, always hoping; and then some more time despairing; and we all know howtime goes when [we] have got a thing to do which we are rather lazy aboutdoing. As for instance, getting up in a morning. Not that writing aletter to you is so bad as getting up; but it is not easy for mortal manwho has heard, seen, done, and thought, nothing since he last wrote, tofill one of these big foreign sheets full as a foreign letter ought tobe. I am now returned to my dull home here after my usual potteringabout in the midland counties of England. A little Bedfordshire--alittle Northamptonshire--a little more folding of the hands--the samefaces--the same fields--the same thoughts occurring at the same turns ofroad--this is all I have to tell of; nothing at all added--but the summergone. My garden is covered with yellow and brown leaves; and a man isdigging up the garden beds before my window, and will plant some rootsand bulbs for next year. My parsons come and smoke with me, etc. 'Theround of life from hour to hour'--alluding doubtless to a mill-horse. Alfred is reported to be still at Park House, where he has beensojourning for two months, I think; but he never writes me a word. Hydropathy has done its worst; he writes the names of his friends inwater. . . . I spent two days in London with old Morton about five weeksago; and pleasant days they were. The rogue bewitches me with his witand honest speech. He also staid some while at Park House, while Alfredwas there, and managed of course to frighten the party occasionally withsome of his sallies. He often writes to me; and very good his lettersare all of them. 

When do you mean to write me another? Morton told me in his last that hehad heard from Brotherton you were gone, or going, to Naples. I dare saythis sheet of mine will never get to your hands. But if it does, let mehear from you. Is Italy becoming stale to you? Are you going to Cairofor fresh sensations? Thackeray went off in a steamboat about the timethe French were before Mogadore; he was to see those coasts and to visitJerusalem! Titmarsh at Jerusalem will certainly be an era inChristianity. But I suppose he will soon be back now. Spedding is yetin his highlands, I believe, considering Grouse and Bacon. 

I expect to run up to London some time during the winter just to tellover old friends' faces and get a sup of music and painting. I havebought very few more pictures lately; and [heard] no music butMendelssohn's M. Night's Dream. The overture, which was published longago, is the best part; but there is a very noble triumphal march also. 

Now I feel just in the same fix as I did in that sheet of paper whosefate is uncertain. But if I don't put in a word more, yet this shall go, I am determined. Only consider how it is a matter of necessity that Ishould have nothing to say. If you could see this place of Boulge! Youwho sit and survey marble palaces rising out of cypress and olive. Thereis a dreadful vulgar ballad, composed by Mr. Balfe, and sung with themost unbounded applause by Miss Rainforth, 'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble Halls, '

which is sung and organed at every corner in London. I think you mayimagine what kind of flowing 6/8 time of the last degree of imbecility itis. The words are written by Mr. Bunn! Arcades ambo. 

I say we shall see you over in England before long: for I rather thinkyou want an Englishman to quarrel with sometimes. I mean quarrel in thesense of a good strenuous difference of opinion, supported on either sideby occasional outbursts of spleen. Come and let us try. You used toirritate my vegetable blood sometimes. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

[GELDESTONE, _Nov_. 27, 1844]

DEAR BARTON, My return to Boulge is delayed for another week, because we expect myFather here just now. But for this, I should have been on the UnionCoach this day. The children here are most delightful; the best companyin all the world, to my mind. If you could see the little girl dance thePolka with her sisters! Not set up like an Infant Terpsichore, butseriously inclined, with perfect steps in perfect time. 

We see a fine white frost over the grass this morning; and I suppose youhave rubbed your hands and cried 'Oh Lauk, how cold it is!' twenty timesbefore I write this. Now one's pictures become doubly delightful to one. I certainly love winter better than summer. Could one but know, as onesits within the tropic latitude of one's fireside, that there was notincreased want, cold, and misery, beyond it!

My Spectator tells me that Leigh Hunt has published a good volume of Poem-selections; not his own poems, but of others. And Miss Martineau hasbeen cured of an illness of five years standing by Mesmerism! By thehelp of a few passes of the hand following an earnest Will, she, who hadnot set foot out of her room, for the chief part of those five years, nowcan tread the grass again, and walk five miles! Her account of thebusiness in the Athenaeum is extremely interesting. She is the only oneI have read of who describes the sensations of _the trance_, which, seeming a painful one to the wide-awake looker on, is in fact a state oftranquil glorification to the patient. It cheers but not inebriates! Shefelt her disease oozing away out at her feet, and as it were streams ofwarm fresh vitality coming in its place. And when she woke, lo, this wasno dream!

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Decr_. 8/44. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, What is a poor devil to do? You tell me quite truly that my letters havenot two ideas in them, and yet you tell me to write my two ideas as soonas I can. So indeed it is so far easy to write down one's two ideas, ifthey are not very abstruse ones; but then what the devil encouragement isit to a poor fellow to expose his nakedness so? All I can say is, to sayagain that if you lived in this place, you would not write so long aletter as you have done, full of capital description and all good things;though without any compliment I am sure you would write a better than Ishall. But you see the original fault in me is that I choose to be insuch a place as this at all; that argues certainly a talent for dullnesswhich no situation nor intercourse of men could much improve. It istrue; I really do like to sit in this doleful place with a good fire, acat and dog on the rug, and an old woman in the kitchen. This is all mylive stock. The house is yet damp as last year; and the great event ofthis winter is my putting up a trough round the eaves to carry off thewet. There was discussion whether the trough should be of iron or ofzinc: iron dear and lasting; zinc the reverse. It was decided for iron;and accordingly iron is put up. 

Why should I not live in London and see the world? you say. Why then _I_say as before, I don't like it. I think the dullness of country peopleis better than the impudence of Londoners; and the fresh cold and wet ofour clay fields better than a fog that stinks _per se_; and this room ofmine, clean at all events, better than a dirty room in Charlotte St. Ifyou, Morton, and Alfred, were more in London, I should be there more; butnow there is but Spedding and Allen whom I care a straw about. I havewritten two notes to Alfred to ask him just to notify his existence tome; but you know he is obstinate on that point. I heard from Carlylethat he (Alfred) had passed an evening at Chelsea much to C. 's delight;who has opened the gates of his Valhalla to let Alfred in. {181}Thackeray is at Malta, where I am told he means to winter. . . . 

As I have no people to tell you of, so have I very few books, and knownothing of what is stirring in the literary world. I have read the Lifeof Arnold of Rugby, who was a noble fellow; and the letters of Burke, which do not add to, or detract from, what I knew and liked in himbefore. I am meditating to begin Thucydides one day; perhaps thiswinter. . . . Old Seneca, I have no doubt, was a great humbug in deed, and his books have plenty of it in word; but he had got together a vastdeal of what was not humbug from others; and, as far as I see, the oldphilosophers are available now as much as two thousand years back. Perhaps you will think that is not saying much. Don't suppose I think itgood philosophy in myself to keep here out of the world, and sport agentle Epicurism; I do not; I only follow something of a naturalinclination, and know not if I could do better under a more complexsystem. It is very smooth sailing hitherto down here. No velvetwaistcoat and ever-lustrous pumps to be considered; no bon mots got up;no information necessary. There is a pipe for the parsons to smoke, andquite as much bon mots, literature, and philosophy as they care forwithout any trouble at all. If we could but feed our poor! It is nowthe 8th of December; it has blown a most desperate East wind, all razors;a wind like one of those knives one sees at shops in London, with 365blades all drawn and pointed; the wheat is all sown; the fallows cannotbe ploughed. What are all the poor folks to do during the winter? Andthey persist in having the same enormous families they used to do; awoman came to me two days ago who had seventeen children! What farmersare to employ all these? What Landlord can find room for them? The lawof Generation must be repealed. The London press does nothing but railat us poor country folks for our cruelty. I am glad they do so; forthere is much to be set right. But I want to know if the Editor of theTimes is more attentive to his devils, their wives and families, than oursquires and squiresses and parsons are to their fellow parishioners. Punch also assumes a tone of virtuous satire, from the mouth of Mr. Douglas Jerrold! It is easy to sit in arm chairs at a club in Pall Malland rail on the stupidity and brutality of those in High Suffolk. 

Come, I have got more than two ideas into this sheet; but I don't know ifyou won't dislike them worse than mere nothing. But I was determined tofill my letter. Yes, you are to know that I slept at Woodbridge lastnight, went to church there this morning, where every one sat with apurple nose, and heard a dismal well-meant sermon; and the organ blew usout with one grand idea at all events, one of old Handel's CoronationAnthems; that I dined early, also in Woodbridge; and walked up here witha tremendous East wind blowing sleet in my face from over the German Sea, that I found your letter when I entered my room; and reading it through, determined to spin you off a sheet incontinently, and lo! here it is! Nowor never! I shall now have my tea in, and read over your letter againwhile at it. You are quite right in saying that Gravesend excursionswith you do me good. When did I doubt it? I remember them with greatpleasure; few of my travels so much so. I like a short journey in goodcompany; and I like you all the better for your Englishman's humours. Onedoesn't find such things in London; something more like it here in thecountry, where every one, with whatever natural stock of intellectendowed, at least grows up his own way, and flings his branches abouthim, not stretched on the espalier of London dinner-table company. 

P. S. Next morning. Snow over the ground. We have our wonders ofinundation in Suffolk also, I can tell you. For three weeks ago suchfloods came, that an old woman was carried off as she was retiring from abeer house about 9 p. M. , and drowned. She was probably half seas overbefore she left the beer house. 

And three nights ago I looked out at about ten o'clock at night, beforegoing to bed. It seemed perfectly still; frosty, and the stars shiningbright. I heard a continuous moaning sound, which I knew to be, not thatof an infant exposed, or female ravished, but of the sea, more than tenmiles off! What little wind there was carried to us the murmurs of thewaves circulating round these coasts so far over a flat country. Butpeople here think that this sound so heard is not from the waves thatbreak, but a kind of prophetic voice from the body of the sea itselfannouncing great gales. Sure enough we have got them, however heralded. Now I say that all this shows that we in this Suffolk are not socompletely given over to prose and turnips as some would have us. Ialways said that being near the sea, and being able to catch a glimpse ofit from the tops of hills, and of houses, redeemed Suffolk from dullness;and at all events that our turnip fields, dull in themselves, were atleast set all round with an undeniably poetic element. And so I seeArnold says; he enumerates five inland counties as the only parts ofEngland for which nothing could be said in praise. Not that I agree withhim there neither; I cannot allow the valley of the Ouse about which someof my pleasantest recollections hang to be without its great charm. W. Browne, whom you despised, is married, and I shall see but little of himfor the future. I have laid by my rod and line by the willows of theOuse for ever. 'He is married and cannot come. ' This change is the truemeaning of those verses, {185}

 Friend after friend departs; Who has not lost a friend?

and so on. If I were conscious of being stedfast and good humouredenough, I would marry to-morrow. But a humourist is best by himself. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , RATHBONE PLACE, _Jany_. 4/45. 

DEAR BARTON, Clawed hold of by a bad cold am I--a London cold--where the atmosphereclings to you, like a wet blanket. You have often received a letter fromme on a Sunday, haven't you? I think I used to write you an account ofthe picture purchases of the week, that you might have something toreflect upon in your silent meeting. (N. B. This is very wrong, and Idon't mean it. ) Well, now I have bought no pictures, and sha'n't; butone I _had_ bought is sent to be lined. A Bassano of course; whichnobody will like but myself. It is a grave picture; an Italian Lorddictating to a Secretary with upturned face. Good company, I think. 

You did not tell me how you and Miss Barton got on with the Vestiges. Ifound people talking about it here; and one laudatory critique in theExaminer sold an edition in a few days. I long to finish it. I am goingin state to the London Library--_my_ Library--to review the store ofbooks it contains, and carry down a box full for winter consumption. Doyou want anything? eh, Mr. Barton?

I went to see Sophocles' tragedy of Antigone done into English two nightsago. And yesterday I dined with my dear old John Allen who remains wholeand intact of the world in the heart of London. He dined some while agoat Lambeth, and the Lady next him asked the Archbishop if he read Punch. Allen thought this was a misplaced question: but I think the Archbishopought to see Punch: though not to read it regularly perhaps. I thenasked Allen about the Vestiges--he had heard of it--laughed at the ideaof its being atheistical. 'No enquiry, ' said he, 'can be atheistical. ' Idoubt if the Archbishop of Canterbury could say that. What do you thinkof Exeter? Isn't he a pretty lad?

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE, _Jan_. 29/45. 

MY DEAR DONNE, . . . A. T. Has near a volume of poems--elegiac--in memory of ArthurHallam. Don't you think the world wants other notes than elegiac now?Lycidas is the utmost length an elegiac should reach. But Speddingpraises: and I suppose the elegiacs will see daylight, public daylight, one day. Carlyle goes on growling with his Cromwell: whom he finds moreand more faultless every day. So that _his_ paragon also will one daysee the light also, an elegiac of a different kind from Tennyson's; asfar apart indeed as Cromwell and Hallam. 

Barton comes and sups with me to-morrow, and George Crabbe, son of thepoet, a capital fellow. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Feby_. 6, 1845. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, . . . You like to hear of men and manners. Have I not been to London fora whole fortnight, seen Alfred, Spedding, all the lawyers and all thepainters, gone to Panoramas of Naples by Volcano-light (Vesuvius in ablaze illuminating the whole bay, which Morton says is not a bit betterthan Plymouth Sound, if you could put a furnace in the belly of MountEdgecumbe)--gone to see the Antigone of Messrs. Sophocles and Mendelssohnat Covent Garden--gone to see the Infant Thalia--now as little of anInfant as a Thalia--at the Adelaide Gallery. So! you see things go on aswhen you were with us. Only the Thalia has waxed in stature: and perhapsin wisdom also: but that is not in her favour. The Antigone is, as youare aware, a neatly constructed drama, on the French model; the musicvery fine, _I_ thought--but you would turn up your nose at it, I daresay. It was horribly ill sung, by a chorus in shabby togas, who lookedmuch more like dirty bakers than Theban (were they?) respectable oldgentlemen. Mr. Vandenhoff sat on a marble camp-stool in the middle, andlooked like one of Flaxman's Homeric Kings--very well. And MissVandenhoff did Antigone. I forget the name of the lady who did Ismene;{189} perhaps you would have thought her very handsome: but I did not, nor was she considered at all remarkable, as far as I could make out. Isaw no pantomimes: and all the other theatres were filled with Balfe, whom perhaps you admire very much. So I won't say anything about himtill you have told me what you think on his score. . . . 

Well and have you read 'Eothen' which all the world talks of? And do youknow who it is written by? . . . Then Eliot Warburton has written anOriental Book! Ye Gods! In Shakespeare's day the nuisance was theMonsieur Travellers who had 'swum in a gundello'; but now the bores arethose who have smoked _tschibouques_ with a _Peshaw_! Deuce take it: Isay 'tis better to stick to muddy Suffolk. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

GELDESTONE, _April_ 3/45. 

MY DEAR BARTON, . . . I have been loitering out in the garden here this golden day ofSpring. The woodpigeons coo in the covert; the frogs croak in the pond;the bees hum about some thyme, and some of my smaller nieces have beenbusy gathering primroses, 'all to make posies suitable to this presentmonth. ' I cannot but think with a sort of horror of being in London now:but I doubt I must be ere long. . . . I have abjured all Authorship, contented at present with the divine Poem which Great Nature is nowcomposing about us. These primroses seem more wonderful and deliciousAnnuals than Ackerman ever put forth. I suppose no man ever grew so oldas not to feel younger in Spring. Yet, poor old Mrs. Bodham {190} liftedup her eyes to the windows, and asked if it were a clear or a dull day!

39 NORTON ST. , FITZROY SQR. [? _May_ 1845. ]

DEAR BARTON, You see my address. I only got into it yesterday, though I reachedLondon on Friday, and hung loose upon it for all that interval. I spentfour days at Cambridge pleasantly enough; and one at Bedford where Iheard my friend Matthews preach. 

Last night I appeared at the Opera, and shall do so twice a week tillfurther notice. Friends I have seen but few; for I have not yet foundtime to do anything. Alfred Tennyson was here; but went off yesterday toconsider the sea from the top of Beachy Head. Carlyle gets on with hisbook which will be in two big volumes. He has entirely misstated allabout Naseby, after all my trouble. . . . 

Did Churchyard see in London a picture at the address I enclose? Theman's card, you see, proclaims 'Silversmith, ' but he is 'Pawnbroker. ' Apicture hangs up at the door which he calls by 'Williams, ' but I think isa rather inferior Crome; though the figure in it is not like Crome'sfigures. The picture is about three feet high by two broad; good in thedistance; very natural in the branching of the trees; heavy in thefoliage; all common to Crome. And it seems painted in that fat substancehe painted in. If C. Come to London let him look at this picture, aswell as come and see me. 

I have cold, head-ache, and London disgust. Oh that I could look on myAnemones! and hear the sighing of my Scotch firs. The Exhibition is fullof bad things: there is a grand Turner, however; quite unlike anythingthat was ever seen in Heaven above, or in Earth beneath, or in the watersunder the Earth. 

The reign of primroses and cowslips is over, and the oak now begins totake up the empire of the year and wear a budding garland about hisbrows. Over all this settles down the white cloud in the West, and theMorning and Evening draw toward Summer. 

[? _May_ 1845. ]

MY DEAR BARTON, Had not your second note arrived this morning, I should surely havewritten to you; that you might have a little letter for your Sunday'sbreakfast. Do not accuse me of growing enamoured of London; I would havebeen in the country long ago if I could. . . . Nor do I think I shallget away till the end of this month; and then I will go. I am not so badas Tennyson, who has been for six weeks intending to start every day forSwitzerland or Cornwall, he doesn't quite know which. However, his stayhas been so much gain to me; for he and John Allen are the two men thatgive me pleasure here. 

Tell Churchyard he must come up once again. . . . I saw a most lovelySir Joshua at Christie's a week ago; it went far far above my means. There is an old hunting picture in Regent St. Which I want him to lookat. I think it is Morland; whom I don't care twopence for; the horsesill drawn; some good colour: the people English; good old England! I wasat a party of modern wits last night that made me creep into myself, andwish myself away talking to any Suffolk old woman in her cottage, whilethe trees murmured without. The wickedness of London appals me; and yetI am no paragon. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE. _June_, 12/45. 

DEAR FREDERIC, Though I write from Boulge you are not to suppose I have been here eversince I last wrote to you. On the contrary, I am but just returned fromLondon, where I spent a month, and saw all the sights and all the peopleI cared to see. But what am I to tell you of them? Spedding, you know, does not change: he is now the same that he was fourteen years old when Ifirst knew him at school more than twenty years ago; wise, calm, bald, combining the best qualities of Youth and Age. And then as to thingsseen; you know that one Exhibition tells another, and one Panoramacertifieth another, etc. If you want to know something of the Exhibitionhowever, read Fraser's Magazine for this month; there Thackeray has apaper on the matter, full of fun. I met Stone in the street the otherday; he took me by the button, and told me in perfect sincerity, and withincreasing warmth, how, though he loved old Thackeray, yet these yearlyout-speakings of his sorely tried him; not on account of himself (Stone), but on account of some of his friends, Charles Landseer, Maclise, etc. Stone worked himself up to such a pitch under the pressure of forcedcalmess that he at last said Thackeray would get himself horse-whippedone day by one of these infuriated Apelleses. At this I, who had partlyagreed with Stone that ridicule, though true, needs not always to bespoken, began to laugh: and told him two could play at that game. Thesepainters cling together, and bolster each other up, to such a degree, that they really have persuaded themselves that any one who ventures tolaugh at one of their drawings, exhibited publickly for the expresspurpose of criticism, insults the whole corps. In the mean while oldThackeray laughs at all this; and goes on in his own way; writing hardfor half a dozen Reviews and Newspapers all the morning; dining, drinking, and talking of a night; managing to preserve a fresh colour andperpetual flow of spirits under a wear-and-tear of thinking and feedingthat would have knocked up any other man I know two years ago, at least. . . . 

Alfred was in London the first week of my stay there. He was lookingwell, and in good spirits; and had got two hundred lines of a new poem ina butcher's book. He went down to Eastbourne in Sussex; where I believehe now is. He and I made a plan to go to the coast of Cornwall or Walesthis summer; but I suppose we shall manage never to do it. I find I mustgo to Ireland; which I had not intended to do this year. 

I have nothing new to tell you of Music. The Operas were the same oldaffair; Linda di Chamouni, the Pirata, etc. Grisi coarse, . . . OnlyLablache great. There is one singer also, Brambelli, who, with a fewhusky notes, carries one back to the days of Pasta. I did not hear 'LeDesert'; but I fancy the English came to a fair judgment about it. Thatis, they did not want to hear it more than once. It was played manytimes, for new batches of people; but I doubt if any one went twice. Soit is with nearly all French things; there is a clever showy surface; butno Holy of Holies far withdrawn; conceived in the depth of a mind, andonly to be received into the depth of ours after much attention. Poussinmust spend his life in Italy before he could paint as he did; and whatother Great Man, out of the exact Sciences, have they to show? This youwill call impudence. Now Beethoven, you see by your own experience, hasa depth not to be reached all at once. I admit with you that he is toobizarre, and, I think, morbid; but he is original, majestic, andprofound. Such music _thinks_; so it is with Gluck; and withMendelssohn. As to Mozart, he was, as a musical Genius, more wonderfulthan all. I was astonished at the Don Giovanni lately. It is certainlythe Greatest Opera in the world. I went to no concert, and am now sorryI did not. 

Now I have told you all my London news. You will not hear of my Cottageand Garden; so now I will shut up shop and have done. We have had adismal wet May; but now June is recompensing us for all, and Dr. Blow maybe said to be leading the great Garden Band in full chorus. This is apun, which, profound in itself, you must not expect to enjoy at firstreading. I am not sure that I am myself conscious of the full meaning ofit. I know it is very hot weather; the distant woods steaming blue underthe noonday sun. I suppose you are living without clothes in wells, where you are. Remember me to your brothers; write soon; and believe meever yours, E. FITZGERALD. 

As to going to Italy, alas! I have less call to do that than ever: Inever shall go. You must come over here about your Railroad land. 

_To John Allen_. 

BEDFORD, _August_ 27/45. 

DEAR GOOD ALLEN, . . . I came here a week ago, and am paying my usual visits at theBrownes' and at Airy's. {196} I also purpose going to Naseby for twodays very soon; and after that I shall retire slowly homeward; not tomove, I suppose (except it be for some days to London) till next summercomes again!

I am just now staying with W. B. And his wife. . . . The Father andMother of Mrs. W. Browne bought old Mrs. Piozzi's house at Streathamthirty-five years ago; all the Sir Joshua portraits therein, which theysold directly afterward for a song; and all the furniture, of which someyet helps to fill the house I now stay in. In the bedroom I write in isDr. Johnson's own bookcase and secretaire; with looking glass in thepanels which often reflected his uncouth shape. His own bed is also inthe house; but I do not sleep in it. 

I am reading Selwyn's Correspondence, a remarkable book, as all suchrecords of the mind of a whole generation must be. Carlyle writes meword his Cromwell papers will be out in October; and that then we are allto be convinced that Richard had no hump to his back. I am strong infavour of the hump; I do not think the common sense of two centuries isapt to be deceived in such a matter. 

Now if your time is not wholly filled up, pray do give me one line to sayyou have not wholly given me up as a turncoat. I would rather have satwith you on the cliffs of St. David's than done anything I have done forthe last six months. Believe that, please. And now good bye, my dearfellow. The harvest promises very well here about; but I expect to findless prosperity at Naseby. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

BEDFORD, _Septr_. 8/45. 

DEAR BARTON, On Thursday I move towards Norwich; where I see Donne, hear some music, and go to Geldestone. But before this month is over, I hope to be at myCottage again, where I have my garden to drain, and other importantmatters. 

Do you know I have been greatly tempted to move my quarters from Boulgeto this country; so exact a place have I found to suit me. But we willwait. 

My noble Preacher Matthews {197} is dead! He had a long cold, which hepromoted in all ways of baptizing, watching late and early, travelling inrain, etc. , he got worse; but would send for no Doctor, the Lord wouldraise him up if it were good for him, etc. Last Monday this cold brokeout into Typhus fever; and on Thursday he died! I had been out to Nasebyfor three days, and as I returned on Friday at dusk I saw a coffincarrying down the street: I knew whose it must be. I would have given agreat deal to save his life; which might certainly have been saved withcommon precaution. He died in perfect peace, approving all theprinciples of his life to be genuine. I am going this afternoon toattend his Funeral. . . . Cromwell is to be out in October; and Laurencehas been sent to Archdeacon Berners's to make a copy of Oliver'sminiature. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

GELDESTONE, _Septr_. 23/45. 

DEAR DONNE, I left one volume of your Swift with good Mrs. Johnson at Norwich; andthe other with your Mother at Worship's house in Yarmouth. So I trustyou are in a fair way to get them again. 

I sat through one Concert and one Oratorio; {198} and on Thursday went toYarmouth, which I took a great fancy to. The sands were very good, Iassure you; and then when one is weary of the sea, there is the good oldtown to fall back on. There is Mr. Gooch the Bookseller too; he and hisbooks a great acquisition. I called on Dawson Turner, and in anincredibly short space of time saw several books of coats of Arms, Churches, Refectories, pyxes, cerements, etc. 

Manage to read De Quincey's Article on Wordsworth in the last number ofTail's Magazine. It is very incomplete, like all De Quincey's things, but has grand things in it; grand sounds of sense if nothing else. I amglad to see he sets up Daddy's early Ballads against the Excursion andother Sermons. 

I intend to leave this place the end of this week; and go, I suppose, toBoulge; though I have yet a hankering to get a week by the sea, either atYarmouth or Southwold. . . . Don't you think 3 pounds very cheap for afine copy of Rushworth's Collections, eight volumes folio? I was temptedto buy it if only for the bargain; for I only want to look through itonce. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE. [After _Sept_. 1845. ]

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I do beg and desire that when you next begin a letter to me you will nottear it up (as you say you have done some) because of its exhibiting ajoviality insulting to any dumps of mine. What was I complaining of so?I forget all about it. It seems to me to be two years since I heard fromyou. If you had said that my answers to your letters were so barren asto dishearten you from deserving any more I should understand that verywell. But if you really did accomplish any letters and not send them, Isay, a fico for thy friendship! Do so no more. . . . 

The finale of C minor is very noble. I heard it twice at Jullien's. Onthe whole I like to hear Mozart better; Beethoven is gloomy. Besidesincontestably Mozart is the purest _musician_; Beethoven would have beenPoet or Painter as well, for he had a great deep Soul and Imagination. Ido not think it is reported that he showed any very early predilectionfor Music; Mozart, we know, did. They say Holmes has published a verygood life of M. Only think of the poor fellow not being able to sell hismusic latterly, getting out of fashion, so taking to drink . . . Andenact Harlequin at Masquerades! When I heard Handel's Alexander's Feastat Norwich this Autumn I wondered; but when directly afterward theyplayed Mozart's G minor Symphony, it seemed as if I had passed out of aland of savages into sweet civilized Life. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE. [? _March_ 1846. ]

DEAR FREDERIC, I have been wondering some time if you were gone abroad again or not. Igo to London toward the end of April: can't you manage to wait inEngland? I suppose you will only be a day or two in London before youput foot in rail, coach, or on steamer for the Continent; and I excuse myown dastardly inactivity in not going up to meet you and shake hands withyou before you start, by my old excuse; that had you but let me know ofyour coming to England, I should have seen you. This is no excuse; butdon't put me out of your books as a frog-hearted wretch. I believe thatI, as men usually do, grow more callous and indifferent daily: but I amsure I would as soon travel to see your face, and my dear old Alfred's, as any one's. But beside my inactivity, I have a sort of horror ofplunging into London; which, except for a shilling concert, and a peep atthe pictures, is desperate to me. This is my fault, not London's: I knowit is a lassitude and weakness of soul that no more loves the ceaselesscollision of Beaux Esprits, than my obese ill-jointed carcase lovesbundling about in coaches and steamers. And, as you say, the dirt, bothof earth and atmosphere, in London, is a real bore. But enough of that. It is sufficient that it is more pleasant to me to sit in a clean room, with a clear air outside, and hedges just coming into leaf, rather thanin the Tavistock or an upper floor of Charlotte Street. And how muchbetter one's books read in country stillness, than amid the noise ofwheels, crowds, etc. , or after hearing them eternally discussed by noless active tongues! In the mean time, we of Woodbridge are not withoutour luxuries; I enclose you a play-bill just received; _I_ being one ofthe distinguished Members who have bespoken the play. We sha'n't all sittogether in a Box, but go dispersed about the house with our wives anddaughters. 

White {201} I remember very well. His Tragedy I have seen advertised. Heused to write good humorous things in Blackwood: among them, Hints toAuthors, which are worth looking at when you get hold of an odd volume ofBlackwood. I have got Thackeray's last book, {202} but have not yet beenable to read it. Has any one heard of old Morton, and of his arrival atStamboul, as he called it? . . . 

Now it is a fact that as I lay in bed this morning, before I got yourletter, I thought to myself I would write to Alfred. For he sent me avery kind letter two months ago; and I should have written to him before, but that I have looked in vain for a paper I wanted to send him. But, find it or not (and it is of no consequence) I will write to him veryshortly. You do not mention if he be with you at Cheltenham. He spoketo me of being ill. . . . I think you should publish some of your poems. They must be admired and liked; and you would gain a place to which youare entitled, and which it offends no man to hold. I should like much tosee them again. The whole _subjective_ scheme (damn the word!) of thepoems I did not like; but that is quite a genuine mould of your soul; andthere are heaps of single lines, couplets, and stanzas, which wouldconsume all the ---, ---, and ---, like stubble. N. B. An acute manwould ask how I should like _you_, if I do not like your own genuinereflex of _you_? But a less acute, and an acuter, man, will feel or seethe difference. 

So here is a good sheet full; and at all events, if I am too lazy totravel to you, I am not too lazy to write such a letter as few of one'scontemporaries will now take the pains to write to one. I beg you toremember me to all your noble family, and believe me yours ever, EDW. FITZGERALD. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE, Sunday, _March_ 8/46. 

MY DEAR DONNE, I was very sorry you did not come to us at Geldestone. I have been homenow near a fortnight; else I would gladly have gone to Mattishall withyou yesterday. This very Sunday, on which I now hear the Grundisburghbells as I write, I might have been filled with the bread of Life fromPadden's hands. 

Our friend Barton is certainly one of the most remarkable men of the Age. After writing to Peel two separate Sonnets, begging him to retire toTamworth and not alter the Corn Laws, he finally sends him another letterto ask if he will be present at Lord Northampton's soiree next Saturday;Barton himself being about to go to that soiree, and wishing to see thePremier. On which Peel writes him a most good humoured note asking himto dine at Whitehall Gardens on that same Saturday! And the good Bartonis going up for that purpose. {203} All this is great simplicity inBarton: and really announces an internal Faith that is creditable to thisAge, and almost unexpected in it. I had advised him not to send Peelmany more Sonnets till the Corn Law was passed; the Indian war arranged;and Oregon settled: but Barton sees no dragon in the way. 

We have actors now at Woodbridge. A Mr. Gill who was low comedian in theNorwich now manages a troop of his own here. His wife was a Miss Vining;she is a pretty woman, and a lively pleasant actress, not vulgar. I havebeen to see some of the old comedies with great pleasure; and last nightI sat in a pigeon-hole with David Fisher and 'revolved many memories' ofold days and old plays. I don't think he drinks so much now: but helooks all ready to blossom out into carbuncles. 

We all liked your Athenaeum address much; {204a} which I believe I toldyou before. I have heard nothing of books or friends. I shall hope tosee you some time this spring. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. {204b}

[1846]

DEAR COWELL, I am glad you have bought Spinoza. I am in no sort of hurry for him: youmay keep him a year if you like. I shall perhaps never read him now Ihave him. Thank you for the trouble you took. . . . 

Your Hafiz is fine: and his tavern world is a sad and just idea. I didnot send that vine leaf {205a} to A. T. But I have not forgotten it. Itsticks in my mind. 

 "In Time's fleeting river The image of that little vine-leaf lay, Immovably unquiet--and for ever It trembles--but it cannot pass away. " {205b}

I have read nothing you would care for since I saw you. It would be agood work to give us some of the good things of Hafiz and the Persians;of bulbuls and ghuls we have had enough. 

Come and bring over Spinoza; or I must go and bring him. 

_From T. Carlyle_. 

CHELSEA, 8 _April_, 1846. 

DEAR FITZGERALD, I have now put the little sketch of Naseby Fight, {205c} rough and ready, into its place in the Appendix: it really does pretty well, when it isfairly written out; had I had time for that, it might almost have goneinto the Text, --and perhaps shall, if ever I live to see another edition. Naseby Field will then have its due honour;--only you should actuallyraise a stone over that Grave that you opened (I will give you the_shinbone_ back and keep the _teeth_): you really should, with a simpleInscription saying merely in business English: 'Here, as proved by strictand not too impious examination, lie the slain of the Battle of Naseby. Dig no farther. E. FitzGerald, --1843. ' By the bye, was it 1843 or 2;when we did those Naseby feats? tell me, for I want to mark that in theBook. And so here is your Paper again, since at any rate you wish tokeep that. I am serious about the stone!

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE HALL, WOODBRIDGE. [1846. ]

MY DEAR DONNE, I don't know which of us is most to blame for this long gulph of silence. Probably I; who have least to do. I have been for two months to London;where (had I thought it of any use) I should have written to try and getyou up for a few days; as I had a convenient lodging, and many besidemyself would have been glad to see you. 

I came back a week ago; and on looking in at Barton's last evening heshowed me your letter with such pleasure as he is wont to receive yourletters with. And there I read all the surprising story of your movingto old Bury. When I passed through Cambridge two months ago, Thompsonsaid (I think) that he had seen you; and that you had given up thoughtsof Bury. But now you are going. As you say, you will then be nearer tous than you now are at Mattishall; especially when our Railroad shall becompleted. In my journeys to and from Bedfordshire, I shall hope to staya night at the good old Angel, and so have a chat with you. 

I saw very little of Spedding in London; for he was out all day at Statepaper offices and Museums; and I out by night at Operas, etc. , with myMother. He is however well and immutable. A. Tennyson was in London;for two months striving to spread his wings to Italy or Switzerland. Ithas ended in his flying to the Isle of Wight till Autumn, when Moxonpromises to convoy him over; and then God knows what will become of himand whether we shall ever see his august old body over here again. Hewas in a ricketty state of body; brought on wholly by neglect, etc. , butin fair spirits; and one had the comfort of seeing the Great Man. Carlylegoes on fretting and maddening as usual. Have you read his Cromwell? Areyou converted, or did you ever need conversion? I believe I remainpretty much where I was. I think Milton, who is the best evidenceCromwell has in his favour, warns him somewhat prophetically at the endof his Second Defence against taking on him Kingship, etc. , and in thetract on the State of England in 1660 (just before it was determined tobring back Charles the Second) he says _nothing at all_ of Cromwell, nopanegyric; but glances at the evil ambitious men in the Army have done;and, now that all is open to choose, prays for a pure Republic! So Iherd with the flunkies and lackies, I doubt; but am yoursnotwithstanding, E. F. G. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

BEDFORD, _Septr_. 15/46. 

DEAR COWELL, Here I am at last, after making a stay at Lowestoft, where I sailed inboats, bathed, and in all ways enjoyed the sea air. I wished for youupon a heathy promontory there, good museum for conversation on oldpoets, etc. What have you been reading, and what tastes of rare Authorshave you to send me? I have read (as usual with me) but very little, what with looking at the sea with its crossing and recrossing ships, anddawdling with my nieces of an evening. Besides a book is to me whatLocke says that watching the hour hand of a clock is to all; otherthoughts (and those of the idlest and seemingly most irrelevant) willintrude between my vision and the written words: and then I have to readover again; often again and again till all is crossed and muddled. IfLife were to be very much longer than is the usual lot of men, one wouldtry very hard to reform this lax habit, and clear away such a system ofgossamer association: even as it is, I try to turn all wandering fancyout of doors, and listen attentively to Whately's Logic, and old Spinozastill! I find some of Spinoza's Letters very good, and so far useful asthat they try to clear up some of his abstrusities at the earnest requestof friends as dull as myself. I think I perceive as well as ever how thequality of his mind forbids much salutary instinct which widens thesystem of things to more ordinary men, and yet helps to keep them fromwandering in it. I am now reading his Tractatus Theologico-Politicus, which is very delightful to me because of its clearness and acuteness. Itis fine what he says of Christ--'_nempe_, ' that God revealed himself inbits to other prophets, but he was the mind of Christ. I suppose not newin thought or expression. 

Let me hear from you, whether you have bits of revelations from old poetsto send, or not. If I had the Mostellaria here, I would read it; or aRabelais, I would do as Morgan Rattler advised you. 

_To Bernard Barton_. 

[CAMBRIDGE, _Oct_. 18, 1846. ]

MY DEAR BARTON, Though my letter bears such frontispiece as the above, {209} I am nolonger in Bedford, but come to Cambridge. And here I sit in the samerooms {210a} in which I sat as a smooth-chinned Freshman twenty yearsago. The same prints hang on the walls: my old hostess {210b} does notlook older than she did then. My present purpose is to be about a weekhere: then to go for a day or two to Bury, to see Donne; and then to movehomewards. It is now getting very cold, and the time for wandering isover. 

Why do you not send me your new Poem? Or is it too big to send as aletter? Or shall I buy it? which I shall be glad to do. . . . 

All the preceding was written four days ago: cut short by the suddenentrance of Moore, whom I have been lionizing ever since. He goes awayto London to-day. . . . 

Moore is delighted with a Titian and Giorgione at the Fitzwilliam. Ihave just left him to feed upon them at his ease there, while I indite aletter to you. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

[31 _Oct_. 1846. ]

MY DEAR DONNE, . . . I only got home to-day: and found one letter on my table fromIreland. I did not notice it had a black edge and seal: saw it was fromEdgeworthstown: written in the hand of Edgeworth's wife, who often wrotedown from his dictation since his eyes became bad. But she tells me thathe is dead after twelve days illness! I do not yet feel half so sorry asI shall feel: I shall constantly miss him. {211a}

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

[End of 1846. ]

DEAR COWELL, The weather is so ungenial, and likely to be so, that I put off myjourney to Ipswich till next week. I do not dislike the weather for mypart: but one is best at home in such: and as I am to stay two days withthe Hockleys, I would fain have tolerably fair days, and fair ways, forit: that one may get about and so on. One does not mind being cooped upin one's own room all day. I think of going on Monday. Shall you be athome next week?

I have read Longus and like him much. Is it the light easy Greek thatpleases one? Or is it the story, the scenery, etc. ? Would the bookplease one if written in English as good as the Greek?

The lines from Nonnus are very beautiful. It is always a pleasure to meto get from you such stray leaves from gardens I shall never enter. 

I have been doing some of the dialogue, {211b} which seems the easiestthing in the world to do but is not. It is not easy to keep to gooddialectic, and yet keep up the disjected sway of natural conversation. Italk, you see, as if I were to do some good thing: but I don't mean that. But any such trials of one's own show one the art of such dialogues asPlato's, where the process is so logical and conversational at once: andthe result so plain, and seemingly so easy. They remain the miracles ofthat Art to this day: and will do for many a day: for I don't believethey will ever be surpassed; certainly not by Landor. 

Yours ever, E. F. G. 

[Postmark WOODBRIDGE, _Jan_. 13, 1847. ]

DEAR COWELL, I am always delighted to see you whenever you can come, and Friday willdo perfectly well for me. But do not feel bound to come if it snow, etc. In other respects I have small compunction, for I think it must do yougood to go out, even to such a desert as this. 

I have not got Phidippus into any presentible shape: and indeed have notmeddled with him lately: as the spirit of light dialogue evaporated fromme under an influenza, and I have not courted it back yet. Luckily I andthe world can very well afford to wait for its return. I beganThucydides two days ago! and read (after your example) a very littleevery day, _i. E. _ have done so for two days. Your Sanscrit sentences arevery fine. It is good for you to go on with that. We hear Mr. Nottidge{213} is dying: who can be sorry for him!

Yours, E. F. G. 

* * * * *

Early in 1847 Carlyle received a communication from an unknowncorrespondent, who professed to have in his possession a number ofletters written by Cromwell and other documents, which if genuine werecertainly of importance. As I published in the Historical Review forApril 1886 all the evidence which exists on the subject, I shall notfurther dwell upon it here, except to say that I am not in the leastconvinced by the arguments which have been put forward that the thirty-five letters of Cromwell which Carlyle printed in Fraser's Magazine for1847 were forged by his imperfectly educated correspondent WilliamSquire. Squire was living at Yarmouth at this time, and as FitzGeraldwas frequently in his neighbourhood Carlyle asked him to endeavour to seehim and examine the papers which he professed to have. In reply toCarlyle's letter he wrote as follows in February 1847. 

DEAR CARLYLE, When I go into Norfolk, which will be some time this Spring, I will go toYarmouth and see for Mr. Squire, if you like. But if he is so rusty asyou say, and as I also fancy, I doubt if he will open his treasures toany but to you who have already set him creaking. But we shall see. Someof his MS. Extracts are curious and amusing. He writes himself somethinglike Antony Wood, or some such ancient book-worm. It is also curious tohear of the old proud angry people about Peterboro', who won't show theirrecords. 

I have not seen the lives of the Saints you spoke of in a former letter. But when I go to London I must look out for a volume. I have begun toread Thucydides, which I never read before, and which does very well tohammer at for an hour in a day: though I can't say I care much for theGreeks and their peddling quarrels; one must go to Rome for wars. 

Don't you think Thackeray's Mrs. Perkins's Ball very good? I think theempty faces of the dance room were never better done. It seems to mewonderful that people can endure to look on such things: but I am forty, and got out of the habit now, and certainly shall not try to get it backever again. 

I am glad you and Mrs. Carlyle happen to be in a milder part of Englandduring this changeable and cold season. Yet, for my own sake, I shall besorry to see the winter go: with its decided and reasonable balance ofdaylight and candlelight. I don't know when I shall go to London, perhaps in April. Please to remember me to Mrs. Carlyle. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES. 

[_June_ 20, 1847. ]

MY DEAR LAURENCE, I have had another letter from the Bartons asking about your advent. Infact Barton's daughter is anxious for her Father's to be done, and donethis year. He is now sixty-three; and it won't do, you know, for grand-climacterical people to procrastinate--nay, to _proannuate_--which is anew, and, for all I see, a very bad word. But, be this as it may, do youcome down to Woodbridge this summer if you can; and that you can, I doubtnot; since it is no great things out of your way to or from Norwich. 

The means to get to Ipswich are--A steamboat will bring you for fiveshillings (a very pretty sail) from the Custom House to Ipswich, theOrwell steamer; going twice a week, and heard of directly in the fishylatitudes of London Bridge. Or, a railroad brings you for the same sum;if you will travel third class, which I sometimes do in fine weather. Ishould recommend _that_; the time being so short, so certain: and noeating and drinking by the way, as must be in a steamer. At Ipswich, Ipick you up with the washerwoman's pony and take you to Woodbridge. ThereBarton sits with the tea already laid out; and Miss about to manage theurn; plain, agreeable people. At Woodbridge too is my little friendChurchyard, with whom we shall sup off toasted cheese and porter. Then, last and not least, the sweet retirement of Boulge: where the Graces andMuses, etc. 

I write thus much because my friends seem anxious; my friend, I mean, Miss Barton: for Barton pretends he dreads having his portrait done;which is 'my eye. ' So come and do it. He is a generous, worthy, simple-hearted, fellow: worth ten thousand better wits. Then you shall see allthe faded tapestry of country town life: London jokes worn threadbare;third rate accomplishments infinitely prized; scandal removed from Dukesand Duchesses to the Parson, the Banker, the Commissioner of Excise, andthe Attorney. 

Let me hear from you soon that you are coming. I shall return to Boulgethe end of this week. 

P. S. Come if you can the latter part of the week; when the Quaker ismost at leisure. There is a daily coach from Woodbridge to Norwich. 

_To T. Carlyle_. 

BOULGE. _June_ 29/47. 

DEAR CARLYLE, Last week I went over to Yarmouth and saw Squire. I was prepared, and Ithink you were, to find a quaint old gentleman of the last century. Alasfor guesses at History! I found a wholesome, well-grown, florid, clear-eyed, open-browed, man of about my own age! There was no difficulty atall in coming to the subject at once, and tackling it. Squire is, Ithink, a straight-forward, choleric, ingenuous fellow--a littlemad--cracks away at his family affairs. 'One brother is a rascal--anothera spend-thrift--his father was of an amazing size--a prodigious eater, etc. --the family all gone to _smithers_, ' etc. I liked Squire well: andtold him he must go to you; I am sure you will like him better than theLondon penny-a-liners. He is rather a study: and besides he can tell youbits of his Ancestor's journal; which will indeed make you tear your hairfor what is burned--Between two and three hundred folio pages of MSS. Bya fellow who served under Oliver; been sent on secret service by him;dreaded him: but could not help serving him--Squire told me a fewcircumstances which he had picked up in running over the Journal beforehe burnt it; and which you ought to hear from himself before long. Dreadful stories of Oliver's severity; soldiers cut down by sabre onparade for 'violence to women'--a son shot on the spot just before hisFather's house for having tampered with Royalists--no quarter tospies--noses and ears of Royalists slit in retaliation of a like injurydone to Roundheads;--many deeds which that ancient Squire witnessed, orknew for certain, and which he and his successor thought severe and_cruel_:--but I could make out nothing unjust--I am very sure _you_ wouldnot. The Journalist told a story of Peterboro' Cathedral like yours inyour book about Ely:--Oliver marching in as the bells were ringing toservice: bundling out canons, prebendaries, choristers, with the flat ofthe sword; and then standing up to preach himself in his armour! A grandpicture. Afterwards they broke the painted windows which I should countinjudicious;--but that I sometimes feel a desire that some boys would goand do likewise to the Pusey _votive_ windows; if you know that branch ofart. 

Ancestor Squire got angry with Oliver toward the end of the Journal; onsome such account as this--Cromwell had promised him a sum of money; butthe ancestor got taken prisoner by pirate or privateer before he went toclaim the money; had to be redeemed by Oliver; and the redemption moneywas subtracted from the whole sum promised by Oliver when payment-timecame. This proceeding seemed to both Squires, living and dead, shabby;but one not belonging to the family may be permitted to think it allfair. 

On the whole, I suspect you would have used Ancestor Squire as you haveused many others who have helped you to materials of his kind; like asucked orange: you would have tossed him into the dirt carelessly, Idoubt; and then what would Squire minor have said? Yet he himself didnot like all his Ancestor had done; the _secret_ service, which ourSquire called '_spy-age_'; going to Holland with messages and despatcheswhich he was to deliver to some one who was to meet him on the quay, andshow him a gold ring; the man with the gold ring supposed to be theStadtholder! I tried to persuade our friend there was no great shame inbeing an agent of this sort; but he said with a light rap on the tablethat _he_ wouldn't do such a thing. 

I have now told you something of what remains in my head after ourconference; but you must see the man. What gave us the idea of his beingold was his old-fashioned notions; he and his family have lived inPeterboro' and such retired places these three hundred years; and amazingas it may seem to us that any people should be ashamed that theirancestors fought for Low Church, yet two hundred years are but as a dayin a Cathedral Close. Nothing gives one more the idea of the SleepingPalace than that. Esto perpetua! I mean, as long as I live at least. When I expressed wonder to Squire that his wife's friends, or hisPeterboro' friends, should be so solicitous about the world's everknowing that their ancestors had received letters from Cromwell, he veryearnestly assured me that he knew some cases in which persons'advancement in public life had been suddenly stopt by the Queen or herministers, when it got wind that they were related in any way toCromwell! I thought this a piece of dotage, as I do now; but I haveheard elsewhere of some one not being allowed to take the name ofCromwell; I mean not very many years back; but more likely under a Georgethan under a Victoria. 

I think Squire must be a little crazy on this score; that is, the olddotage of a Cathedral town superstition worked up into activity by acholeric disposition. He seems, as I told you, of the sanguinetemperament; and he mentioned a long illness during which he was notallowed to read a book, etc. , which looks like some touch of the head. Perhaps brain fever. Perhaps no such thing, but all my fancy. He wasvery civil; ordered in a bottle of Sherry and biscuits: asked me to dine, which I could not do. And so ends my long story. But you must see him. 

Yours, E. F. G. 

He spoke of a portrait of Oliver that had been in his family sinceOliver's time--till sold for a few shillings to some one in Norwich bysome rascal relation. The portrait unlike all he has seen in painting orengraving: very pale, very thoughtful, very commanding, he says. If heever recovers it, he will present you with it; he says if it should costhim 10 pounds--for he admires you. {220}

_To Bernard Barton_. 

EXETER, _August_ 16/47. 

MY DEAR BARTON, . . . Here I am at Exeter: a place I never was in before. It is a finecountry round about; and last evening I saw landscape that would havemade Churchyard crazy. The Cathedral is not worth seeing to an ordinaryobserver, though I dare say Archaeologists find it has its own privatemerits. . . . 

Tell Churchyard we were wrong about Poussin's Orion. I found this out onmy second visit to it. What disappointed me, and perhaps him, at firstsight, was a certain stiffness in Orion's own figure; I expected to seehim stalk through the landscape forcibly, as a giant usually does; but Iforgot at the moment that Orion was _blind_, and must walk as a blindman. Therefore this stiffness in his figure was just the right thing. Ithink however the picture is faulty in one respect, that the atmosphereof the landscape is not that of _dawn_; which it should be most visibly, since Morning is so principal an actor in the drama. All this seems tobe more addressed to Churchyard, who has seen the picture, than to youwho have not. 

I saw also in London panoramas of Athens and the Himalaya mountains. Inthe latter, you see the Ganges glittering a hundred and fifty miles off;and far away the snowy peak of the mountain it rises from; that mountain25, 000 feet high. What's the use of coming to Exeter, when you can seeall this for a shilling in London? . . . And now I am going to theCathedral, where the Bishop has a cover to his seat sixty feet high. Sonow goodbye for the present. 

GLOUCESTER, _Augst_. 29/47. 

MY DEAR BARTON, . . . After I wrote to you at Exeter, I went for three days to theDevonshire coast; and then to Lusia's home in Somersetshire. I never sawher look better or happier. De Soyres pretty well; their little girlgrown a pretty and strong child; their baby said to be very thriving. They live in a fine, fruitful, and picturesque country: green pastures, good arable, clothed with trees, bounded with hills that almost reachmountain dignity, and in sight of the Bristol Channel which is there allbut Sea. I fancy the climate is moist, and I should think the trees aretoo many for health: but I was there too little time to quarrel with iton that score. After being there, I went to see a parson friend inDorsetshire; {222} a quaint, humorous man. Him I found in a most out-of-the-way parish in a fine open country; not so much wooded; chalk hills. This man used to wander about the fields at Cambridge with me when weboth wore caps and gowns, and then we proposed and discussed manyambitious schemes and subjects. He is now a quiet, saturnine, parsonwith five children, taking a pipe to soothe him when they bother him withtheir noise or their misbehaviour: and I!--as the Bishop of London said, 'By the grace of God I am what I am. ' In Dorsetshire I found thechurches much occupied by Puseyite Parsons; new chancels built withaltars, and painted windows that officiously displayed the Virgin Mary, etc. The people in those parts call that party 'Pugicides, ' and receivetheir doctrine and doings peacefully. I am vext at these silly men whoare dishing themselves and their church as fast as they can. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

[LEAMINGTON, 4 _Sept. _ 1847. ]

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I believe I must attribute your letter to your having skipped to Leghorn, and so got animated by the sight of a new place. _I_ also am anArcadian: have been to Exeter--the coast of Devonshire--the BristolChannel--and to visit a Parson in Dorsetshire. He wore cap and gown whenI did at Cambridge--together did we roam the fields about Granchester, discuss all things, thought ourselves fine fellows, and that one day weshould make a noise in the world. He is now a poor Rector in one of themost out-of-the-way villages in England--has five children--fats andkills his pig--smokes his pipe--loves his home and cares not ever to beseen or heard of out of it. I was amused with his company; he muchpleased to see me: we had not met face to face for fifteen years--and nowboth of us such very sedate unambitious people! Now I am verginghomeward; taking Leamington and Bedford in my way. 

You persist in not giving me your clear direction at Florence. It isonly by chance that you give the name 'Villa Gondi' of the house youdescribe so temptingly to me. I should much like to visit you there; butI doubt shall never get up the steam for such an expedition. And nowknow that, since the last sentence was written, I have been toCheltenham, and called at your Mother's; and seen her, and Matilda, andHoratio: all well: Alfred is with the Lushingtons and is reported to beall the better for the water-cure. Cheltenham seemed to me a woefulplace: I had never seen it before. I now write from Leamington; where Iam come to visit my Mother for a few days. . . . 

All the world has been, as I suppose you have read, crazy about JennyLind: and they are now giving her 400 pounds to sing at a Concert. Whata frightful waste of money! I did not go to hear her: partly out ofcontradiction perhaps; and partly because I could not make out that shewas a great singer, like my old Pasta. Now I will go and listen to anypretty singer whom I can get to hear easily and unexpensively: but I willnot pay and squeeze much for any canary in the world. Perhaps Lind is anightingale: but I want something more than that. Spedding's cool bloodwas moved to hire stalls several times at an advanced rate: theLushingtons (your sister told me) were enraptured: and certainly peoplerushed up madly from Suffolk to hear her but once and then die. I ratherdoubted the value of this general appreciation. But one cause of my nothearing her was that I was not in London for more than a fortnight allthe Spring: and she came out but at the close of my fortnight. . . . 

. . . You are wrong, as usual, about Moore and Eastlake: all the worldsay that Moore had much the best of the controversy, and Eastlake onlyremains cock of the walk because he is held up by authority. I do notpretend to judge which of the two is right in art: but I am sure thatMoore argues most logically, and sets out upon finer principles; and iftwo shoemakers quarrelled about the making of a shoe, I should bedisposed to side with him who argued best on the matter, though my eyesand other senses could not help me to a verdict. Moore takes his standon high ground, and appeals to Titian, Michel Angelo, and Reynolds. Eastlake is always shifting about, and appealing to Sir Robert Peel, Etty, and the Picture-dealers. {225} Now farewell. Write when you canto Boulge. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

[1847. ]

DEAR LAURENCE, . . . I assure you I am deeply obliged to you for the great trouble youhave taken, and the kindness you have shewn about the portrait. In spiteof all our objections (yours amongst the number) it is very like, andperhaps only misses of being quite like by that much more thanhairbreadth difference, which one would be foolish to expect to seeadequated. Perhaps those painters are right who set out with ratheridealising the likeness of those we love; for we do so ourselves probablywhen we look at them. And as art must miss the last delicacy of nature, it may be well to lean toward a better than our eyes can affirm. 

This is all wrong. Truth is the ticket; but those who like strongly, inthis as in other cases, love to be a little blind, or to see too much. One fancies that no face can be too delicate and handsome to be thedepository of a noble spirit: and if we are not as good physiognomists aswe are metaphysicians (that is, intimate with any one particular mind)our outward eyes will very likely be at variance with our inward, orrather be influenced by them. Very instructive all this!

I wish you would come to me to-night for an hour at ten: I don't know ifany one else will be here. 

_To T. Carlyle_. 

ALDERMAN BROWNE'S, BEDFORD. [20 _Septr_. 1847. ]

DEAR CARLYLE, I was very glad of your letter: especially as regards that part in itabout the Derbyshire villages. In many other parts of England (not tomention my own Suffolk) you would find the same substantial goodnessamong the people, resulting (as you say) from the funded virtues of manygood humble men gone by. I hope you will continue to teach us all, asyou have done, to make some use and profit of all this: at least, not tolet what good remains to die away under penury and neglect. I also hopeyou will have some mercy now, and in future, on the 'Hebrew rags' whichare grown offensive to you; considering that it was these rags thatreally did bind together those virtues which have transmitted down to usall the good you noticed in Derbyshire. If the old creed was socommendably effective in the Generals and Counsellors of two hundredyears ago, I think we may be well content to let it work still among theploughmen and weavers of to-day; and even to suffer some absurdities inthe Form, if the Spirit does well upon the whole. Even poor Exeter Hallought, I think, to be borne with; it is at least better than the wretchedOxford business. When I was in Dorsetshire some weeks ago, and sawchancels done up in sky-blue and gold, with niches, candles, an _Altar_, rails to keep off the profane laity, and the parson (like your ReverendMr. Hitch {227}) _intoning_ with his back to the people, I thought theExeter Hall war-cry of 'The Bible--the whole Bible--and nothing but theBible' a good cry: I wanted Oliver and his dragoons to march in and putan end to it all. Yet our Established Parsons (when quiet and in theirsenses) make good country gentlemen, and magistrates; and I am glad tosecure one man of means and education in each parish of England: thepeople can always resort to Wesley, Bunyan, and Baxter, if they wantstronger food than the old Liturgy, and the orthodox Discourse. I thinkyou will not read what I have written: or be very bored with it. But itis written now. 

I am going to-day into the neighbourhood of Kimbolton: but shall be backhere by the end of the week: and shall not leave Bedford till next Mondaycertainly. I may then go to Naseby for three days: but this depends. Iwould go and hunt up some of the Peterboro' churchmen for you; but thatmy enquiries would either be useless, or precipitate the burning of otherrecords. I hope your excursion will do you good. Thank you for youraccount of Spedding: I had written however to himself, and from himselfascertained that he was out of the worst. But Spedding's life is a veryticklish one. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

[1847]

DEAR COWELL, . . . I am only got half way in the third book of Thucydides: but I go onwith pleasure; with as much pleasure as I used to read a novel. I havealso again taken up my Homer. That is a noble and affecting passagewhere Diomed and Glaucus, being about to fight, recognize each other asold family friends, exchange arms, and vow to avoid each other henceforthin the fray. (N. B. And this in the tenth year of the war!) After thiscomes, you know, the meeting of Hector and Andromache, which we readtogether; altogether a truly Epic canto indeed. 

Yet, as I often think, it is not the poetical imagination, but bareScience that every day more and more unrolls a greater Epic than theIliad; the history of the World, the infinitudes of Space and Time! Inever take up a book of Geology or Astronomy but this strikes me. Andwhen we think that Man must go on to discover in the same plodding way, one fancies that the Poet of to-day may as well fold his hands, or turnthem to dig and delve, considering how soon the march of discovery willdistance all his imaginations, [and] dissolve the language in which theyare uttered. Martial, as you say, lives now, after two thousand years; aspace that seems long to us whose lives are so brief; but a moment, thetwinkling of an eye, if compared (not to Eternity alone) but to the ageswhich it is now known the world must have existed, and (unless for someexternal violence) must continue to exist. Lyell in his book aboutAmerica, says that the falls of Niagara, if (as seems certain) they haveworked their way back southwards for seven miles, must have taken over35, 000 years to do so, at the rate of something over a foot a year!Sometimes they fall back on a stratum that crumbles away from behind themmore easily: but then again they have to roll over rock that yields tothem scarcely more perceptibly than the anvil to the serpent. And thosevery soft strata which the Cataract now erodes contain evidences of arace of animals, and of the action of seas washing over them, long beforeNiagara came to have a distinct current; and the rocks were compoundedages and ages before those strata! So that, as Lyell says, the Geologistlooking at Niagara forgets even the roar of its waters in thecontemplation of the awful processes of time that it suggests. It is notonly that this vision of Time must wither the Poet's hope of immortality;but it is in itself more wonderful than all the conceptions of Dante andMilton. 

As to your friend Pliny, I don't think that Time can use his usual ironyon that saying about Martial. {230a} Pliny evidently only suggests that'at non erunt aeterna quae scripsit' as a question of his correspondent;to which he himself replies 'Non erunt _fortasse_. ' Your Greekquotations are very graceful. I should like to read Busbequius. {230b}Do _you_ think Tacitus _affected_ in style, as people now say he is?

* * * * *

In the Notes to his edition of Selden's Table Talk, published in 1847, Mr. Singer says, 'Part of the following Illustrations were kindlycommunicated to the Editor by a gentleman to whom his best thanks aredue, and whom it would have afforded him great pleasure to be allowed toname. ' It might have been said with truth that the 'greater part' of theillustrations were contributed by the same anonymous benefactor, who was, I have very little doubt, FitzGerald himself. I have in my possession acopy of the Table Talk which he gave me about 1871 or 1872, withannotations in his own handwriting, and these are almost literallyreproduced in the Notes to Singer's Edition. Of this copy FitzGeraldwrote to me, 'What notes I have appended are worth nothing, I suspect;though I remember that the advice of the present Chancellor {231} wasasked in some cases. '

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

GELDESTONE, _Jan_. 13/48. 

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . I suppose you have seen Carlyle's thirty-five Cromwell letters inFraser. I see the Athenaeum is picking holes with them too: and Icertainly had a misgiving that Squire of Yarmouth must have pieced outthe erosions of 'the vermin' by one or two hotheaded guesses of his own. But I am sure, both from the general matter of the letters, and fromSquire's own bodily presence, that he did not forge them. Carlyle hasmade a bungle of the whole business; and is fairly twitted by theAthenaeum for talking so loud about his veneration for Cromwell, etc. , and yet not stirring himself to travel a hundred miles to see and savesuch memorials as he talks of. 

BOULGE, _Wednesday_. [_Jan. _ 25, 1848. ]

MY DEAR COWELL, I liked your paper on the Mesnavi {232} very much; both your criticismand your Mosaic legend. That I may not seem to give you careless andundistinguishing praise, I will tell you that I could not quite hook onthe latter part of Moses to the former; did you leave out any necessarylink of the chain in the hiatus you made? or is the inconsequence only inmy brains? So much for the legend: and I must reprehend you for one tinybit of Cockney about Memory's rosary at the end of your article, which, but for that, I liked so much. 

So judges Fitz-Dennis; who, you must know by this time, has the judgmentof Moliere's old woman, and the captiousness of Dennis. Ten years ago Imight have been vext to see you striding along in Sanscrit and Persian sofast; reading so much; remembering all; writing about it so well. Butnow I am glad to see any man do any thing well; and I know that it is myvocation to stand and wait, and know within myself whether it is donewell. 

I have just finished, all but the last three chapters, the fourth Book ofThucydides, and it is now no task to me to go on. This fourth book isthe most interesting I have read; containing all that blockade of Pylos;that first great thumping of the Athenians at Oropus, after which theyfor ever dreaded the Theban troops. And it came upon me 'come stella inciel, ' when, in the account of the taking of Amphipolis, {233}Thucydides, [Greek text], comes with seven ships to the rescue! Fancyold Hallam sticking to his gun at a Martello tower! This was the way towrite well; and this was the way to make literature respectable. Oh, Alfred Tennyson, could you but have the luck to be put to suchemployment! No man would do it better; a more heroic figure to head thedefenders of his country could not be. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, [30 _Jan_. 1848. ]

MY DEAR LAURENCE, How are you--how are you getting on? A voice from the tombs thusaddresses you; respect the dead, and answer. Barton is well; that is, Ileft him well on Friday: but he was just going off to attend a Quaker'sfuneral in the snow: whether he has survived that, I don't know. To-morrow is his Birth-day: and I am going (if he be alive) to help himto celebrate it. His portrait has been hung (under my directions) overthe mantel-piece in his sitting room, with a broad margin of some redstuff behind it, to set it off. You may turn up your nose at all this;but let me tell you it is considered one of the happiest contrivancesever adopted in Woodbridge. Nineteen people out of twenty like theportrait much; the twentieth, you may be sure, is a man of no taste atall. 

I hear you were for a long time in Cumberland. Did you paint awaterfall--or old Wordsworth--or Skiddaw, or any of the beauties? Didyou see anything so inviting to the pencil as the river Deben? When areyou coming to see us again? Churchyard relies on your coming; but thenhe is a very sanguine man, and, though a lawyer, wonderfully confident inthe promises of men. How are all your family? You see I have asked yousome questions; so you must answer them; and believe me yours truly, E. FITZGERALD. 

_To John Allen_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _March_ 2/48. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . Every year I have less and less desire to go to London: and now youare not there I have one reason the less for going there. I want tosettle myself in some town--for good--for life! A pleasant country town, a cathedral town perhaps! What sort of a place is Lichfield?

I say nothing about French Revolutions, which are too big for a littleletter. I think we shall all be in a war before the year; I know not howelse the French can keep peace at home but by quarrelling abroad. But'come what come may. '

My old friend Major Moor died rather suddenly last Saturday: {235} andthis next Saturday is to be buried in the Church to which he used to takeme when I was a boy. He has not left a better man behind him. 

BOULGE, _Friday_. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . I suppose by a 'Minster Pool' in Lichfield you mean a selectcoterie of Prebends, Canons, etc. These would never trouble me. Ishould much prefer the society of the Doctor, the Lawyer (if tolerablyhonest) and the singing men. I love a small Cathedral town; and thedignified respectability of the Church potentates is a part of thepleasure. I sometimes think of Salisbury: and have altogether long hadan idea of settling at forty years old. Perhaps it will be atWoodbridge, after all!

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, _May_ 4, 1848. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, When you talk of two idle men not taking the trouble to keep up a littleintercourse by letters, you do not, in conscience, reflect upon me; who, you know, am very active in answering almost by return of post. It issome six months since you must have got my last letter, full of mostinstructive advice concerning my namesake; of whom, and of which, you saynothing. How much has he borrowed of you? Is he now living on the topof your hospitable roof? Do you think him the most ill-used of men? Isee great advertisements in the papers about your great Grimsby Railway. . . . Does it pay? does it pay all but you? who live only on the finepromises of the lawyers and directors engaged in it? You know Englandhas had a famous winter of it for commercial troubles: my family has notescaped the agitation: I even now doubt if I must not give up my dailytwo-pennyworth of cream and take to milk: and give up my Spectator andAthenaeum. I don't trouble myself much about all this: for, unless thekingdom goes to pieces by national bankruptcy, I shall probably haveenough to live on: and, luckily, every year I want less. What do youthink of my not going up to London this year; to see exhibitions, to hearoperas, and so on? Indeed I do not think I shall go: and I have no greatdesire to go. I hear of nothing new in any way worth going up for. Ihave never yet heard the famous Jenny Lind, whom all the world ravesabout. Spedding is especially mad about her, I understand: and, afterthat, is it not best for weaker vessels to keep out of her way? Nightafter night is that bald head seen in one particular position in theOpera house, in a stall; the miserable man has forgot Bacon andphilosophy, and goes after strange women. There is no doubt this lady isa wonderful singer; but I will not go into hot crowds till another Pastacomes; I have heard no one since her worth being crushed for. And toperform in one's head one of Handel's choruses is better than most of theExeter Hall performances. I went to hear Mendelssohn's Elijah lastspring: and found it wasn't at all worth the trouble. Though very goodmusic it is not original: Haydn much better. I think the day ofOratorios is gone, like the day for painting Holy Families, etc. But wecannot get tired of what has been done in Oratorios more than we can gettired of Raffaelle. Mendelssohn is really original and beautiful in_romantic_ music: witness his Midsummer Night's Dream, and Fingal's Cave. 

I had a note from Alfred three months ago. He was then in London: but isnow in Ireland, I think, adding to his new poem, the Princess. Have youseen it? I am considered a great heretic for abusing it; it seems to mea wretched waste of power at a time of life when a man ought to be doinghis best; and I almost feel hopeless about Alfred now. I mean, about hisdoing what he was born to do. . . . On the other hand, Thackeray isprogressing greatly in his line: he publishes a Novel in numbers--VanityFair--which began dull, I thought: but gets better every number, and hassome very fine things indeed in it. He is become a great man I am told:goes to Holland House, and Devonshire House: and for some reason orother, will not write a word to me. But I am sure this is not because heis asked to Holland House. Dickens has fallen off in his last novel, {238} just completed; but there are wonderful things in it too. Do youever get a glimpse of any of these things?

As to public affairs, they are so wonderful that one does not know whereto begin. If England maintains her own this year, she must have theelements of long lasting in her. I think People begin to wish we had nomore to do with Ireland: but the Whigs will never listen to a doctrinewhich was never heard of in Holland House. I am glad Italy is free: andsurely there is nothing for her now but a Republic. It is well to standby old kings who have done well by us: but it is too late in the day to_begin_ Royalty. 

If anything could tempt me so far as Italy, it would certainly be yourpresence in Florence. But I boggle about going twenty miles, and _cuibono_? deadens me more and more. 

July 2. All that precedes was written six weeks ago, when I was obligedto go up to London on business. . . . I saw Alfred, and the rest of thescavans. Thackeray is a great man: goes to Devonshire House, etc. : and_his_ book (which is capital) is read by the Great: and will, I hope, dothem good. I heard but little music: the glorious Acis and Galatea; andthe redoubtable Jenny Lind, for the first time. I was disappointed inher: but am told this is all my fault. As to naming her in the sameOlympiad with great old Pasta, I am sure that is ridiculous. TheExhibition is like most others you have seen; worse perhaps. There is an'Aaron' and a 'John the Baptist' by Etty far worse than the Saracen'sHead on Ludgate Hill. Moore is turned Picture dealer: and that highRoman virtue in which he indulged is likely to suffer a Picture-dealer'schange, I think. Carlyle writes in the Examiner about Ireland: raves andfoams, but has nothing to propose. Spedding prospers with Bacon. Alfredseemed to me in fair plight: much dining out: and his last Poem is wellliked I believe. Morton is still at Lisbon, I believe also: but I havenot written to him, nor heard from him. And now, my dear Frederic, Imust shut up. Do not neglect to write to me sometimes. Alfred said youought to be in England about your Grimsby Land. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

[? 1848. ]

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . I do not know that I praised Xenophon's imagination in recordingsuch things as Alcibiades at Lampsacus; {240} all I meant to say was thatthe history was not dull which does record such facts, if it be for theimagination of others to quicken them. . . . As to Sophocles, I will notgive up my old Titan. Is there not an infusion of Xenophon in Sophocles, as compared to AEschylus, --a dilution? Sophocles is doubtless the betterartist, the more complete; but are we to expect anything but glimpses andruins of the divinest? Sophocles is a pure Greek temple; but AEschylusis a rugged mountain, lashed by seas, and riven by thunderbolts: andwhich is the most wonderful, and appalling? Or if one will have AEschylustoo a work of man, I say he is like a Gothic Cathedral, which the Germanssay did arise from the genius of man aspiring up to the immeasurable, andreaching after the infinite in complexity and gloom, according asChristianity elevated and widened men's minds. A dozen lines of AEschylushave a more Almighty power on me than all Sophocles' plays; though Iwould perhaps rather save Sophocles, as the consummation of Greek art, than AEschylus' twelve lines, if it came to a choice which must be lost. Besides these AEschyluses _trouble_ us with their grandeur and gloom; butSophocles is always soothing, complete, and satisfactory. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE, _Decr_. 27, [1848. ]

MY DEAR DONNE, You have sent me two or three kind messages through Barton. I hear youcome into Suffolk the middle of January. My movements are as yetuncertain; the lawyers may call me back to London very suddenly: butshould I be here at the time of your advent, you must really contrive tocome here, to this Cottage, for a day or two. I have yet beds, tables, and chairs for two: I think Gurdon is also looking out for you. 

I only returned home a few days ago, to spend Christmas with Barton:whose turkey I accordingly partook of. He seems only pretty well: isaltered during the last year: less spirits, less strength; but quiteamiable still. 

I saw many of my friends in London, Carlyle and Tennyson among them; butmost and best of all, Spedding. I have stolen his noble book {241} awayfrom him; noble, in spite (I believe, but am not sure) of some_adikology_ in the second volume: some special pleadings for his idol:amica Veritas, sed magis, etc. But I suppose you will think this theintolerance of a weak stomach. 

I also went to plays and concerts which I could scarce afford: but Ithought I would have a Carnival before entering on a year of reductions. I have been trying to hurry on, and bully, Lawyers: have done a verylittle good with much trouble; and cannot manage to fret much though I amtold there is great cause for fretting. 

Farewell for the present: come and see me if we be near Woodbridge at thesame time: remember me to all who do remember me: and believe me yours asever, E. F. G. 

_To S. Laurence_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Febr_: 9/49. 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, Roe promised me six copies of his Tennyson. {242} Do you know anythingof them? Why I ask is, that, in case they should be at your house, I mayhave an opportunity of having them brought down here one day. And I havepromised them nearly all to people hereabout. 

Barton is out of health; some affection of the heart, I think, that willnever leave him, never let him be what he was when you saw him. He isforced to be very abstemious . . . But he bears his illness quite as aman; and looks very demurely to the necessary end of all life. {243}Churchyard is pretty well; has had a bad cough for three months. Isuppose we are all growing older: though I have been well this winter, and was unwell all last. I forget if you saw Crabbe (I mean the Father)when you were down here. 

You may tell Mr. Hullah, if you like, that in spite of his contempt formy music, I was very much pleased, with a duett of his I chanced tosee--'O that we two were maying'--and which I bought and have forced twoladies here to take pains to learn. They would sing nicely if they hadvoices and were taught. 

_Fragment of Letter to J. Allen_. 

I see a good deal of Alfred, who lives not far off me: and he is stillthe same noble and droll fellow he used to be. A lithograph has beenmade from Laurence's portrait of him; _my_ portrait: and six copies aregiven to me. I reserve one for you; how can I send it to you?

Laurence has for months been studying the Venetian secret of colour incompany with Geldart; and at last they have discovered it, they say. Ihave seen some of Laurence's portraits done on his new system; they seemto be really much better up to a certain point of progress: but I thinkhe is apt, by a bad choice of colours, to spoil the effect which animproved system of laying on the colours should ensure. But he has onlylately begun on his new system, of which he is quite confident; andperhaps all will come right by and by. 

I have seen Thackeray three or four times. He is just the same. All theworld admires Vanity Fair; and the Author is courted by Dukes andDuchesses, and wits of both sexes. I like Pendennis much; and Alfredsaid he thought 'it was quite delicious: it seemed to him so _mature_, 'he said. You can imagine Alfred saying this over one's fire, spreadinghis great hand out. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _June_ 19, 1849. 

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, I often think of you: often wish to write to you--often intend to doso--determine to do so--but perhaps should not do so for a long time, butthat this sheet of thin paper happens to come under my fingers this 19thof June 1849. You must not believe however that it is only chance thatputs me up to this exertion; I really should have written before but thatthe reports we read of Italian and Florentine troubles put me in doubtfirst whether you are still at Florence to receive my letter: andsecondly whether, if you be there, it would ever reach your hands. But Iwill brace myself up even to that great act of Friendship, to write along letter with all probability of its miscarrying. Only look here; ifit ever does reach you, you must really write to me directly: to let meknow how you and yours are, for I am sincerely anxious to know this. Isaw great reports in the paper too some months back of Prince Albertgoing to open Great Grimsby Docks. Were not such Docks to be made onyour land? and were you not to be a rich man if they were made? And haveyou easily consented to forego being paid in money, and to accept in lieuthereof a certain quantity of wholly valueless shares in said Docks, which will lead you into expense, instead of enriching you? This is whatI suppose will be the case. For though you have a microscopic eye forhuman character, you are to be diddled by any knave, or set of knaves, asyou well know. 

Of my own affairs I have nothing agreeable to tell. . . . When I met youin London, I was raising money for myself on my reversionary property:and so I am still: and of course the lawyers continue to do so in themost expensive way; a slow torture of the purse. But do not suppose Iwant money: I get it, at a good price: nor do I fret myself about theprice: there will be quite enough (if public securities hold) for my lifeunder any dispensation the lawyers can inflict. As I grow older I wantless. I have not bought a book or a picture this year: have not been toa concert, opera, or play: and, what is more, I don't care to go. Notbut if I meet you in London again I shall break out into shillingconcerts, etc. , and shall be glad of the opportunity. 

After you left London, I remained there nearly to the end of December;saw a good deal of Alfred, etc. Since then I have been down here excepta fortnight's stay in London, from which I have just returned. I heardAlfred had been seen flying through town to the Lushingtons: but I didnot see him. He is said to be still busy about that accursed Princess. By the by, beg, borrow, steal, or buy Keats' Letters and Poems; mostwonderful bits of Poems, written off hand at a sitting, most of them: Ionly wonder that they do not make a noise in the world. By the by again, it is quite necessary _your_ poems should be printed; which Moxon, I amsure, would do gladly. Except this book of Keats, we have had _no_poetry lately, I believe; luckily, the ---, ---, ---, etc. , are gettingolder and past the age of conceiving--_wind_. Send your poems over toAlfred to sort and arrange for you: he will do it: and you and he are theonly men alive whose poems I want to see in print. By the by, thirdlyand lastly, and in total contradiction to the last sentence, I am nowhelping to edit some letters and poems of--Bernard Barton! Yes: the poorfellow died suddenly of heart disease; leaving his daughter, a noblewoman, almost unprovided for: and we are getting up this volume bysubscription. If you were in England _you_ must subscribe: but as youare not, you need only give us a share in the Great Grimsby Dock instead. 

Now there are some more things I could tell you, but you see where my penhas honestly got to in the paper. I remember you did not desire to hearabout my garden, which is now gorgeous with large red poppies, and lilacirises--satisfactory colouring: and the trees murmur a continuous soft_chorus to the solo which my soul discourses within_. If that be notPoetry, I should like to know what is? and with it I may as wellconclude. I think I shall send this letter to your family at Cheltenhamto be forwarded to you:--they may possibly have later intelligence of youthan I have. Pray write to me if you get this; indeed you _must_; andnever come to England without letting me know of it. 

_To George Crabbe_. {247}

TERRACE HOUSE, RICHMOND, _October_ 22/49. 

MY DEAR GEORGE, Warren's analysis of my MS. Is rather wonderful to me. Though not whollycorrect (as I think, and as I will expound to you one day) it seems to meyet as exact as most of my friends who know me best could draw out fromtheir personal knowledge. Some of his guesses (though partly right) hitupon traits of character I should conceive quite out of all possibilityof solution from mere handwriting. I can understand that a man shouldguess at one's temperament, whether lively or slow; at one's habit ofthought, whether diffuse or logical; at one's Will, whether strong anddirect or feeble and timid. But whether one distrusts men, and yettrusts friends? Half of this is true, at all events. Then I cannotconceive how a man should see in handwriting such an accident as whetherone knew much of Books or men; and in this point it is very doubtful ifWarren is right. But, take it all in all, his analysis puzzles me much. I have sent it to old Jem Spedding the Wise. You shall have it again. 

If my Mother should remain at this place you must one day come and seeher and it with me. She would be very glad to receive you. Richmond andall its environs are very beautiful, and very interesting; haunted by thememory of Princes, Wits, and Beauties. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

BOULGE, _Saturday_, [1849]. 

MY DEAR COWELL, How is it I have not heard from you these two months? Surely, I was thelast who wrote. I was told you had influenza, or cold: but I supposethat is all over by this time. How goes on Sanscrit, Athenaeus, etc. Iam reading the sixth Book of Thucydides--the Sicilian expedition--veryinteresting--indeed I like the old historian more and more and shall besorry when I have done with him. Do you remember the fine account of thegreat armament setting off from the Piraeus for Sicily--B. 6, ch. 30, etc? If not, read it now. 

One day I mean to go and pay you another visit, perhaps soon. I heardfrom Miss Barton you were reading, and even liking, the Princess--is thisso? I believe it is greatly admired in London coteries. I remain in thesame mind about [it]. I am told the Author means to republish it, with acharacter of each speaker between each canto; which will make the matterworse, I think; unless the speakers are all of the Tennyson family. Forthere is no indication of any change of speaker in the cantos themselves. What do you say to all this?

Can you tell me any passages in the Romans of the Augustan age, or ratherbefore, telling of decline in the people's morals, hardihood, especiallyas regards the youth of the country?

Kind remembrances to Miladi, and I am yours ever, E. FITZGERALD. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BEDFORD, _Dec. _ 7/49. 

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, Your note came to me to-day. I ought to have written to you long ago:and indeed did half do a letter before the summer was half over: whichletter I mislaid. I shall be delighted indeed to have your photograph:insufficient as a photograph is. You are one of the few men whoseportrait I would give a penny to have: and one day when you are inEngland we must get it done by Laurence; half at your expense and half atmine, I think. I wish you had sent over to me some of your poems whichyou told me you were printing at Florence: and often I wish I was atFlorence to give you some of my self-satisfied advice on what you shouldselect. For though I do not pretend to write Poetry you know I have ahigh notion of my judgment in it. 

Well, I was at Boulge all the summer: came up thence five weeks ago:stayed three weeks with my mother at Richmond; a week in London: and nowam come here to try and finish a money bargain with some lawyers whichyou heard me beginning a year ago. They utterly failed in any part ofthe transaction except bringing me in a large bill for serviceunperformed. However, we are now upon another tack. . . . 

In a week I go to London, where I hope to see Alfred. Oddly enough, Ihad a note from him this very day on which I receive yours: he has, hetells me, taken chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Moxon told me he wasabout to publish another edition of his Princess, with interludes addedbetween the parts: and also that he was about to print, but (I think) notto publish, those Elegiacs on Hallam. I saw poor old Thackeray inLondon: getting very slowly better of a bilious fever that had almostkilled him. Some one told me that he was gone or going to the WaterDoctor at Malvern. People in general thought Pendennis got dull as itgot on; and I confess I thought so too: he would do well to take theopportunity of his illness to discontinue it altogether. He told me lastJune he himself was tired of it: must not his readers naturally tire too?Do you see Dickens' David Copperfield? It is very good, I think: morecarefully written than his later works. But the melodramatic parts, asusual, bad. Carlyle says he is a showman whom one gives a shilling toonce a month to see his raree-show, and then sends him about hisbusiness. 

I have been obliged to turn Author on the very smallest scale. My oldfriend Bernard Barton chose to die in the early part of this year. . . . We have made a Book out of his Letters and Poems, and published it bysubscription . . . And I have been obliged to contribute a little dapper{251} Memoir, as well as to select bits of Letters, bits of Poems, etc. All that was wanted is accomplished: many people subscribed. Some of B. B. 's letters are pleasant, I think, and when you come to England I willgive you this little book of incredibly small value. I have heard nomusic but two concerts at Jullien's a fortnight ago; very dull, Ithought: no beautiful new Waltzes and Polkas which I love. It is astrange thing to go to the Casinos and see the coarse whores andapprentices in bespattered morning dresses, pea-jackets, and bonnets, twirl round clumsily and indecently to the divine airs played in theGallery; 'the music yearning like a God in pain' indeed. I should liketo hear some of your Florentine Concerts; and I do wish you to believethat I do constantly wish myself with you: that, if I ever went anywhere, I would assuredly go to visit the Villa Gondi. I wish you to believethis, which I know to be true, though I am probably further than everfrom accomplishing my desire. Farewell: I shall hope to find out yourConsul and your portrait in London: though you do not give me very gooddirections where I am to find them. And I will let you know soon whetherI have found the portrait, and how I like it. 

_To John Allen_. 

BEDFORD, _Dec. _ 13/49. 

MY DEAR OLD ALLEN, . . . I am glad you like the Book. {252a} You are partly right as towhat I say about the Poems. For though I really do think some of thePoems very pretty, yet I think they belong to a class which the world nolonger wants. Notwithstanding this, one is sure the world will not bethe worse for them: they are a kind of elder Nursery rhymes; pleasing toyounger people of good affections. {252b} The letters, some of them, Ilike very much: but I had some curiosity to know how others would likethem. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

19 CHARLOTTE ST. , FITZROY SQUARE, LONDON. [18 _Jan_. 1850. ]

DEAR DONNE, . . . After I left Richmond, whence I last wrote to you, I went toBedford, where I was for five weeks: then returned to spend Christmas atRichmond: and now dawdle here hoping to get some accursed lawyers toraise me some money on what remains of my reversion. This they _can_ do, and _will_ do, in time: but, as usual, find it their interest to delay asmuch as possible. 

I found A. Tennyson in chambers at Lincoln's Inn: and recreated myselfwith a sight of his fine old mug, and got out of him all his dear oldstories, and many new ones. He is re-publishing his Poems, the Princesswith songs interposed. I cannot say I thought them like the old vintageof his earlier days, though perhaps better than other people's. But, even to you, such opinions appear blasphemies. A. T. Is now gone on avisit into Leicestershire: and I miss him greatly. Carlyle I have notseen; but I read an excellent bit of his in the Examiner, about Ireland. Thackeray is well again, except not quite strong yet. Spedding is notyet returned: and I doubt will not return before I have left London. 

I have been but to one play; to see the Hypocrite, and Tom Taylor'sburlesque {254a} at the Strand Theatre. It was dreadfully cold in thepit: and I thought dull. Farren almost unintelligible: Mrs. Glover goodin a disagreeable part. {254b} Diogenes has very good Aristophanic hitsin it, as perhaps you know: but its action was rather slow, I thought:and I was so cold I could not sit it half through. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

[Written from Bramford? E. F. G. Was staying at this time with theCowells. ]

Direct to BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE. _March_ 7/50. 

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, . . . I saw Alfred in London--pretty well, I thought. He has writtensongs to be stuck between the cantos of the Princess, none of them of theold champagne flavour, as I think. But I am in a minority about thePrincess, I believe. If you print any poems, I especially desire youwill transmit them to me. I wish I was with you to consider about these:for though I cannot write poems, you know I consider that I have the oldwoman's faculty of judging of them: yes, much better than much clevererand wiser men; I pretend to no Genius, but to Taste: which, according tomy aphorism, is the feminine of Genius. . . . 

. . . Please to answer me directly. I constantly think of you: and, as Ihave often sincerely told you, with a kind of love which I feel towardsbut two or three friends. Are you coming to England? How goes onGrimsby! Doesn't the state of Europe sicken you? Above all, let me haveany poems you print: you are now the only man I expect verse from; suchgloomy grand stuff as you write. Thackeray, to be sure, can write goodballads, half serious. His Pendennis is very stupid, I think: Dickens'Copperfield on the whole, very good. He always lights one up somehow. There is a new volume of posthumous poems by Ebenezer Elliott: with finethings in it. I don't find myself growing old about Poetry; on thecontrary. I wish I could take twenty years off Alfred's shoulders, andset him up in his youthful glory: . . . He is the same magnanimous, kindly, delightful fellow as ever; uttering by far the finest prosesayings of any one. 

_To John Allen_. 

BOULGE: _March_ 9/50. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, . . . I have now been home about three weeks, and, as you say, one seesindications of lovely spring about. I have read but very little of late;indeed my eyes have not been in superfine order. I caught a glimpse ofthe second volume of Southey's Life and Letters; interesting enough. Ihave also bought Emerson's 'Representative Men, ' a shilling book ofBohn's: with very good scattered thoughts in it: but scarcely leaving anylarge impression with one, or establishing a theory. So at least it hasseemed to me: but I have not read very carefully. I have also bought alittle posthumous volume of Ebenezer Elliott: which is sure to have finethings in it. 

I believe I love poetry almost as much as ever: but then I have beensuffered to doze all these years in the enjoyment of old childish habitsand sympathies, without being called on to more active and serious dutiesof life. I have not put away childish things, though a man. But, at thesame time, this visionary inactivity is better than the mischievousactivity of so many I see about me; not better than the useful andvirtuous activity of a few others: John Allen among the number. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

PORTLAND COFFEE HOUSE, LONDON. _April_ 17/50. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, You tell me to write soon: and this letter is begun, at least, on the dayyours reaches me. This is partly owing to my having to wait an hour herein the Coffee room of the Portland Hotel: whither your letter has beenforwarded to me from Boulge. I am come up for one week: once more tohaggle with Lawyers; once more to try and settle my own affairs as wellas those of others for a time. . . . 

I don't think of drowning myself yet: and what I wrote to you was a sortof safety escape for my poor flame . . . It is only idle and well-to-dopeople who kill themselves; it is ennui that is hopeless: great pain ofmind and body 'still, still, on hope relies': the very old, the verywretched, the most incurably diseased never put themselves to rest. Itreally gives me pain to hear you or any one else call me a philosopher, or any good thing of the sort. I am none, never was; and, if I pretendedto be so, was a hypocrite. Some things, as wealth, rank, respectability, I don't care a straw about; but no one can resent the toothache more, norfifty other little ills beside that flesh is heir to. But let us leaveall this. 

I am come to London; but I do not go to Operas or Plays: and have scarcetime (and, it must be said, scarce inclination) to hunt up many friends. Dear old Alfred is out of town; Spedding is my sheet-anchor, the trulywise and fine fellow: I am going to his rooms this very evening: andthere I believe Thackeray, Venables, etc. , are to be. I hope not a largeassembly: for I get shyer and shyer even of those I knew. Thackeray isin such a great world that I am afraid of him; he gets tired of me: andwe are content to regard each other at a distance. You, Alfred, Spedding, and Allen, are the only men I ever care to see again. If everI leave this country I will go and see you at Florence or elsewhere; butmy plans are at present unsettled. I have refused to be Godfather to allwho have ever asked me; but I declare it will give me sincere pleasure toofficiate for your Child. I got your photograph at last: it is a beastlything: not a bit like: why did you not send your Poems, which are likeyou; and reflect your dear old face well? As you know I admire yourpoems, the only poems by a living writer I do admire, except Alfred's, you should not hesitate. I can have no doubt whatever they ought to bepublished in England: I believe Moxon would publish them: and I believeyou would make some money by them. But don't send them to Alfred torevise or select: only for this reason, that you would both of you be alittle annoyed by gossip about how much share each of you had in them. Your poems can want no other hand than your own to meddle with them, except in respect of the choice of them to make a volume which wouldplease generally: a little of the vulgar faculty of popular tact is allthat needs to be added to you, as I think. You will know I do not saythis presumptuously: since I think the power of writing one fine linetranscends all the 'Able-Editor' ability in the ably-edited Universe. 

Do you see Carlyle's 'Latter Day Pamphlets'? They make the world laugh, and his friends rather sorry for him. But that is because people willstill look for practical measures from him: one must be content with himas a great satirist who can make us feel when we are wrong though hecannot set us right. There is a bottom of truth in Carlyle's wildestrhapsodies. I have no news to tell you of books or music, for I scarcesee or hear any. And moreover I must be up, and leave the mahoganycoffee-room table on which I write so badly: and be off to Lincoln's Inn. God bless you, my dear fellow. I ask a man of business here in the roomabout Grimsby: he says, 'Well, all these railways are troublesome; butthe Grimsby one is one of the best: railway property must look up alittle: and so will Grimsby. '

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE: Friday [4 _Oct_. 1850]. 

MY DEAR DONNE, I have been some while intending to send you a few lines, to report mycontinued existence, to thank you for the Papers, which I and my dear oldCrabbe read and mark, and to tell you I was much pleased with Laurence'ssketch of you, which he exhibited to me in a transitory way some weeksago. Has he been to Bury again? To Sir H. Bunbury's?

I am packing up my mind by degrees to move away from here on a round ofvisits: and will give you a look at Bury if you like it. I am reallyfrightened that it is a whole year since I have seen you: and we but twohours asunder! I know it is not want of will on my part: though you maywonder what other want detains me; but you will believe me when I say itis not want of will. You are too busy to come here: where indeed isnothing to come for. I wished for Charles last Monday: for people cameto shoot the three brace of pheasants inhabiting these woods: had Iremembered the first of October, I would have let him know. Otherwise, Iam afraid to invite the young, whom I cannot entertain. 

H. Groome came over and dined with me on Wednesday: and Crabbe came tomeet him; but the latter had no hearty smoker to keep him in countenance, and was not quite comfortable. H. Groome improves: his poetical andetymological ambitions begin to pale away before years that bring thephilosophic mind, and before a rising family. 

I liked your Articles on Pepys much. How go on the Norfolk worthies? Isee by your review that you are now ripe to write them at your ease:which means (in a work of that kind) successfully. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

[BOULGE], _Decr_. 31/50. 

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, If you knew how glad I am to hear from you, you would write to meoftener. You see I make a quick return whenever I get an epistle fromyou. I should indeed have begun to indite before, but I had not a scrapof serviceable paper in the house: and I am only this minute returnedfrom a wet walk to Woodbridge bringing home the sheet on which I am nowwriting, along with the rest of a half-quire, which may be filled to you, if we both live. I now count the number of sheets: there are nine. I donot think we average more than three letters a year each. Shall both ofus, or either, live three years more, beginning with the year that opensto-morrow? I somehow believe _not_: which I say not as a doleful thing(indeed you may look at it as a very ludicrous one). Well, we shall see. I am all for the short and merry life. Last night I began the sixth Bookof Lucretius in bed. You laugh grimly again? I have not looked into itfor more than a year, and I took it up by mistake for one of Swift'sdirty volumes; and, having got into bed with it, did not care to get outto change it. 

The delightful lady . . . Is going to leave this neighbourhood and carryher young Husband {261} to Oxford, there to get him some OrientalProfessorship one day. He is a delightful fellow, and, _I_ say, will, ifhe live, be the best Scholar in England. Not that I think Oxford will beso helpful to his studies as his counting house at Ipswich was. However, being married he cannot at all events become Fellow, and, as so many do, dissolve all the promise of Scholarship in Sloth, Gluttony, and shamDignity. I shall miss them both more than I can say, and must take toLucretius! to comfort me. I have entirely given up the _Genteel_ Societyhere about; and scarce ever go anywhere but to the neighbouring Parson, {262a} with whom I discuss Paley's Theology, and the Gorham Question. Iam going to him to-night, by the help of a Lantern, in order to light outthe Old Year with a Cigar. For he is a great Smoker, and a very finefellow in all ways. 

I have not seen any one you know since I last wrote; nor heard from anyone: except dear old Spedding, who really came down and spent two dayswith us, me and that Scholar and his Wife in their Village, {262b} intheir delightful little house, in their pleasant fields by the Riverside. Old Spedding was delicious there; always leaving a mark, I say, inall places one has been at with him, a sort of Platonic perfume. For hashe not all the beauty of the Platonic Socrates, with some personal Beautyto boot? He explained to us one day about the laws of reflection inwater: and I said then one never could look at the willow whose branchesfurnished the text without thinking of him. How beastly this reads! Asif he gave us a lecture! But you know the man, how quietly it all cameout; only because I petulantly denied his plain assertion. For I reallyoften cross him only to draw him out; and vain as I may be, he is one ofthose that I am well content to make shine at my own expense. 

Don't suppose that this or any other ideal day with him effaces my dayswith you. Indeed, my dear Frederic, you also mark many times and manyplaces in which I have been with you. Gravesend and its [Greek text]shrimps cannot be forgotten. You say I shall never go to see you atFlorence. I have said to you before and I now repeat it, that if ever Igo abroad it shall be to see you and my Godchild. I really cannot say ifI should not have gone this winter (as I hinted in my last) in case youhad answered my letter. But I really did not know if you had not leftFlorence; and a fortnight ago I thought to myself I would write toHoratio at Cheltenham and ask him for news of you. As to Alfred, I haveheard of his marriage, etc. , from Spedding, who also saw and was muchpleased with her indeed. But you know Alfred himself never writes, norindeed cares a halfpenny about one, though he is very well satisfied tosee one when one falls in his way. You will think I have a spite againsthim for some neglect, when I say this, and say besides that I cannot carefor his In Memoriam. Not so, if I know myself: I always thought the sameof him, and was just as well satisfied with it as now. His poem I neverdid greatly affect: nor can I learn to do so: it is full of finestthings, but it is monotonous, and has that air of being evolved by aPoetical Machine of the highest order. So it seems to be with him now, at least to me, the Impetus, the Lyrical oestrus, is gone. . . It is thecursed inactivity (very pleasant to me who am no Hero) of this 19thcentury which has spoiled Alfred, I mean spoiled him for the great workhe ought now to be entering upon; the lovely and noble things he has donemust remain. It is dangerous work this prophesying about great Men. . . . I beg you very much to send me your poems, the very first opportunity;as I want them very much. Nobody doubts that you ought to make a volumefor Moxon. Send your poems to Spedding to advise on. No doubt Alfredwould be best adviser of all: but then people would be stupid, and saythat he had done all that was good in the Book--(wait till I take my tea, which has been lying on the table these ten minutes)--Now, animated bysome very inferior Souchong from the village shop, I continue my letter, having reflected during my repast that I have seen two College men youremember since I last wrote, Thompson and Merivale. The former is justrecovering of the water cure, looking blue: the latter, Merivale, is justrecovering from--Marriage!--which he undertook this Midsummer, with alight-haired daughter of George Frere's. Merivale lives just on theborders of Suffolk: and a week before his marriage he invited me to meetF. Pollock and his wife at the Rectory. There we spent two easy days, and I heard no more of Merivale till three weeks ago when he asked me tomeet Thompson just before Christmas. . . . Have you seen Merivale'sHistory of Rome, beginning with the Empire? Two portly volumes are out, and are approved of by Scholars, I believe. I have not read them, nothaving money to buy, nor any friend to lend. 

I hear little music but what I make myself, or help to make with myParson's son and daughter. We, with not a voice among us, go throughHandel's Coronation Anthems! Laughable it may seem; yet it is not quiteso; the things are so well-defined, simple, and grand, that the faintestoutline of them tells; my admiration of the old Giant grows and grows:his is the Music for a Great, Active, People. Sometimes too, I go overto a place elegantly called _Bungay_, where a Printer {265} lives whodrills the young folks of a manufactory there to sing in Chorus once aweek. . . . They sing some of the English Madrigals, some of Purcell, and some of Handel, in a way to satisfy me, who don't want perfection, and who believe that the _grandest_ things do not depend on delicatefinish. If you were here now, we would go over and hear the HarmoniousBlacksmith sung in Chorus, with words, of course. It almost made me crywhen I heard the divine Air rolled into vocal harmony from the fourcorners of a large Hall. One can scarce comprehend the Beauty of theEnglish Madrigals till one hears them done (though coarsely) in this wayand on a large scale: the play of the parts as they alternate from thedifferent quarters of the room. 

I have taken another half sheet to finish my letter upon: so as mycalculation of how far this half-quire is to spread over Time isdefeated. Let us write oftener, and longer, and we shall not tempt theFates by inchoating too long a hope of letter-paper. I have writtenenough for to-night: I am now going to sit down and play one of Handel'sOvertures as well as I can--Semele, perhaps, a very grand one--then, lighting my lantern, trudge through the mud to Parson Crabbe's. Before Itake my pen again to finish this letter the New Year will have dawned--onsome of us. 'Thou fool! this night thy soul may be required of thee!'Very well: while it is in this Body I will wish my dear old F. T. A happyNew Year. And now to drum out the Old with Handel. Good Night. 

New Year's Day, 1851. A happy new Year to you! I sat up with my Parsontill the Old Year was past, drinking punch and smoking cigars, for whichI endure some headache this morning. Not that we took much; but a verylittle punch disagrees with me. Only I would not disappoint my oldfriend's convivial expectations. He is one of those happy men who hasthe boy's heart throbbing and trembling under the snows of sixty-five. 

_To G. Crabbe_. 

[GELDESTONE, _Feb_. 11, 1851. ]

MY DEAR GEORGE, I send you an Euphranor, and (as you desire it) Spedding's Examiner. {266} I believe that I should be ashamed of his praise, if I did notdesire to take any means to make my little book known for a good purpose. I think he over-praises it: but he cannot over-praise the design, and (asI believe) the tendency of it. 

60 LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, [_Feb_. 27, 1851. ]

MY DEAR GEORGE, . . . My heart saddens to think of Bramford all desolate; {267a} and Ishall now almost turn my head away as any road, or railroad, brings mewithin sight of the little spire! I write once a week to abuse both ofthem for going. But they are quite happy at Oxford. 

I felt a sort of horror when I read in your letter you had ordered theBook {267b} into your Club, for fear some one might guess. But if _your_folks don't guess, no one else will. I have heard no more of it since Iwrote to you last, except that its sale does not stand still. Pickering'sforeman blundered in the Advertisements; quoting an extract about the useof the Book, when he should have quoted about its amusement, which iswhat the world is attracted by. But I left it to him. As it would be areal horror to me to be known as the writer, I do not think I can havemuch personal ambition in its success; but I should sincerely wish it tobe read for what little benefit it may do. . . . 

I have seen scarce anybody here: Thackeray only once; neither Tennysonnor Carlyle. Donne came up for a day to see as to the morality of the'Prodigal Son' {268} at Drury Lane, which the Bishop of London complainedof. Donne is deputy Licenser for Jack Kemble. I went to see it withhim; it was only stupid and gaudy. 

BOULGE, Tuesday, _May_ the something, 1851. 

MY DEAR GEORGE, I am ashamed you should have the trouble of asking me to Merton so often, and so in vain. I might give you a specious reason for not going now . . . But I will honestly confess I believe I should not have accompaniedyour Father in his Voyage to your house, had the sky been quite clear ofengagement. Why, I cannot exactly say: my soul is not packed up forMerton yet, though one day it will be; and I have no such idea of thepreciousness of my company as to have any hesitation in letting myfriends wait any length of time before I go to occupy their easy chairs. The day will come, if we live. I have had a very strong invitation toCambridge this week; to live with my old friends the Skrines in SidneyCollege. But why should we meet to see each other grown old, etc. ? (Idon't mean this quite seriously. ) Ah, I should like a drive overNewmarket Heath: the sun shining on the distant leads of Ely Cathedral. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, [25 _August_, 1851. ]

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, Why do you never write to me? I am sure I wrote last: I constantly amthinking of you, and constantly wishing to see you. Perhaps you are inEngland at this very hour, and do not let me know of it. _When_ I wroteto you last I cannot remember; whether in Winter or Spring. I was inLondon during January and February last, but have been vegetating downhere ever since. Have not been up even to see the Great Exh. --one istired of writing, and seeing written, the word. All the world, as youknow, goes in droves: you may be lounging in it this very hour, though Idon't mean to say you are one of a drove. It is because there are so fewF. Tennysons in the world that I do not like to be wholly out of hearingof the one I know. . . . My own affairs do not improve, and I have seenmore and more of the pitiful in humanity . . . But luckily my wantsdecrease. I am quite content never to buy a picture or a Book; almostcontent not to see them. One could soon relapse into Barbarism. I doindeed take a survey of old Handel's Choruses now and then; and am justnow looking with great delight into Purcell's King Arthur, real noble_English_ music, much of it; and assuredly the prototype of much ofHandel. It is said Handel would not admire Purcell; but I am sure headapted himself to English ears and sympathies by means of taking upPurcell's vein. I wish you were here to consider this with me; but youwould grunt dissent, and smile bitterly at my theories. I am trying toteach the bumpkins of the united parishes of Boulge and Debach to sing asecond to such melodies as the women sing by way of Hymns in our Church:and I have invented (as I think) a most simple and easy way of teachingthem the little they need to learn. How would you like to see me, with abit of chalk in my hand, before a black board, scoring up semibreves on astaff for half a dozen Rustics to vocalize? Laugh at me in Imagination. . . . 

Almost the only man I hear from is dear old Spedding, who has lost hisFather, and is now, I suppose, a rich man. This makes no apparent changein his way of life: he has only hired an additional Attic in Lincoln'sInn Fields, so as to be able to bed a friend upon occasion. I may haveto fill it ere long. Merivale (you know, surely) is married, and has ason I hear. He lives some twenty miles from here. . . . 

Now, my dear Frederic, this is a sadly dull letter. I could have made itduller and sadder by telling you other things. But, instead of this, letme hear from you a good account of yourself and your family, andespecially of my little Godson. Remember, I have a right to hear abouthim. Ever yours, dear old Grimsby, E. F. G. 

[19 CHARLOTTE ST. , FITZROY SQUARE, _Dec_. 1851. ]

MY DEAR OLD FREDERIC, I have long been thinking I would answer a long and kind letter I hadfrom you some weeks ago, in which you condoled with me about my finances, and offered me your house as a Refuge for the Destitute. I can neverwonder at generosity in you: but I am sorry I should have seemed tocomplain so much as to provoke so much pity from you. I am not worse offthan I have been these last three years; and so much better off thanthousands who deserve more that I should deserve to be kicked if I whinedover my decayed fortunes. If I go to Italy, it will be to see Florenceand Fred. Tennyson: I do not despair of going one day: I believe mydesire is gathering, and my indolence warming up with the exhilaratingincrease of Railroads. 

But for the present here I am, at 19 Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, come up to have a fresh squabble with Lawyers, and to see to an oldCollege friend who is gone mad, and threatens to drive his wife mad too, I think. Here are troubles, if you like: I mean, these poor people's. Well, I have not had much time except to post about in Omnibi betweenLincoln's Inn and Bayswater: but I have seen Alfred once; Carlyle once;Thackeray twice; and Spedding many times. I did not see Mrs. A. : but amto go and dine there one day before I leave. Carlyle has been undergoingthe Water System at Malvern, and says it has done him a very little good. He would be quite well, he says, if he threw his Books away, and walkedabout the mountains: but that would be 'propter vitam, etc. ' Nature madehim a Writer: so he must wear himself out writing Lives of Sterling, etc. , for the Benefit of the World. Thackeray says he is getting tiredof being witty, and of the great world: he is now gone to deliver hisLectures {272} at Edinburgh: having already given them at Oxford andCambridge. Alfred, I thought looking pretty well. Spedding is immutablywise, good, and delightful: not so immutably well in Body, I think:though he does not complain. But I will deal in no more vaticinations ofEvil. I can't think what was the oracle in my Letters you allude to, Imean about the three years' duration of our lives. I have long feltabout England as you do, and even made up my mind to it, so as to sitcomparatively, if ignobly, easy on that score. Sometimes I envy thosewho are so old that the curtain will probably fall on them before it doeson their Country. If one could save the Race, what a Cause it would be!not for one's own glory as a member of it, nor even for its glory as aNation: but because it is the only spot in Europe where Freedom keeps herplace. Had I Alfred's voice, I would not have mumbled for years over InMemoriam and the Princess, but sung such strains as would have revivedthe [Greek text] to guard the territory they had won. What can 'InMemoriam' do but make us all sentimental? . . . 

My dear Frederic, I hope to see you one day: I really do look forward oneday to go and see you in Italy, as well as to see you here in England. Iknow no one whom it would give me more pleasure to think of as one whomight perhaps be near me as we both go down the hill together, whether inItaly or England. You, Spedding, Thackeray, and only one or two more. The rest have come like shadows and so departed. 

_To G. Crabbe_. 

[_Feb_. 27, 1852. ]

MY DEAR GEORGE, . . . I rejoice in your telling me what you think; or I should rejoice ifthese books were of importance enough to require honest advice. I thinkyou may be very right about the length of the Preface; {273} that I donot think you right about the reasoning of it you may suppose by my everprinting it. It is to show _why_ Books of that kind are dull: what sortof writers ought to be quoted, etc. ; proverbial writers: and whatconstitutes proverbiality, etc. Well, enough of it all: I am glad youlike it on the whole. As to Euphranor I do wish him not to die yet: andam gratified you think him worthy to survive a little longer. That is agood cause, let my treatment of it be as it will. 

I and Drew sat up at your Father's till 3 (a. M. ) last Tuesday: at the oldaffair of Calvinism, etc. It amuses them: else one would think it oddthey did not see how they keep on fighting with Shadows, and slaying theslain. 

I am really going next week from home, towards that famous expedition toShropshire {274} which I mean to perform one day. I write after walkingto Woodbridge: and hear that Mr. Cana has called in my absence toannounce that 'the Hall' is let; to a Mr. Cobbold, from Saxmundham, Ithink, who has a farm at Sutton. I met Tom (_young_ Tom) Churchyard inWoodbridge, who tells me he is going to America on Monday! He makes lessfuss about it than I do about going to Shropshire. 

HAM, _June_ 2/52. 

MY DEAR GEORGE, . . . Order into your Book Club 'Trench on the Study of Words'; adelightful, good, book, not at all dry (unless to fools); one I am sureyou will like. Price but three and sixpence and well worth a guinea atleast. 

In spite of my anti-London prejudices, I find this Limb of London (forsuch it is) very beautiful: the Thames with its Swans upon it, and itswooded sides garnished with the Villas of Poets, Wits, and Courtiers, ofa Time which (I am sorry to say) has more charms to me than the MiddleAges, or the Heroic. 

I have seen scarce any of the living London Wits; Spedding and Donnemost: Thackeray but twice for a few minutes. He finished his Novel {275}last Saturday and is gone, I believe, to the Continent. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

GOLDINGTON, BEDFORD, _June_ 8/52. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, It gave me, as always, the greatest pleasure to hear from you. Yourletter found me at my Mother's house, at Ham, close to Richmond; a reallylovely place, and neighbourhood, though I say it who am all prejudicedagainst London and 'all the purtenances thereof. ' But the copious woods, green meadows, the Thames and its swans gliding between, and so manyvillas and cheerful houses and terraced gardens with all theirassociations of Wits and Courtiers on either side, all this is verydelightful. I am not heroic enough for Castles, Battlefields, etc. Strawberry Hill for me! I looked all over it: you know all the pictures, jewels, curiosities, were sold some ten years ago; only bare wallsremain: the walls indeed here and there stuck with Gothic woodwork, andthe ceilings with Gothic gilding, sometimes painted Gothic to imitatewoodwork; much of it therefore in less good taste: all a Toy, but yet theToy of a very clever man. The rain is coming through the Roofs, andgradually disengaging the confectionary Battlements and Cornices. Do youlike Walpole? did you ever read him? Then close by is Hampton Court:with its stately gardens, and fine portraits inside; all very much to myliking. I am quite sure gardens should be formal, and unlike generalNature. I much prefer the old French and Dutch gardens to what arecalled the English. 

I saw scarce any of our friends during the three weeks I passed at Ham. Though I had to run to London several times, I generally ran back as fastas I could; much preferring the fresh air and the fields to the smoke and'the wilderness of monkeys' in London. Thackeray I saw for ten minutes:he was just in the agony of finishing a Novel: which has arisen out ofthe Reading necessary for his Lectures, and relates to those Times--ofQueen Anne, I mean. He will get 1000 pounds for his Novel. He waswanting to finish it, and rush off to the Continent, I think, to shakeoff the fumes of it. Old Spedding, that aged and most subtle Serpent, was in his old haunt in Lincoln's Inn Fields, up to any mischief. It wassupposed that Alfred was somewhere near Malvern: Carlyle I did not go tosee, for I really have nothing to tell him, and I have got tired ofhearing him growl: though I do not cease to admire him as much as ever. Ialso went once to the pit of the Covent Garden Italian Opera, to hearMeyerbeer's Huguenots, of which I had only heard bits on the Pianoforte. But the first Act was so noisy, and ugly, that I came away, unable towait for the better part, that, I am told, follows. Meyerbeer is a manof Genius: and works up _dramatic_ Music: but he has scarce any melody, and is rather grotesque and noisy than really powerful. I think this isthe fault of modern music; people cannot believe that Mozart is_powerful_ because he is so Beautiful: in the same way as it requires avery practised eye (more than I possess) to recognize the consummatepower predominating in the tranquil Beauty of Greek Sculpture. I thinkBeethoven is rather spasmodically, than sustainedly, grand. 

Well, I must take to my third side after all, which I meant to havespared you, partly because of this transparent paper, and my more thanusually bad writing. I came down here four days ago: and have thismorning sketched for you the enclosed, the common that lies before myBedroom window, as I pulled up my blind, and opened my shutter upon it, early this morning. I never draw now, never drew well; but this mayserve to give a hint of poor old dewy England to you who are, I suppose, beginning to be dried up in the South. W. Browne, my host, tells me thatyour Grimsby Rail is looking up greatly, and certainly will pay well, sooner or later: which I devoutly hope it may. 

I do not think I told you my Father was dead; like poor old Sedley inThackeray's Vanity Fair, all his Coal schemes at an end. He died inMarch, after an illness of three weeks, saying 'that engine works well'(meaning one of his Colliery steam engines) as he lay in the stupor ofDeath. I was in Shropshire at the time, with my old friend Allen; but Iwent home to Suffolk just to help to lay him in the Grave. 

Pray do send me your Poems, one and all: I should like very much to talkthem over with you, however much you might resent me, who am no Poet, presuming to advise you who as certainly are one. That you ought topublish some of these Poems (as I think, somewhat condensed, or, atleast, curtailed) I am more and more sure, having seen the very greatpleasure, and deep interest, some of them have caused when read topersons of very different talents and tastes. 

And now, my dear Frederic, farewell for the present. Remember, youcannot write to me too often, as far as I am concerned. 

Don't write Politics--I agree with you beforehand. 

_To W. B. Donne_. 

BOULGE, _August_ 10/52. 

MY DEAR DONNE, It is very good of you to write to me, so much as you have to do. I ammuch obliged to you also for taking the trouble to go and see my Mother. You may rely on it she feels as pleased with your company as she says sheis: I do not know any one who has the power of being so agreeable to heras yourself. 

And dear old Thackeray is really going to America! I must fire him aletter of farewell. 

The Cowells are at Ipswich, and I get over to see them, etc. They talkof coming here too. I have begun again to read Calderon with Cowell: theMagico we have just read, a very grand thing. I suppose Calderon wasover-praised some twenty years ago: for the last twenty it has been thefashion to underpraise him, I am sure. His Drama may not be the finestin the world: one sees how often too he wrote in the fashion of his timeand country: but he is a wonderful fellow: one of the Great Men of theworld. 

* * * * *

In October 1852 Thackeray sailed for America and before leaving wrote toFitzGerald the letter which he copied for Archdeacon Allen. I shall Itrust be pardoned for thinking that others will be the better for readingthe words of 'noble kindness' in which Thackeray took leave of hisfriend. 

[BOULGE, 22 _Nov. _ 1852. ]

MY DEAR ALLEN, I won't send you Thackeray's own letter because it is his own delegationof a little trust I would not hazard. But on the other side of the pageI write a copy: for your eyes only: for I would not wish to show even itsnoble kindness to any but one who has known him as closely as myself. 

_From W. M. Thackeray to E. F. G. _

_October_ 27, 1852. 

MY DEAREST OLD FRIEND, I mustn't go away without shaking your hand, and saying Farewell and GodBless you. If anything happens to me, you by these presents must getready the Book of Ballads which you like, and which I had not time toprepare before embarking on this voyage. And I should like my daughtersto remember that you are the best and oldest friend their Father everhad, and that you would act as such: as my literary executor and soforth. My Books would yield a something as copyrights: and, shouldanything occur, I have commissioned friends in good place to get aPension for my poor little wife. . . . Does not this sound gloomily?Well: who knows what Fate is in store: and I feel not at all downcast, but very grave and solemn just at the brink of a great voyage. 

I shall send you a copy of Esmond to-morrow or so which you shall yawnover when you are inclined. But the great comfort I have in thinkingabout my dear old boy is that recollection of our youth when we lovedeach other as I do now while I write Farewell. 

Laurence has done a capital head of me ordered by Smith the Publisher:and I have ordered a copy and Lord Ashburton another. If Smith gives methis one, I shall send the copy to you. I care for you as you know, andalways like to think that I am fondly and affectionately yours

W. M. T. 

I sail from Liverpool on Saturday Morning by the Canada for Boston. 

* * * * *

That the feelings here expressed were fully reciprocated by FitzGerald isclear from the following words of a letter written by him to Thackeray totell him of a provision he had made in his will. 

 'You see you can owe me no thanks for giving what I can no longer use "when I go down to the pit, " and it would be some satisfaction to me, and some diminution of the shame I felt on reading your letter, if "after many days" your generous and constant friendship bore some sort of fruit, if not to yourself to those you are naturally anxious about. '

I have not been able to ascertain the exact time at which FitzGeraldbegan his Spanish studies; but it must have been long before this, for in1853 the first-fruits of them appeared in the 'Six Dramas from Calderonfreely translated by Edward FitzGerald, ' the only book to which he everput his name. It was probably in 1853 that he took up Persian, in which, as in Spanish, his friend Cowell was his guide. 

_To G. Crabbe_. 

BOULGE, _July_ 22/53. 

MY DEAR GEORGE, Your account of the Doctor's warnings to your Cousin in your first notedelighted me greatly: as it did your Father to whom I read it last night. For, on coming home from Aldbro' (where I had been for a day) I found tomy great surprise your Father smoking in my room, with a bottle of Port(which he had brought with him!). The mystery was then solved; that, after his own dinner, Mr. --- was announced, and your Father dreadinglest he should stay all the Evening declared he had most importantbusiness, first at Woodbridge, then, on second thoughts, with me; and sodecamped. 

Now as to your second letter which I found also on my return: I am veryglad you like the plays {282} and am encouraged to hope that otherpersons who are not biassed by pedantic prejudices or spites might likethem too. But I fully expect that (as I told you, I think) the Londonpress, etc. , will either sink them, or condemn them as on too free aprinciple: and all the more if they have not read the originals. Forthese are safe courses to adopt. All this while I am assuming the playsare well done in their way, which of course I do. On the other hand, they really may not be as well done as I think; on their own principle:and that would really be a fair ground of condemnation. 

_To W. F. Pollock_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _July_ 25/53. 

MY DEAR POLLOCK, Thank you for your letter. Though I believed the Calderon to be on thewhole well done and entertaining, I began to wish to be told it was so byothers, for fear I had made a total mistake: which would have been abore. And the very free and easy translation lies open to such easycondemnation, unless it be successful. 

Your account of Sherborne rouses all the Dowager within me. I shall haveto leave this cottage, I believe, and have not yet found a placesufficiently dull to migrate to. Meanwhile to-morrow I am going to oneof my great treats: viz. The Assizes at Ipswich: where I shall see littleVoltaire Jervis, {283a} and old Parke, {283b} who I trust will have thegout, he bears it so Christianly. 

_To G. Crabbe_. 

BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, _Sept_. 12/53. 

MY DEAR GEORGE, I enclose you a scrap from 'The Leader' as you like to see criticisms onmy Calderon. I suppose your sisters will send you the Athenaeum in whichyou will see a more determined spit at me. I foresaw (as I think I toldyou) how likely this was to be the case: and so am not surprized. Onemust take these chances if one will play at so doubtful a game. Ibelieve those who read the Book, without troubling themselves aboutwhether it is a free Translation or not, like it: but Critics must besupposed to know all, and it is safe to condemn. On the other hand, theTranslation may not be good on any ground: and then the Critics are allright. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

3 PARK VILLAS WEST, RICHMOND, SURREY, _October_ 25/53. 

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . I think I forgot to tell you that Mr. Maccarthy (my literal Rivalin Calderon) mentions in his Preface a masterly Critique on Calderon inthe Westminster 1851, which I take to be yours. {284} He says it, andthe included translations, are the best Commentary he has seen on thesubject. 

I have ordered Eastwick's Gulistan: for I believe I shall potter out somuch Persian. The weak Apologue {285a} goes on (for I have not had timefor much here) and I find it difficult enough even with Jones'sTranslation. 

I am now going to see the last of the Tennysons at Twickenham. 

_To F. Tennyson_. 

BREDFIELD RECTORY, {285b} WOODBRIDGE. _December_ 27/53. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, I am too late to wish you a Happy Christmas; so must wish you a happy NewYear. Write to me here, and tell me (in however few words) how youprospered in your journey to Italy: how you all are there: and how yourBook progresses. I saw Harvest Home advertised in Fraser: and I haveheard from Mrs. Alfred it is so admired that Parker is to print twothousand copies of the Volume. I am glad of this: and I think, littleambitious or vain as you really are, you will insensibly be pleased atgaining your proper Station in public Celebrity. Had I not known what aninvidious office it is to meddle with such Poems, and how assuredlypeople would have said that one had helped to clip away the Best Poems, and the best part of them, I should have liked to advise you in theselection: a matter in which I feel confidence. But you would not haveagreed with me any more than others: though on different grounds: and soin all ways it was, and is, and will be, best to say nothing more on thesubject. I am very sure that, of whatever your Volume is composed, youwill make public almost the only Volume of Verse, except Alfred's, worthyof the name. 

I hear from Mrs. Alfred they are got to their new abode in the Isle ofWight. I have been into Norfolk: and am now come to spend Christmas inthis place, where, as you have been here, you can fancy me. Old Crabbeis as brave and hearty as ever: drawing designs of Churches: and we areall now reading Moore's Memoirs with considerable entertainment: I cannotsay the result of it in one's mind is to prove Moore a Great Man: thoughit certainly does not leave him altogether 'The Poor Creature' that Mr. Allingham reduced him to. I also amuse myself with poking out somePersian which E. Cowell would inaugurate me with: I go on with it becauseit is a point in common with him, and enables us to study a littletogether. He and his wife are at Oxford: and his Pracrit Grammar is tobe out in a few days. 

I have settled upon no new Abode: but have packed up all my few goods ina neighbouring Farm House {287a} (that one near Woodbridge I took youto), and will now float about for a year and visit some friends. PerhapsI shall get down to the Isle of Wight one day: also to Shropshire, to seeAllen: to Bath to a Sister. But you can always direct hither, since oldCrabbe is only too glad to have some letters to pay for, and forward tome. . . . We have one of the old fashioned winters, snow and frost: notfulfilling the word of those who were quite sure the seasons werealtered. Farewell, my dear Frederic. 

E. F. G. 

BATH, _May_ 7/54. 

MY DEAR FREDERIC, You see to what fashionable places I am reduced in my old Age. The truthis however I am come here by way of Visit to a sister {287b} I havescarce seen these six years; my visit consisting in this that I livealone in a lodging of my own by day, and spend two or three hours withher in the Evening. This has been my way of Life for three weeks, andwill be so for some ten days more: after which I talk of flying back tomore native counties. I was to have gone on to see Alfred in his 'IslandHome' from here: but it appears he goes to London about the same time Iquit this place: so I must and shall defer my Visit to him. Perhaps Ishall catch a sight of him in London; as also of old Thackeray who, Donnewrites me word, came suddenly on him in Pall Mall the other day: whileall the while people supposed the Newcomes were being indited at Rome orNaples. 

If ever you live in England you must live here at Bath. It really is asplendid City in a lovely, even a noble, Country. Did you ever see it?One beautiful feature in the place is the quantity of Garden and Orchardit is all through embroidered with. Then the Streets, when you go intothem, are as handsome and gay as London, gayer and handsomer becausecleaner and in a clearer Atmosphere; and if you want the Country you getinto it (and a very fine Country) on all sides and directly. Then thereis such Choice of Houses, Cheap as well as Dear, of all sizes, with goodMarkets, Railways, etc. I am not sure I shall not come here for part ofthe Winter. It is a place you would like, I am sure: though I do not saybut you are better in Florence. Then on the top of the hill is oldVathek's Tower, which he used to sit and read in daily, and from which hecould see his own Fonthill, while it stood. Old Landor quoted to me'Nullus in orbe locus, etc. , ' apropos of Bath: he, you may know, haslived here for years, and I should think would die here, though not yet. He seems so strong that he may rival old Rogers; of whom indeed oneNewspaper gave what is called an 'Alarming Report of Mr. Rogers' Health'the other day, but another contradicted it directly and indignantly, anddeclared the Venerable Poet never was better. Landor has some hundredand fifty Pictures; each of which he thinks the finest specimen of thefinest Master, and has a long story about, how he got it, when, etc. Idare say some are very good: but also some very bad. He appeared to meto judge of them as he does of Books and Men; with a most uncompromisingperversity which the Phrenologists must explain to us after his Death. 

By the bye, about your Book, which of course you wish me to say somethingabout. Parker sent me down a copy 'from the Author' for which I herebythank you. If you believe my word, you already know my Estimation of somuch that is in it: you have already guessed that I should have made adifferent selection from the great Volume which is now in Tatters. As Idiffer in Taste from the world, however, quite as much as from you, I donot know but you have done very much better in choosing as you have; thefew people I have seen are very much pleased with it, the Cowells atOxford delighted. A Bookseller there sold all his Copies the first daythey came down: and even in Bath a Bookseller (and not one of thePrincipal) told me a fortnight ago he had sold some twenty Copies. Ihave not been in Town since it came out: and have now so littlecorrespondence with literati I can't tell you about them. There was avery unfair Review in the Athenaeum; which is the only Literary Paper Isee: but I am told there are laudatory ones in Examiner and Spectator. 

I was five weeks at Oxford, visiting the Cowells in just the same waythat I am visiting my Sister here. I also liked Oxford greatly: but notso well I think as Bath: which is so large and busy that one is drownedin it as much as in London. There are often concerts, etc. , for thosewho like them; I only go to a shilling affair that comes off everySaturday at what they call the Pump Room. On these occasions there issometimes some Good Music if not excellently played. Last Saturday Iheard a fine Trio of Beethoven. Mendelssohn's things are mostly tiresometo me. I have brought my old Handel Book here and recreate myself nowand then with pounding one of the old Giant's Overtures on my sister'sPiano, as I used to do on that Spinnet at my Cottage. As to Operas, andExeter Halls, I have almost done with them: they give me no pleasure, Iscarce know why. 

I suppose there is no chance of your being over in England this year, andperhaps as little Chance of my being in Italy. All I can say is, thelatter is not impossible, which I suppose I may equally say of theformer. But pray write to me. You can always direct to me at Donne's, 12 St. James' Square, or at Rev. G. Crabbe's, Bredfield, Woodbridge. Either way the letter will soon reach me. Write soon, Frederic, and letme hear how you and yours are: and don't wait, as you usually do, forsome inundation of the Arno to set your pen agoing. Write ever soshortly and whatever-about-ly. I have no news to tell you of Friends. Isaw old Spedding in London; only doubly calm after the death of a Niecehe dearly loved and whose death-bed at Hastings he had just been waitingupon. Harry {291} Lushington wrote a martial Ode on seeing the Guardsmarch over Waterloo Bridge towards the East: I did not see it, but it wasmuch admired and handed about, I believe. And now my paper is out: and Iam going through the rain (it is said to rain very much here) to mySister's. So Good Bye, and write to me, as I beg you, in reply to thislong if not very interesting letter. 

_To John Allen_. 

MARKET HILL, WOODBRIDGE. _October_ 8/54. 

MY DEAR ALLEN, 'What cheer?' This is what we nautical Men shout to one another as wepass in our Ships. The Answer is generally only an Echo; but you willhave to tell me something more. I find it rather disgusting to set youan example by telling of my Doings; for it is always the same thing overand over again. I doubt this will put an End to even Letters at last: Imean, on my part. You have others beside yourself to tell of; you goabroad, too; deliver charges, etc. 

Well, however, I had better say that I have been for the last four monthsgoing about in my little Ship as in former years, and now am about to layup her, and myself, for the Winter. The only Friend I hear from isDonne, who volunteers a Letter unprovoked sometimes. Old Spedding givesan unwilling Reply about thrice in two years. You speak when spoken to;so does Thompson, in general: I shall soon ask of him what he has beendoing this Summer. 

I have been reading in my Boat--Virgil, Juvenal, and Wesley's Journal. Doyou know the last? one of the most interesting Books, I think, in theLanguage. It is curious to think of his Diary extending over nearly thesame time as Walpole's Letters, which, you know, are a sort of Diary. What two different Lives, Pursuits, and Topics! The other day I wassitting in a Garden at Lowestoft in which Wesley had preached his firstSermon there: the Wall he set his Back against yet standing. About 1790{292a} Crabbe, the Poet, went to hear him; he was helped into the Pulpitby two Deacons, and quoted--

 'By the Women oft I'm told, Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old, etc. ' {292b}

So I have heard _my_ George Crabbe tell: who has told it also in his verycapital Memoir of his Father. {292c}

Sheet full. Kind Regards to Madame and Young Folks. Ever yours, E. F. G. 

_To T. Carlyle_. 

RECTORY, BREDFIELD, WOODBRIDGE. 

DEAR CARLYLE, I should sometimes write to you if I had anything worth telling, or worthputting you to the trouble of answering me. About twice in a yearhowever I do not mind asking you one thing which is easily answered, howyou and Mrs. Carlyle are? And yet perhaps it is not so easy for you totell me so much about yourself: for your 'well-being' comprises a gooddeal! That you are not carried off by the Cholera I take for granted:since else I should have seen in the papers some controversy with DoctorWordsworth as to whether you were to be buried in Westminster Abbey, bythe side of Wilberforce perhaps! Besides, a short note from Thackeray afew weeks ago told me you had been to see him. I conclude also from thisthat you have not been a summer excursion of any distance. 

I address from the Rectory (_Vicarage_ it ought to be) of Crabbe, the'_Radiator_, ' whose mind is now greatly exercised with Dr. Whewell'sPlurality of Worlds. Crabbe, who is a good deal in the secrets ofProvidence, admires the work beyond measure, but most indignantly rejectsthe Doctrine as unworthy of God. I have not read the Book, contented tohear Crabbe's commentaries. I have been staying with him off and on fortwo months, and, as I say, give his Address because any letter thitherdirected will find me sooner or later in my little wanderings. I am atpresent staying with a Farmer in a very pleasant house near Woodbridge:inhabiting such a room as even you, I think, would sleep composedly in;my host a taciturn, cautious, honest, active man whom I have known all myLife. He and his Wife, a capital housewife, and his Son, who could carryme on his shoulders to Ipswich, and a Maid servant who, as she curtsiesof a morning, lets fall the Tea-pot, etc. , constitute the household. Farming greatly prospers; farming materials fetching an exorbitant priceat the Michaelmas Auctions: all in defiance of Sir Fitzroy Kelly who gotreturned for Suffolk on the strength of denouncing Corn Law Repeal as theruin of the Country. He has bought a fine house near Ipswich, with greatgilded gates before it, and by dint of good dinners and soft sawderfinally draws the country Gentry to him. . . . 

Please to look at the September Number of Fraser's Magazine where aresome prose Translations of Hafiz by Cowell which may interest you alittle. I think Cowell (as he is apt to do) gives Hafiz rather too muchcredit for a mystical wine-cup, and Cupbearer; I mean taking him on thewhole. The few odes he quotes have certainly a deep and pious feeling:such as the Man of Mirth will feel at times; none perhaps more strongly. 

Some one by chance read out to me the other day at the seaside youraccount of poor old Naseby Village from Cromwell, quoted in Knight's'Half Hours, etc. ' It is now twelve years ago, at this very season, Iwas ransacking for you; you promising to come down, and never coming. Ihope very much you are soon going to give us something: else Jerrold andTupper carry all before them. 

SATURDAY, _October_ 14/54. 

* * * * *

In August 1855 Carlyle went to stay with FitzGerald at Farlingay, a farmhouse on the Hasketon road, half a mile from Woodbridge. 

BREDFIELD RECTORY, WOODBRIDGE. _August_ 1, [1855]. 

DEAR CARLYLE, I came down here yesterday: and saw my Farming Friends to-day, who arequite ready to do all service for us at any time. They live about twomiles nearer Woodbridge than this place I write from and I am certainthey and their place will suit you very well. I am going to them anyday: indeed am always fluctuating between this place and theirs; and youcan come down to me there, or here, any day--(for Crabbe and his Daughterwill, they bid me say, be very glad if you will come; and I engage youshan't be frightened, and that the place shall suit you as well as theFarmer's). I say you can come to either place any day, and withoutwarning if you like; only in that case I can't go to meet you at Ipswich. Beds, etc. , are all ready whether here or at the Farmer's. If you liketo give me notice, you can say which place you will come to first: and Iwill meet you at any time at Ipswich. 

I think if you come you had best come as soon as possible, beforeharvest, and while the Days are long and fine. Why not come directly?while all the Coast is so clear?

Now as to your mode of going. There are Rail Trains to Ipswich fromShoreditch, at 7 a. M. 11 a. M. And 3 p. M. All of which come to Ipswich intime for Coaches which carry you to Woodbridge; where, if you arriveunawares, any one will show you the way to Mr. Smith's, of FarlingayHall, about half a mile from Woodbridge; or direct you to ParsonCrabbe's, at Bredfield, about three miles from Woodbridge. You may takemy word (will you?) that you will be very welcome at either or both ofthese places; I mean, to the owners as well as myself. 

Well, then there is a Steamer every Wednesday and Sunday; which startsfrom Blackwall at 9 a. M. ; to go by which you must be at the BlackwallRailroad Station in Fenchurch Street by half past eight. This Steamergets to Ipswich at half past 5 or 6; probably in time for a WoodbridgeCoach, but not certainly. It is a very pleasant sail. The Rail toIpswich takes three or two and a half hours. 

Have I more to say? I can't think of it if I have. Only, dear Mrs. Carlyle, please to let me know what C. Is '_To Eat--Drink--and Avoid_. 'As I know that his wants are in a small compass, it will be as easy toget what he likes as not, if you will only say. If you like SundaySteam, it will be quite convenient whether here or at Farlingay. Crabbeonly is too glad if one doesn't go to his church. 

BREDFIELD, _Sunday_. 

Scrap for Scrap! I go to-morrow to stay at Farlingay, where you willfind me, or I will find you, as proposed in my last. Do not let it be aburden on you to come now, then, or at all; but, if you come, I thinkthis week will be good in weather as in other respects. You will be atmost entire Liberty; with room, garden, and hours, to yourself, whetherat Farlingay or here, where you must come for a day or so. Pipes are theorder of the house at both places; the Radiator always lighting up afterhis 5 o'clock dinner, and rather despising me for not always doing so. Atboth places a capital sunshiny airy Bedroom without any noise. I wishMrs. C. Could come, indeed; but I will not propose this; for though myFarm has good room, my Hostess would fret herself to entertain a Ladysuitably, and that I would avoid, especially toward Harvest time. WillMrs. Carlyle believe this?

E. F. G. 

P. S. Bring some Books. If you don't find yourself well, or at ease, with us, you have really but to go off without any sort of Ceremony assoon as you like: so don't tie yourself to any time at all. If theweather be fair, I predict you will like a week; and I shall like as muchmore as you please; leaving you mainly to your own devices all the while. 

_From T. Carlyle_. 

CHELSEA, 7 _Augt_. 1855. 

DEAR FITZGERALD, In spite of these heavy showers, I persist in believing the weather willclear, and means really to be dry: at any rate I am not made of sugar orof salt; so intend to be off to-morrow;--and am, even now, in all thehorrors of a half rotted ship, which has lain two years, dead, among theooze, and is now trying to get up its anchor again: ropes breaking, sailsholed, blocks giving way, you may fancy what a pother there is!

My train is to be 11 a. M. From Shoreditch; which gets to Ipswich abouttwo? If you have a gig and pony, of course it will be pleasant to seeyour face at the end of my shrieking, mad, (and to me quite horrible)rail operations: but if I see nothing, I will courageously go for theCoach, and shall do quite well there, if I can get on the outsideespecially. So don't mind which way it is; a _small_ weight ought toturn it either way. I hope to get to Farlingay not long after 4 o'clock, and have a quiet mutton chop in due time, and have a do pipe or pipes:nay I could even have a bathe if there was any sea water left in theevening. If you did come to Ipswich, an hour (hardly more) to glance atthe old Town might not be amiss. 

I will bring Books enough with me: I am used to several hours of solitudeevery day; and cannot be said ever to _weary_ of being left well alone. But we will 'drive' to any places you recommend; do bidding of the omens, to a fair degree withal: in short I calculate on getting some realbenefit by this plunge into the maritime rusticities under your friendlyguidance, and the quiet of it will be of all things welcome to me. 

My wife firmly intended writing to you to-day, and perhaps has done so;but if not, you are to take it as a thing done, for indeed there wasnothing whatever of importance to be said farther. 

To-morrow then (Wednesday 8th) 11 a. M. --wish me a happy passage. Yoursever truly, T. CARLYLE. 

CHELSEA, 23 _Augt_. 1855. 

DEAR FITZGERALD, Here, after a good deal of bothering to improve it, above all to abridgeit, is the proposed Inscription for the Pillar at Naseby. You need notscruple a moment to make any change that strikes you; I am well aware itis good for nothing except its practical object, and that I have no skillin lapidary literature. 

The worst thing will be, discovering the _date_ of your Naseby diggings. I ought to have it here; and probably I have, --in some remote dustytrunk, whither it is a terror to go looking for it! Try you what youcan, and the Naseby Farmer too (if he is still extant); then I will try. At worst we can say 'Ten years ago'; but the exact date would be better. 

The figure of the stone ought to be of Egyptian simplicity: a broadishparallelopipedon (or rather _octaedron_; the _corners_ well chamferedoff, to avoid breakages, will make it 8-faced, I think); in the substanceof the stone there is one quality to be looked for, durability; and theletters ought to be cut deep, --and by no means in lapidary _lines_(attend to that!), but simply like _two verses of the Bible_, so that hewho runs may read. I rather like the _Siste Viator_, --yet will let youblot it out, --it is as applicable as to any Roman Tomb, and more so thanto ours, which are in enclosed places, where any 'Traveller, ' if heeither 'stop' or go, will presently have the constable upon him. This isall I have to say about the stone; and I recommend that it be now donestraightway, before you quit hold of that troublesome locality. 

I find I must not promise to myself to go thither with you; alas, nor atall. I cannot get to sleep again since I came out of Suffolk: thestillness of Farlingay is unattainable in Chelsea for a _second_ sleep, so I have to be content with the first, which is oftenest about 5 hours, and a very poor allowance for the afflicted son of Adam. I feelprivately confident I _have_ got good by my Suffolk visit, and by all thekindness of my beneficent brother mortals to me there: but in themeanwhile it has 'stirred up a good deal of bile, ' I suppose; and we mustwait. 

London is utterly vacant to me, of all but noises from Cremorne and suchsources: there is not in Britain a better place for work than thisGarret, if one had strength or heart for fronting work to any purpose. Itry a little, but mostly with very small result. 

If you know _Glyde_ of Ipswich, and can understand him to be really worthsubscribing for, pray put down your name and mine, as a bit of duty; ifnot, not, --and burn his letter. 

I send the heartiest thanks, and remembrances to kind Mrs. Smith, and allthe industrious Harvesters; also to Papa and the young lady atBredfield:--as I well may!--I recommend myself to your prayers; and hopeto come again, if I live, when you have set your own house in order. Yours, dear F. , with true regards, T. CARLYLE. 

Naseby Pillar (briefest and final form). 

_Siste Viator_. 

Here, and for --- yards to rearward, lies the Dust of men slain in theBattle of Naseby, 14 June 1645. Hereabouts appears to have been thecrisis of the struggle, hereabouts the final charge of Oliver Cromwelland his Ironsides, that day. 

 This {302a} Ground was opened, not irreverently or witht reluctance, Saty 23 Septr 1842, to ascertain that fact, and render the contemporary records legible. Peace henceforth to these old Dead. 

Edwd Fitzgd (with date). 

ADDISCOMBE FARM, CROYDON, 15 _Septr_, 1855. 

DEAR FITZGERALD, I have been here ever since the day you last heard of me; leading thestrangest life of absolute _Latrappism_; and often enough rememberingFarlingay and you. I live perfectly alone, and without speech atall, --there being in fact nobody to speak to, except one austerelypunctual housemaid, who does her functions, like an eight-day clock, generally without bidding. My wife comes out now and then to give therequisite directions; but commonly withdraws again on the morrow, leavingthe monster to himself and his own ways. I have Books; a completeEdition of _Voltaire_, {302b} for one Book, in which I read for _use_, orfor idleness oftenest, --getting into endless reflexions over it, mostlyof a sad and not very utterable nature. I find V. A 'gentleman, ' livingin a world partly furnished with such; and that there are now almost no'gentlemen' (not quite _none_): this is one great head of my reflexions, to which there is no visible _tail_ or finish. I have also a Horse(borrowed from my fat Yeoman friend, who is at sea bathing in Sussex);and I go riding, at great lengths daily, over hill and dale: this Ibelieve is really the main good I am doing, --if in this either there bemuch good. But it is a strange way of life to me, for the time; perhapsnot unprofitable: To let _Chaos_ say out its say, then, and one's EvilGenius give one the very worst language he has, for a while. It is stillto last for a week or more. To day, for the first time, I ride back toChelsea, but mean to return hither on Monday. There is a great circle ofyellow light all the way from Shooter's Hill to Primrose Hill, spreadround my horizon every night, I see it while smoking my pipe before bed(so bright, last night, it cast a visible shadow of me against the whitewindow-shutters); and this is all I have to do with London and its_gases_ for a fortnight or more. My wife writes to me, there was anawful jangle of bells last day she went home from this; a Quaker asked inthe railway, of some porter, 'Can thou tell me what these bellsmean?'--'Well, I suppose something is up. They say Sebastopol is took, and the Rushans run away. '--_A la bonne heure_: but won't they come backagain, think you?

On the whole I say, when you get your little Suffolk cottage, you musthave in it a 'chamber in the wall' for me, _plus_ a pony that can trot, and a cow that gives good milk: with these outfits we shall make a prettyrustication now and then, not wholly _Latrappish_, but only _half_, onmuch easier terms than here; and I shall be right willing to come and tryit, I for one party. --Meanwhile, I hope the Naseby matter is steadilygoing ahead; sale _completed_; and even the _monument_ concern makingway. Tell me a little how that and other matters are. If you are athome, a line is rapidly conveyed hither, steam all the way: after thebeginning of the next week, I am at Chelsea, and (I dare say) there is afire in the evenings now to welcome you there. Shew face in some way orother. 

And so adieu; for my hour of riding is at hand. 

Yours ever truly, T. CARLYLE. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

31 GREAT PORTLAND STREET, P. PLACE. [1856. ]

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . You never say a word about your Hafiz. Has that fallen for thepresent, Austin not daring to embark in it in these days of war, whennothing that is not warlike sells except Macaulay? Don't suppose I bandycompliments; but, with moderate care, any such Translation of such awriter as Hafiz by you into pure, sweet, and partially measured Prosemust be better than what I am doing for Jami; {304} whose ingenuousprattle I am stilting into too Miltonic verse. This I am very sure of. But it is done. 

[_Jan_. 1856. ]

MY DEAR COWELL, I send you a sketch of Jami's Life, which cut, correct, and annotate asyou like. Where there was so little to tell I have brought in all thefine Names and extra bits I could to give it a little sparkle. There isvery little after all; I have spread it over Paper to give you room tonote _upon_ it. Only take care not to lose either these, or Yesterday's, Papers--for my Terror at going over the Ground!

You must put in the corrected Notice about the Sultan Hussein, both inthe Memoir and in the Note to the Poem. The latter will have room for atleast four (I think five) lines of note Type: which you must fill, andnot overflow: 'Strong without rage, etc. '

I feel guilty at taking up your Time and Thoughts: and also at Dressingmyself so in your Plumes. But I mean to say a word about this, [Greektext], in my Preliminary Notice; and would gladly dedicate the littleBook to you by Name, with due acknowledgment, did I think the world wouldtake it for a Compliment to you. But though I like the Version, and youlike it, we know very well the world--even the very little world, I mean, who will see it--may not; and might laugh at us both for any suchCompliment. They cannot laugh at your Scholarship; but they might laughat the use I put it to: and at my dedicating a _cobweb_ (as Carlylecalled Maud the other night) to you. 

31 GT PORTLAND ST. , P. PLACE. _Jan_. 10/56. 

MY DEAR COWELL, Do make a sign of some sort to me. I sent you a string of Questionsabout Salaman last week, all of which I did not want you to answer _atonce_, but wishing at least to hear if you had leisure and Inclination tomeddle with them. There is no reason in the world you should unless youreally have Time and Liking. If you _have_, I will send you the Proofsof the Little Book which Mr. Childs is even now putting in hand. Praylet me know as soon as you can what and how much of all this will beagreeable to you. 

You don't tell me how Hafiz gets on. There is one thing which I think Ifind in Salaman which may be worth your consideration (not needing much)in Hafiz: namely, in Translation to retain the original Persian Names asmuch as possible--'Shah' for 'king' for instance--'Yusuf and Suleyman'for 'Joseph and Solomon, ' etc. The Persian is not only more musical, butremoves such words and names further from Europe and European Prejudicesand Associations. So also I think best to talk of '_A Moon_' rather than'_a Month_, ' and perhaps 'sennight' is better than 'week. '

This is a little matter; but it is well to rub off as little OrientalColour as possible. 

As to a Notice of Jami's Life, you need not trouble yourself to draw itup unless you like; since I can make an extract of Ouseley's, and sendyou for any addition or correction you like. Very little needs be said. I have not yet been able to find Jami out in the Biographie Universelle. . . . 

Now let me hear from you _something_--whatever you like. Yours andLady's, E. F. G. 

You, I believe, in your Oxford Essay, translate Jami's 'Haft Aurang' asthe '_Seven Thrones_, ' it also meaning, I see, the seven Stars of theGreat Bear--'The Seven Stars. ' Why should not this latter be theTranslation? more intelligible, Poetical, and Eastern (as far as I see)than 'Thrones. '

_To Mrs. Cowell_. 

LONDON. Friday [_April_ 25, 1856]. 

MY DEAR LADY, The Picture after all did not go down yesterday as I meant, but shall andwill go to-morrow (Saturday). Also I shall send you dear Major Moor's'Oriental Fragments'; an almost worthless Book, I doubt, to those who didnot know him--which means, _love_ him! {307} And somehow all of us inour corner of Suffolk knew something of him: and so again loved somethingof him. For there was nothing at all about him not to be beloved. Ah! Ithink how interested he would have been with all this Persian: and how weshould have disputed over parts and expressions over a glass of hisShiraz wine (for he had some) in his snug Parlour, or in his Cornfieldswhen the Sun fell upon the latest Gleaners! He is dead, and you will gowhere he lived, to be dead to me!

Remember to take poor Barton's little Book {308a} with you to India;better than many a better Book to you there!

I got a glimpse of Professor Muller's Essay {308b}--full of fine things;but I hardly gather it up into a good whole, which is very likely myfault; from hasty perusal, ignorance, or other Incapacity. Perhaps, onthe other hand, he found the Subject too great for his Space; and so hasleft it disproportioned, which the German is not inapt to do. But onemay be well thankful for such admirable fragments, perhaps left so in thevery honesty that is above rounding them into a specious Theory whichwill not hold. 

[1856. ]

MY DEAR LADY, . . . If you see Trench's new Book about Calderon {308c} you will see hehas dealt very handsomely with me. He does not approve the Principle Iwent on; and what has he made of his own! I say this with every reason, as you will see, to praise him for his good word. He seems to me wrongabout his 'asonantes, ' which were much better _un_-assonanted as Cowelldid his Specimens. {309} With Trench the Language has to be forced tosecure the shadow of a Rhyme which is no pleasure to the Ear. So itseems to me on a hasty Look. 

* * * * *

Mr. Cowell was appointed Professor of History at the Presidency College, Calcutta, in 1856, and went out to India by the Cape in August, greatlyto FitzGerald's regret. 'Your talk of going to India, ' he wrote, 'makesmy Heart hang really heavy at my side. '

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

31 GT PORTLAND ST. LONDON. _Jan. _ 22/57. 

MY DEAREST COWELL, As usual I blunder. I have been taking for granted all this while thatof course we could not write to you till you had written to us! Else howseveral times I could have written! could have sent you some Lines ofHafiz or Jami or Nizami that I thought wanted Comment of some kind: so asthe Atlantic should have been no greater Bar between us than the twohours rail to Oxford. And now I have forgot many things, or have leftthe Books scattered in divers places; or, if I had all here, 'twould betoo much to send. So I must e'en take up with what the present Hourturns up. 

It was only yesterday I heard from your Brother of a Letter from you, telling of your safe Arrival; of the Dark Faces about you at yourCalcutta Caravanserai! Methinks how I should like to be there! Perhapsshould not, though, were the Journey only half its length! Write to meone day. . . . 

I have now been five weeks alone at my old Lodgings in London where youcame this time last year! My wife in Norfolk. She came up yesterday;and we have taken Lodgings for two months in the Regent's Park. And Ipositively stay behind here in the old Place on purpose to write to youin the same condition you knew me in and I you! I believe there are newChannels fretted in my Cheeks with many unmanly Tears since then, 'remembering the Days that are no more, ' in which you two are so mixt up. Well, well; I have no news to tell you. Public Matters you know I don'tmeddle with; and I have seen scarce any Friends even while in Londonhere. Carlyle but once; Thackeray not once; Spedding and Donne prettyoften. Spedding's first volume of Bacon is out; some seven hundredpages; and the Reviews already begin to think it over-commentaried. Howinterested would you be in it! and from you I should get a good Judgment, which perhaps I can't make for myself. I hear Tennyson goes on with KingArthur; but I have not seen or heard from him for a long long while. 

Oddly enough, as I finished the last sentence, Thackeray was announced;he came in looking gray, grand, and good-humoured; and I held up thisLetter and told him whom it was written to and he sends his Love! Hegoes Lecturing all over England; has fifty pounds for each Lecture: andsays he is ashamed of the Fortune he is making. But he deserves it. 

And now for my poor Studies. I have read really very little exceptPersian since you went: and yet, from want of Eyes, not very much ofthat. I have gone carefully over two-thirds of Hafiz again withDictionary and Von Hammer: and gone on with Jami and Nizami. But mygreat Performance all lies in the last five weeks since I have been alonehere; when I wrote to Napoleon Newton to ask him to lend me his MS. OfAttar's Mantic uttair; and, with the help of Garcin de Tassy {311} havenearly made out about two-thirds of it. For it has greatly interestedme, though I confess it is always an old Story. The Germans make a Fussabout the Sufi Doctrine; but, as far as I understand, it is not veryabstruse Pantheism, and always the same. One becomes as wearied of the_man-i_ and _du-i_ in their Philosophy as of the _bulbul_, etc. , in theirSongs. Attar's Doctrine seems to me only Jami and Jelaleddin (of whom Ihave poked out a little from the MS. You bought for me), but his Mantichas, like Salaman, the advantage of having a Story to hang all upon; andsome of his illustrative Stories are very agreeable: better than any ofthe others I have seen. He has not so much Fancy or Imagination as Jami, nor I dare say, so much depth as Jelaleddin; but his touch is lighter. Imean to make a Poetic Abstract of the Mantic, I think: neither De Tassynor Von Hammer {312} gives these Stories which are by far the best part, though there are so many childish and silly ones. Shah Mahmud figures inthe best. I am very pleased at having got on so well with this MS. Though I doubt at more cost of Eyesight than it is worth. I haveexchanged several Letters with Mr. Newton, though by various mischanceswe have not yet met; he has however introduced me to Mr. Dowson of theAsiatic, with whom, or with a certain Seyd Abdullah recommended by Allen, I mean (I think) to read a little. No need of this had you remainedbehind! Oh! how I should like to read the Mantic with you! It is veryeasy in the main. But I believe I shall never see you again; I really dobelieve that. And my Paper is gradually overcome as I write this: and Imust say Good Bye. Good Bye, my dear dear Friends! I dare not meddlewith Mr. And Mrs. Charlesworth. {313} Thackeray coming in overset me, with one thing and another. Farewell. Write to me; direct--whither? Fortill I see better how we get on I dare fix on no place to live or die in. Direct to me at Crabbe's, Bredfield, till you hear further. 

24 PORTLAND TERRACE, REGENT'S PARK. Saturday _January_ 23 [? 24] 1857. 

MY DEAR E. B. C. , I must write you a second Letter (which will reach you, I suppose, by thesame Post as that which I posted on Thursday Jan. 22) to tell you thatnot half an hour after I had posted that first Letter, arrived yours! Andnow, to make the Coincidence stranger, your Brother Charles, who is nowwith us for two days, tells me that very Thursday Jan. 24 (? 22) is yourBirthday! I am extremely obliged to you for your long, kind, andinteresting Letter: yes, yes: I should have liked to be on the Voyagewith you, and to be among the Dark People with you even now. YourBrother Charles, who came up yesterday, brought us up your Home Letter, and read it to us last night after Tea to our great Satisfaction. Ibelieve that in my already posted Letter I have told you much that youenquire about in yours received half an hour after: of my poor Studies atall events. This morning I have been taking the Physiognomy of the 19thBirds. . . . There are, as I wrote you, very pleasant stories. One, ofa Shah returning to his Capital, and his People dressing out a Welcomefor him, and bringing out Presents of Gold, Jewels, etc. , all which herides past without any Notice, till, coming to the Prison, the Prisoners, by way of their Welcome, toss before him the Bloody Heads and Limbs ofold and recent Execution. At which the Shah for the first time stops hisHorse--smiles--casts Largess among the Prisoners, etc. And when askedwhy he neglected all the Jewels, etc. , and stopped with satisfaction atsuch a grim welcome as the Prisoners threw him, he says, 'The Jewels, etc. , were but empty Ostentation--but those bloody Limbs prove that myLaw has been executed, without which none of those Heads and Carcaseswould have parted Company, etc. ' De Tassy notices a very agreeable Storyof Mahmud and the Lad fishing: and I find another as pleasant aboutMahmud consorting 'incog:' with a Bath-Stove-Keeper, who is so good aFellow that, at last, Mahmud, making himself known, tells the Poor Man toask what he will--a Crown, if he likes. But the poor Fellow says, 'All Iask is that the Shah will come now and then to me as I am, and here whereI am; here, in this poor Place, which he has made illustrious with hisPresence, and a better Throne to me with Him, than the Throne of BothWorlds without Him, etc. ' You observed perhaps in De Tassy's Summarythat he notices an Eastern Form of William Tell's Apple? A Sultan doatson a beautiful Slave, who yet is seen daily to pine away under all theShah's Favour, and being askt why, replies, 'Because every day the Shah, who is a famous Marksman with the Bow, shoots at an Apple laid on myHead, and always hits it; and when all the Court cries "Lo! the Fortuneof the King!" He also asks me why I turn pale under the Trial, he beingsuch a Marksman, and his Mark an Apple set on the Head he most doatsupon?' I am going to transcribe on the next Page a rough draft of aVersion of another Story, because all this will amuse you, I think. Icouldn't help running some of these Apologues into Verse as I read them:but they are in a very rough state as yet, and so perhaps may continue, for to correct is _the_ Bore. 

 When Yusuf from his Father's House was torn, His Father's Heart was utterly forlorn; And, like a Pipe with but one note, his Tongue Still nothing but the name of Yusuf rung. Then down from Heaven's Branches came the Bird Of Heaven, and said 'God wearies of that Word. Hast thou not else to do, and else to say?' So Yacub's Lips were sealed from that Day. But one Night in a Vision, far away His Darling in some alien Home he saw, And stretch'd his Arms forth; and between the Awe Of God's Displeasure, and the bitter Pass Of Love and Anguish, sigh'd forth an _Alas_! And stopp'd--But when he woke The Angel came, And said, 'Oh, faint of purpose! Though the Name Of that Beloved were not uttered by Thy Lips, it hung sequester'd in that Sigh. '

You see this is very imperfect, and I am not always quite certain ofalways getting the right Sow by the Ear; but it is pretty anyhow. Inthis, as in several other Stories, one sees the fierce vindictiveCharacter of the Eastern Divinity and Religion: a 'jealous God' indeed!So there is another Story of a poor Hermit, who retires into theWilderness to be alone with God, and lives in a Tree; and there in theBranches a little Bird has a Nest, and sings so sweetly that the poor oldMan's Heart is drawn to it in spite of Himself; till a Voice from Heavencalls to Him--'What are you about? You have bought _Me_ with yourPrayers, etc. , and I _You_ by some Largess of my Grace: and is thisBargain to be cancelled by the Piping of a little Bird?' {316} So Iconstrue at least right or wrong. . . . 

Monday Jan. 25 [? 26]. Like your Journal, you see, I spread my Letterover more than a Day. On Saturday Night your Brother and I went to hearThackeray lecture on George III. --very agreeable to me, though I did notthink highly of the Lecture. . . . I should like to see Nizami's Shirin, though I have not yet seen enough to care for in Nizami. Get me a MS. Ifyou can get a fair one; as also one of Attar's Birds; of which howeverGarcin de Tassy gives hint of publishing a Text. There might be a goodBook made of about half the Text of the Original; for the Repetitions aremany, and the stories so many of them not wanted. What a nice Book toowould be the Text of some of the best Apologues in Jami, Jelaleddin, Attar, etc. , with literal Translations! . . . 

I was with Borrow {317} a week ago at Donne's, and also at Yarmouth threemonths ago: he is well, but not yet agreed with Murray. He read me along Translation he had made from the Turkish: which I could not admire, and his Taste becomes stranger than ever. 

24 PORTLAND TERRACE, REGENT'S PARK. 

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . March 12. You see I leave this Letter like an unfinished Picture;giving it a touch every now and then. Meanwhile it lies in a volume ofSir W. Ouseley's Travels. Meanwhile also I keep putting into shape someof that Mantic which however would never do to publish. For this reason;that anything like a literal Translation would be, I think, unreadable;and what I have done for amusement is not only so unliteral, but I doubt_unoriental_, in its form and expression, as would destroy the value ofthe Original without replacing it with anything worth reading of my own. It has amused me however to reduce the Mass into something of an ArtisticShape. There are lots of Passages which--how should I like to talk themover with you! Shall we ever meet again? I think not; or not in suchplight, both of us, as will make Meeting what it used to be. Only to-dayI have been opening dear old Salaman: the original Copy we bought andbegan this time three years ago at Oxford; with all my scratches of Queryand Explanation in it, and the Notes from you among the Leaves. Howoften I think with Sorrow of my many Harshnesses and Impatiences! whichare yet more of manner than Intention. My wife is sick of hearing mesing in a doleful voice the old Glee of 'When shall we Three Meet again?'Especially the Stanza, 'Though in foreign Lands we sigh, Parcht beneath ahostile Sky, etc. ' How often too I think of the grand Song written bysome Scotch Lady, {318} which I sing to myself for you on Ganges Banks!

 Slow spreads the Gloom my Soul desires, The Sun from India's Shore retires: To _Orwell's_ Bank, with temperate ray-- Home of my Youth!--he leads the Day: Oh Banks to me for ever dear, Oh Stream whose Murmur meets my Ear; Oh all my Hopes of Bliss abide Where Orwell mingles with the Tide. 

The Music has come to me for these Words, little good otherwise thanexpressive: but there is no use sending it to India. To India! It seemsto me it would be easy to get into the first great Ship and never seeLand again till I saw the Mouth of the Ganges! and there live whatremains of my shabby Life. 

But there is no good in all such Talk. I never write to you aboutPolitics in which you know I little meddle. . . . March 20. Why, seehow the Time goes! And here has my Letter been lying in Sir W. Ouseleyfor the last ten days, I suppose. To-day I have been writing twentypages of a metrical Sketch of the Mantic, for such uses as I told you of. It is an amusement to me to take what Liberties I like with thesePersians, who (as I think) are not Poets enough to frighten one from suchexcursions, and who really do want a little Art to shape them. I don'tspeak of Jelaleddin whom I know so little of (enough to show me that heis no great Artist, however), nor of Hafiz, whose _best_ isuntranslatable because he is the best Musician of Words. Old Johnson{319} said the Poets were the best Preservers of a Language: for Peoplemust go to the Original to relish them. I am sure that what Tennysonsaid to you is true: that Hafiz is the most Eastern--or, he should havesaid, most _Persian_--of the Persians. He is the best representative oftheir character, whether his Saki and Wine be real or mystical. TheirReligion and Philosophy is soon seen through, and always seems to me_cuckooed_ over like a borrowed thing, which people, once having got, don't know how to parade enough. To be sure, their Roses andNightingales are repeated enough; but Hafiz and old Omar Khayyam ringlike true Metal. The Philosophy of the Latter is, alas!, one that neverfails in the World. 'To-day is ours, etc. '

While I think of it, why is the Sea {320} (in that Apologue of Attar oncequoted by Falconer) supposed to have lost God? Did the Persians agreewith something I remember in Plato about the Sea and all in it being ofan inferior Nature, in spite of Homer's 'divine Ocean, etc. ' And here Icome to the end of my sheet, which you will hardly get through, I think. I scarce dare to think of reading it over. But I will try. 

24 PORTLAND TERRACE, REGENT'S PARK. _March_ 29, [1857]. 

MY DEAR COWELL, I only posted my last long letter four days ago: and how far shall I getwith this? Like the other, I keep it in Sir W. Ouseley, and note down abit now and then. When the time for the Mail comes, the sheet shall gowhether full or not. I had a letter from your Mother telling me she hadheard from you--all well--but the Heats increasing. I suppose theCrocuses we see even in these poor little Gardens hereabout would witherin a Glance of your Sun. Now the black Trees in the Regent's Parkopposite are beginning to show green Buds; and Men come by with greatBaskets of Flowers; Primroses, Hepaticas, Crocuses, great Daisies, etc. , calling as they go, 'Growing, Growing, Growing! All the Glory going!' Somy wife says she has heard them call: some old Street cry, no doubt, ofwhich we have so few now remaining. It will almost make you smell themall the way from Calcutta. 'All the Glory going!' What has put me uponbeginning with this Sheet so soon is, that, (having done my Will for thepresent with the Mantic--one reason being that I am afraid to meddle morewith N. Newton's tender MS. , and another reason that I now lay by what Ihave sketched out so as to happen on it again one day with fresh eyes)--Isay, this being shelved, I took up old Hafiz again, and began with himwhere I left off in November at Brighton. And this morning came to anode we did together this time two years ago when you were at Spiers' inOxford. . . . How it brought all back to me! Oriel opposite, and theMilitia in Broad Street, and the old Canary-coloured Sofa and the Cocoaor Tea on the Table! . . . 

I should think Bramford begins to look pretty about this time, hey, Mr. Cowell? And Mrs. Cowell? There is a house there constantly advertisedto let in the Papers. I think that one by the Mill; not the pleasantplace where _Trygaeus_ {322} looked forth on the Rail! 'The Days aregone when Beauty bright, etc. ' . . . 

Spedding has been once here in near three months. His Bacon keeps comingout: his part, the Letters, etc. , of Bacon, is not come yet; so itremains to be seen what he will do then: but I can't help thinking he haslet the Pot boil too long. Well, here is a great deal written to-day:and I shall shut up the Sheet in Ouseley again. March 30. Anotherreason for thinking the _mahi_ which supports the world to be only a_myth_ of the simple Fish genus is that the stage next above him is_Gau_, the Bull, as the Symbol of _Earth_. It seems to me one sees thisas it were pictured in those Assyrian Sculptures; just some waving linesand a fish to represent Water, etc. And it hooks on, I think, to MaxMuller's Theory in that Essay {323a} of his. Saturday, April 4. Why, weare creeping toward another Post day! another 25th when the 'ViaMarseilles' Letters go off! And I now renew this great Sheet, because inreturning to old Hafiz two or three days ago, I happened on a line whichyou will confer with a Tetrastich of Omar's. . . . Donne has got theLicenser's Post; given him in the handsomest way by Lord Bredalbane towhom the Queen as handsomely committed it. The said Donne has written anArticle on Calderon in Fraser, {323b} in which he says very handsomethings of me, but is not accurate in what he says. I suppose it was hewrote an Article in the Saturday Review some months ago to the sameeffect; but I have not asked him. I find people like that Calderon book. By the bye again, what is the passage I am to write out for you from theVolume you gave me, the old Bramford Volume, 'E. B. Cowell, Bramford, Aug. 20, 1849?' Tell me, and I will write it in my best style: I havethe Volume here in my room, and was looking into it only last night; atthat end of the Magico which we read together at Elmsett! I don't knowif I could translate it now that the '_aestus'_ caught from your sympathyis gone! . . . April 5. In looking into the 'Secreto Agravio' I see anOriental superstition, which was likely enough however to be a poeticalfancy of any nation: I mean, the Sun turning Stone to Ruby, etc. EnterDon Luis: 'Soy mercador, y trato en los Diamantes, que hoy son Piedras, yrayos fueron antes de Sol, que perficiona e ilumina rustico Grano en laabrasada Mina. ' The Partridge in the Mantic tells something of the same;he digs up and swallows Rubies which turn his Blood to Fire inside himand sparkle out of his Eyes and Bill. This volume of Calderon is markedby the Days on which you finished several Plays, all at Bramford!Wednesday, April 8. I have been reading the 'Magico' over andremembering other days; I saw us sitting at other tables reading it. AlsoI am looking over old AEschylus--Agamemnon--with Blackie's Translation. . . . Is it in Hafiz we have met the Proverb (about _pregnant_ Night)which Clytemnestra also makes her Entry with [264, 5]? [Greek ttext]. Ithink one sees that the Oriental borrowed this Fancy, which smacks of theGrecian Personification of Mother Night. What an Epitaph for a Warriorare those two Greek words by which the Chorus express all that returns toMycenae of the living Hero who went forth [435]--[Greek text]!

Well; and I have had a Note from Garcin de Tassy whom I had asked if heknew of any Copy of Omar Khayyam in all the Paris Libraries: he writes 'Ihave made, by means of a Friend, etc. ' But I shall enclose his Note toamuse you. Now what I mean to do is, in return for his politeness to me, to copy out as well as I can the Tetrastichs as you copied them for me, and send them as a Present to De Tassy. Perhaps he will edit them. Ishould not wish him to do so if there were any chance of your ever doingit; but I don't think you will help on the old Pantheist, and De Tassyreally, after what he is doing for the Mantic, deserves to make theacquaintance of this remarkable little Fellow. Indeed I think you willbe pleased that I should do this. Now for some more AEschylus. Friday, April 17. I have been for the last five days with my Brother atTwickenham; during which time I really copied out Omar Khayyam, in a way!and shall to-day post it as a '_cadeau'_ to Garcin de Tassy in return forhis Courtesy to me. I am afraid, a bad return: for my MS. Is but badlywritten and it would perhaps more plague than profit an English 'savant'to have such a present made him. But a Frenchman gets over all this verylightly. Garcin de Tassy tells me he has printed four thousand lines ofthe Mantic. And here is April running away and it will soon be time topost you another Letter! When I once get into the Country I shall haveless to write you about than now; and that, you see, is not much. 

Tuesday, April 21. Yours and your wife's dear good Letters put into myhand as I sit in the sunshine in a little Balcony outside the Windowslooking upon the quite green hedge side of the Regent's Park. For Greenit is thus early, and such weather as I never remember before at thisSeason. Well, your Letters, I say, were put into my hand as I was therelooking into AEschylus under an Umbrella, and waiting for Breakfast. Mywife cried a good deal over your wife's Letter, I think, I think so. Ahme! I would not as yet read it, for I was already sad; but I shallanswer hers to me which I did read indeed with many thoughts: perhaps Ican write this post; at least I will clear off this letter to you, mydear Cowell. 

E. F. G. 

_April_ 21. 

MY DEAR LADY, I have told E. B. C. At the close of my long letter to himhow his and yours were put into my hand this morning. Well, as intelling him that I finished that sheet of Paper, I will e'en take onescrap more to thank you; and (since you have, I believe, some confidencestogether) some things I have yet got to say to him shall be addressed toyou; and you can exercise your own Discretion as to telling him. Onething tell him however, which my overflowing Sheet had not room for, andwas the very thing that most needed telling: viz. That he, a busy man, must not feel bound to write me as long Letters in return. Who knows howlong I shall keep up any thing like to my own mark; for I daily growworse with the Letter-pen: and, beside his other employments, the Sun ofIndia will '_belaze'_ him (I doubt if the word be in Johnson). But'vogue la Galere' while the wind blows! Again you may give him theenclosed instead of a former Letter from the same G. De T. For is it notodd he should not have time to read a dozen of those 150 Tetrastichs? Ipointed out such a dozen to him of the best, and told him if he likedthem I would try and get the rest better written for him than I couldwrite. I had also told him that the whole thing came from E. B. C. And Inow write to tell him I have no sort of intention of writing a paper inthe Journal Asiatique, nor I suppose E. B. C. Neither. G. De Tassy isvery civil to me however. How much I might say about your Letter to me!you will hardly comprehend how it is I almost turn my Eyes from it inthis Answer, and dally with other matter. You make me sad with oldMemories; yet, I don't mean quite disagreeably sad, but enough to make meshrink recurring to them. I don't know whether to be comforted or notwhen _you_ talk of India as a Land of Exile--. . . 

Wednesday, April 22. Now this morning comes a second Letter from Garcinde Tassy saying that his first note about Omar Khayyam was 'in haste':that he has read some of the Tetrastichs which he finds not verydifficult; some difficulties which are probably errors of the 'copist';and he proposes his writing an Article in the Journal Asiatique on it inwhich he will 'honourably mention' E. B. C. And E. F. G. I now write todeprecate all this: {328} putting it on the ground (and a fair one) thatwe do not yet know enough of the matter: that I do not wish E. B. C. Tobe made answerable for errors which E. F. G. (the '_copist'_) may havemade: and that E. F. G. Neither merits nor desires any honourable mentionas a Persian Scholar: being none. Tell E. B. C. That I have used hisname with all caution, referring De Tassy to Vararuchi, etc. But theseFrenchmen are so self-content and superficial, one never knows how theywill take up anything. To turn to other matters--we are talking ofleaving this place almost directly. . . . I often wonder if I shall eversee you both again! Well, for the present, Adieu, Adieu, Adieu!

LONDON, _May_ 7/57. 

MY DEAR COWELL, Owing partly to my own Stupidity, and partly to a change in the IndiaPost days, my last two letters (to you and wife) which were quite readyby the Marseilles Post of April 25th will not get off till theSouthampton Mail of this May 10. Your letter of March 21 reached methree days ago. Write only when you have Leisure and Inclination, andonly as much as those two good things are good for: I will do the same. Iwill at once say (in reply to a kind offer you make to have Hatifi's'Haft Paikar' copied for me) that it will [be] best to wait till you haveread it; you know me well enough to know whether it will hit my taste. However, if it be but a very short poem, no harm would be done by a Copy:but do let me be at the Charges of such things. I will ask for Hatifi'sLaili: but I didn't (as you know) take much to what little I saw. As toany copies Allen might have had, I believe there is no good asking forthem: for, only yesterday going to put into Madden's hands Mr. Newton'sMS. Of the Mantic, I saw Allen's house _kharab_. There had been a Firethere, Madden told me, which had destroyed stock, etc. , but I could notmake much out of the matter, Madden putting on a Face of foolish mystery. You can imagine it? We talked of you, as you may imagine also: and Ibelieve in that he is not foolish. Well, and to-day I have a note fromthe great De Tassy which announces, 'My dear Sir, Definitively I havewritten a little Paper upon Omar with some Quotations taken here andthere at random, avoiding only the too badly sounding _rubayat_. I haveread that paper before the Persian Ambassador and suite, at a meeting ofthe Oriental Society of which I am Vice President, the Duc deDondeauville being president. The Ambassador has been much pleased of myquotations. ' So you see I have done the part of an ill Subject inhelping France to ingratiate herself with Persia when England might havehad the start! I suppose it probable _Ferukh Khan_ himself had neverread or perhaps heard of Omar. I think I told you in my last that I haddesired De Tassy to say nothing about you in any Paper he should write;since I cannot have you answerable for any blunders I may have made in myCopy, nor may you care to be named with Omar at all. I hope theFrenchman will attend to my desire; and I dare say he will, as he willthen have all credit to himself. He says he can't make out the metre ofthe _rubayat_ at all--never could--though 'I am enough skilful inscanning the Persian verses as you have seen' (Qy?) 'in my Prosody of thelanguages of Musulman Countries, etc. ' So much for De Tassy. No; butsomething more yet: and better, for he tells me his Print of the Manticis finisht, 'in proofs, ' and will be out in about a Month: and he willsend me one. Now, my dear Cowell, can't I send one to you? Yes, we mustmanage that somehow. 

Well, I have not turned over Johnson's Dictionary for the last month, having got hold of AEschylus. I think I want to turn his Trilogy intowhat shall be readable English Verse; a thing I have always thought of, but was frightened at the Chorus. So I am now; I can't think them sofine as People talk of: they are terribly maimed; and all such Lyricsrequire a better Poet than I am to set forth in English. But the betterPoets won't do it; and I cannot find one readable translation. I shall(if I make one) make a very free one; not for Scholars, but for those whoare ignorant of Greek, and who (so far as I have seen) have never beeninduced to learn it by any Translations yet made of these Plays. I thinkI shall become a bore, of the Bowring order, by all this Translation: butit amuses me without any labour, and I really think I have the faculty ofmaking some things readable which others have hitherto left unreadable. But don't be alarmed with the anticipation of another sudden volume ofTranslations; for I only sketch out the matter, then put it away; andcoming on it one day with fresh eyes trim it up with some natural impulsethat I think gives a natural air to all. So I have put away the Mantic. When I die, what a farrago of such things will be found! Enough of suchmatter. . . . 

Friday, June 5! What an interval since the last sentence! And why?Because I have been moving about nearly ever since till yesterday, and myLetter, thus far written, was packt up in a Box sent down hither, namely, Gorlestone Cliffs, Great Yarmouth. Instead of the Regent's Park, andRegent Street, here before my windows are the Vessels going in and out ofthis River: and Sailors walking about with fur caps and their brown handsin their Breeches Pockets. Within hail almost lives George Borrow whohas lately published, and given me, two new Volumes of Lavengro called'Romany Rye, ' with some excellent things, and some very bad (as I havemade bold to write to him--how shall I face him!). You would not likethe Book at all, I think. But I must now tell you an odd thing, whichwill also be a sad thing to you. I left London last Tuesday fortnightfor Bedfordshire, meaning to touch at Hertford in passing; but as usual, bungled between two Railroads and got to Bedford, and not to Hertford, onthe Tuesday Evening. To that latter place I had wanted to go, as well tosee it, as to see N. Newton, who had made one or two bungled efforts tosee me in London. So, when I got to Bedford, I wrote him a line to sayhow it was I had missed him. On the very Saturday immediately after, Ireceived a Hertford Paper announcing the sudden Death of N. Newton on thevery Tuesday on which I had set out to see him! He had been quite welltill the Saturday preceding: had then caught some illness (I suppose someinfectious fever) which had been visiting some in his house; died on theTuesday, and was buried on the Thursday after! What will Austin dowithout him? He had written to me about your Hafiz saying he had gotseveral subjects for Illustration, and I meant to have had a talk withhim on the matter. What should be done? I dare not undertake any greatresponsibility in meddling in such a matter even if asked to do so, whichis not likely to be unless on your part; for I find my taste so verydifferent from the Public that what I think good would probably be veryunprofitable. 

When in Bedfordshire I put away almost all Books except Omar Khayyam!, which I could not help looking over in a Paddock covered with Buttercupsand brushed by a delicious Breeze, while a dainty racing Filly of W. Browne's came startling up to wonder and snuff about me. 'Tempus est quoOrientis Aura mundus renovatur, Quo de fonte pluviali dulcis Imberreseratur; _Musi-manus_ undecumque ramos insuper splendescit;Jesu-spiritusque Salutaris terram pervagatur. ' Which is to be read asMonkish Latin, like 'Dies Irae, ' etc. , retaining the Italian value of theVowels, not the Classical. You will think me a perfectly AristophanicOld Man when I tell you how many of Omar I could not help running intosuch bad Latin. I should not confide such follies but to you who won'tthink them so, and who will be pleased at least with my still harping onour old Studies. You would be sorry, too, to think that Omar breathes asort of Consolation to me! Poor Fellow; I think of him, and OliverBasselin, and Anacreon; lighter Shadows among the Shades, perhaps, overwhich Lucretius presides so grimly. Thursday, June 11. Your letter ofApril is come to hand, very welcome; and I am expecting the MS. Omarwhich I have written about to London. And now with respect to yourproposed Fraser Paper on Omar. You see a few lines back I talk of somelazy Latin Versions of his Tetrastichs, giving one clumsy example. Now Ishall rub up a few more of those I have sketched in the same manner, inorder to see if you approve, if not of the thing done, yet of

(_letter breaks off abruptly at the end of the page_. )

June 23. I begin another Letter because I am looking into the Omar MS. You have sent me, and shall perhaps make some notes and enquiries as I goon. I had not intended to do so till I had looked all over and tried tomake out what I could of it; since it is both pleasant to oneself to findout for oneself if possible, and also saves trouble to one's friends. Butyet it will keep me talking with you as I go along: and if I find I saysilly things or clear up difficulties for myself before I close my Letter(which has a month to be open in!) why, I can cancel or amend, so as youwill see the whole Process of Blunder. I think this MS. Furnishes someopportunities for one's critical faculties, and so is a good exercise forthem, if one wanted such! First however I must tell you how much illpoor Crabbe has been: a sort of Paralysis, I suppose, in two little fits, which made him think he was sure to die: but Dr. Beck at present says hemay live many years with care. Of this also I shall be able to tell youmore before I wind up. The brave old Fellow! he was quite content todepart, and had his Daughter up to give her his Keys, and tell her wherethe different wines were laid! I must also tell you that Borrow isgreatly delighted with your MS. Of Omar which I showed him: delighted atthe terseness so unusual in Oriental Verse. But his Eyes are apt tocloud: and his wife has been obliged, he tells me, to carry off even thelittle Omar out of reach of them for a while. . . . 

June 27. Geldestone Hall. I brought back my two Nieces here yesterday:and to-day am sitting as of old in my accustomed Bedroom, looking out ona Landscape which your Eyes would drink. It is said there has not beensuch a Flush of Verdure for years: and they are making hay on the Lawnbefore the house, so as one wakes to the tune of the Mower'sScythe-whetting, and with the old Perfume blowing in at open windows. . . . 

July 1. June over! A thing I think of with Omar-like sorrow. And theRoses here are blowing--and going--as abundantly as even in Persia. I amstill at Geldestone, and still looking at Omar by an open window whichgives over a Greener Landscape than yours. To-morrow my eldest Nephew, Walter Kerrich, whom I first took to school, is to be married in theBermudas to a young Widow. He has chosen his chosen sister Andalusia'sBirthday to be married on; and so we are to keep that double Festival. . . . 

_Extract from Letter begun_ 3 _July_, 1857. 

Monday, July 13. This day year was the last I spent with you atRushmere! We dined in the Evening at your Uncle's in Ipswich, walkinghome at night together. The night before (yesterday year) you all wentto Mr. Maude's Church, and I was so sorry afterward I had not gone withyou too; for the last time, as your wife said. One of my manifoldstupidities, all avenged in a Lump now! I think I shall close thisletter to-morrow: which will be the Anniversary of my departure fromRushmere. I went from you, you know, to old Crabbe's. Is he too to bewiped away by a yet more irrecoverable exile than India? By to-morrow Ishall have finisht my first Physiognomy of Omar, whom I decidedly preferto any Persian I have yet seen, unless perhaps Salaman. . . . 

Tuesday, July 14. Here is the Anniversary of our Adieu at Rushmere. AndI have been (rather hastily) getting to an end of my first survey of theCalcutta Omar, by way of counterpart to our joint survey of the OuseleyMS. Then. I suppose we spoke of it this day year; probably had a finallook at it together before I went off, in some Gig, I think, to Crabbe's. We hear rather better Report of him, if the being likely to live a whilelonger is better. I shall finish my Letter to-day; only leaving it opento add any very particular word. I must repeat I am sure this CalcuttaOmar is, in the same proportion with the Ouseley, by as good a hand asthe Ouseley: by as good a hand, if not Omar's; which I think you seemedto doubt if it was, in one of your Letters. . . . 

Have I previously asked you to observe 486, of which I send a poor Sir W. Jones' sort of Parody which came into my mind walking in the Garden here;where the Rose is blowing as in Persia? And with this poor little Envoymy Letter shall end. I will not stop to make the Verse better. 

 I long for wine! oh Saki of my Soul, Prepare thy Song and fill the morning Bowl; For this first Summer month that brings the Rose Takes many a Sultan with it as it goes. 

_To Mrs. Charles Allen_. {337}

GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES. _August_ 15/57. 

MY DEAR MRS. ALLEN, One should be very much gratified at being remembered so long with _any_kindness: and how much more gratified with so kind Remembrances as yours!I may safely say that I too remember you and my Freestone days of fiveand twenty years ago with a particular regard; I have been telling myNieces at the Breakfast Table this morning, after I read your letter, howI remembered you sitting in the '_Schoolroom_'--too much sheltered withTrees--with a large Watch open before you--your Sister too, with herlight hair and China-rose Complexion--too delicate!--your Father, yourMother, your Brother--of whom (your Brother) I caught a glimpse in Londontwo years ago. And all the _Place_ at Freestone--I can walk about it asI lie awake here, and see the very yellow flowers in the fields, and hearthat distant sound of explosion in some distant Quarry. The coast atBosherston one could never forget once seen, even if it had no domestickindness to frame its Memory in. I might have profited more of thosegood Days than I did; but it is not my Talent to take the Tide at itsflow; and so all goes to worse than waste!

But it is ungracious to talk of oneself--except so far as shall answersome points you touch on. It would in many respects be very delightfulto me to walk again with you over those old Places; in other respectssad:--but the pleasure would have the upper hand if one had not again toleave it all and plunge back again. I dare not go to Wales now. 

I owe to Tenby the chance acquaintance of another Person who now fromthat hour remains one of my very best Friends. A Lad--then just 16--whomI met on board the Packet from Bristol: and next morning at the BoardingHouse--apt then to appear with a little _chalk_ on the edge of his Cheekfrom a touch of the Billiard Table Cue--and now a man of 40--Farmer, Magistrate, Militia Officer--Father of a Family--of more use in a weekthan I in my Life long. You too have six sons, your Letter tells me. They may do worse than do as well as he I have spoken of, though he toohas sown some wild oats, and paid for doing so. 

_My_ family consists of some eight Nieces here, whom I have seen, all ofthem, from their Birth upwards--perfectly good, simple, and well-bred, women and girls; varying in disposition but all agreed among themselvesand to do what they can in a small Sphere. They go about in the Villagehere with some consolation both for Body and Mind for the Poor, and haveno desire for the Opera, nor for the Fine Folks and fine Dresses there. There is however some melancholy in the Blood of some of them--but nonethat mars any happiness but their own: and that but so slightly as oneshould expect when there was no Fault, and no Remorse, to embitter it!

You will perhaps be as well entertained with this poor familiar news asany I could tell you. As to public matters, I scarcely meddle with them, and don't know what to think of India except that it is very terrible. Ialways think a Nation with great Estates is like a Man with them:--moretrouble than Profit: I would only have a _Competence_ for my Country asfor myself. Two of my very dearest Friends went but last year toCalcutta:--he as Professor at the Presidency College there: and now hehas to shoulder a musket, I believe, as well as deliver a Lecture. Youand yours are safe at home, I am glad to think. 

Please to remember me to all whom I have shaken hands with, and make mykind Regards to those of your Party I have not yet seen. I am sure all_would be_ as kind to me as others who bear the name of Allen _havebeen_. 

Once more--thank you thank you for your kindness; and believe me yours asever very truly, EDWD. FITZGERALD. 

_To E. B. Cowell_. 

RUSHMERE, _October_ 3/57. 

MY DEAR COWELL, I hope things will not be so black with you and us by the time thisLetter reaches you, but you may be amused and glad to have it from me. Not that I have come into Suffolk on any cheerful Errand: I have come tobury dear old Mr. Crabbe! I suppose you have had some Letters of minetelling you of his Illness; Epileptic Fits which came successively andweakened him gradually, and at last put him to his Bed entirely, where helay some while unable to move himself or to think! They said he mightlie so a long time, since he eat and drank with fair Appetite: butsuddenly the End came on and after a twelve hours Stupor he died. OnTuesday September 22 he was buried; and I came from Bedfordshire (where Ihad only arrived two days before) to assist at it. I and Mr. Drew werethe only persons invited not of the Family: but there were very manyFarmers and Neighbours come to pay respect to the remains of the braveold Man, who was buried, by his own desire, among the poor in theChurchyard in a Grave that he wishes to be no otherwise distinguisht thanby a common Head and Footstone. . . . 

You may imagine it was melancholy enough to me to revisit the house whenHe who had made it so warm for me so often lay cold in his Coffin unableto entertain me any more! His little old dark Study (which I called the'_Cobblery'_) smelt strong of its old Smoke: and the last Cheroot he hadtried lay three quarters smoked in its little China Ash-pan. This I havetaken as a Relic, as also a little silver Nutmeg Grater which used togive the finishing Touch to many a Glass of good hot Stuff, and also hadbelonged to the Poet Crabbe. . . . 

Last night I had some of your Letters read to me: among them one butyesterday arrived, not very sunshiny in its prospects: but your Brotherthinks the Times Newspaper of yesterday somewhat bids us look up. Only, all are trembling for Lucknow, crowded with Helplessness and Innocence! Iam ashamed to think how little I understand of all these things: but havewiser men, and men in Place, understood much more? or, understanding, have they _done_ what they should? . . . 

Love to the dear Lady, and may you be now and for time to come safe andwell is the Prayer of yours, E. F. G. 

31 PORTLAND STREET, LONDON. _Decr_. 8/57. 

MY DEAR COWELL, You will recognize the Date of my Abode. Two years ago you were comingto see me in it much about this Season: and a year ago I wrote you myfirst Letter to India from it. I came hither from Brighton a week ago:how long to be here uncertain: you had best direct to Goldington Hall, Bedford. I sent you a short Letter by last Marseilles' Post fromBrighton: and I now begin this short one because I have happened again totake hold of some Books which we are mutually interested in. I have leftwith Borrow the Copy of the Mantic De Tassy gave me; so some days ago Ibought another Copy of Norgate. For you must know I had again taken upmy rough Sketch of a Translation, which, such as it is, might easily befinisht. But it is in truth no Translation: but only the _Paraphrase ofa Syllabus_ of the Poem: quite unlike the original in Style too:--But itwould give, I think, a fair proportionate Account of the Scheme of thePoem. If ever I finish it, I will send it you. Well; then in turningthis over, I also turned over Volume I of Sprenger's Catalogue, which Ibought by itself for 6s. A year ago. As it contains all the Persian MSS. I supposed that would be enough for me. I have been looking at his Listof Attar's Poems. What a number! All almost much made up of _Apologues_in which Attar excels, I think. His Stories are better than Jami's: tobe sure, he gives more to pick out of. An interesting thing in theMantic is, the stories about Mahmud: and these are the best in the Book. I find I have got seven or eight in my brief Extract. I see Sprengersays Attar was born in 513--four years before poor Omar Khayyam died! Hementions one of Attar's Books--'The Book of Union, ' _waslat_ _namah_, which seems to be on the very subject of the Apologue to the _Peacock's_Brag in the Mantic: line 814 in De Tassy. I suppose this is no more theOrthodox _Mussulman_ Version than it is ours. Sprenger also mentions asone separate Book what is part of the Mantic--and main part--the _Haftwady_. Sprenger says (p. 350) how the MSS. Of Attar differ from oneanother. 

And now about old Omar. You talked of sending a Paper about him toFraser and I told you, if you did, I would stop it till I had made myComments. I suppose you have not had time to do what you proposed, orare you overcome with the Flood of bad Latin I poured upon you? Well:don't be surprised (vext, you won't be) if _I_ solicit Fraser for roomfor a few Quatrains in English Verse, however--with only such anIntroduction as you and Sprenger give me--very short--so as to leave youto say all that is Scholarly if you will. I hope this is not veryCavalier of me. But in truth I take old Omar rather more as my propertythan yours: he and I are more akin, are we not? You see all [his]Beauty, but you don't feel _with_ him in some respects as I do. I thinkyou would almost feel obliged to leave out the part of Hamlet inrepresenting him to your Audience: for fear of Mischief. Now I do notwish to show Hamlet at his maddest: but mad he must be shown, or he is noHamlet at all. G. De Tassy eluded all that was dangerous, and all thatwas characteristic. I think these _free_ opinions are less dangerous inan old Mahometan, or an old Roman (like Lucretius) than when they arereturned to by those who have lived on happier Food. I don't know whatyou will say to all this. However I dare say it won't matter whether Ido the Paper or not, for I don't believe they'll put it in. 

Then--yesterday I bought at that shop in the Narrow Passage at the end ofOxford Street a very handsome small Folio MS. Of Sadi's Bostan for 10s. But I don't know when I shall look at it to read: for my Eyes are butbad: and London so dark, that I write this Letter now at noon by theLight of two Candles. Of which enough for To-day. I must however whileI think of it again notice to you about those first IntroductoryQuatrains to Omar in both the Copies you have seen; taken out of theirAlphabetical place, _if they be Omar's own_, evidently by way of puttinga good Leg foremost--or perhaps _not_ his at all. So that which Sprengersays begins the Oude MS. Is manifestly, not any Apology of Omar's own, but a Denunciation of him by some one else: {344} and is a _sort_ ofParody (in _Form_ at least) of Omar's own Quatrain 445, with itsindignant reply by the Sultan. 

Tuesday Dec. 22. I have your Letter of Nov. 9--giving a gloomy Accountof what has long ere this been settled for better or worse! It is saidwe are to have a Mail on Friday. I must post this Letter before then. Thank you for the MSS. You will let me know what you expend on them. Ihave been looking over De Tassy's Omar. Try and see the other Poems ofAttar mentioned by Sprenger: those with Apologues, etc. , in which (as Ihave said) Attar seems to me to excel. Love to the Lady. I have no newsof the Crabbes, but that they do pretty well in their new home. Donnehas just been here and gone--asking about you. I dine with him onChristmas Day. 

E. F. G. 

[MERTON RECTORY]. _September_ 3/58. 

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . Now about my Studies, which, I think, are likely to dwindle awaytoo. I have not turned to Persian since the Spring; but shall one daylook back to it: and renew my attack on the 'Seven Castles, ' if that bethe name. I found the Jami MS. At Rushmere: and there left it for thepresent: as the other Poem will be enough for me for my first onslaught. I believe I will do a little a day, so as not to lose what littleknowledge I had. As to my Omar: I gave it to Parker in January, I think:he saying Fraser was agreeable to take it. Since then I have heard nomore; so as, I suppose, they don't care about it: and may be quite right. Had I thought they would be so long however I would have copied it outand sent it to you: and I will still do so from a rough and imperfectCopy I have (though not now at hand) in case they show no signs ofprinting me. My Translation will interest you from its _Form_, and alsoin many respects in its _Detail_: very unliteral as it is. ManyQuatrains are mashed together: and something lost, I doubt, of Omar'sSimplicity, which is so much a Virtue in him. But there it is, such asit is. I purposely said in the very short notice I prefixed to the Poemthat it was so short because better Information might be furnished inanother Paper, which I thought _you_ would undertake. So it rests. Norhave I meddled with the Mantic lately: nor does what you say encourage meto do so. For what I had sketcht out was very paraphrase indeed. I donot indeed believe that any readable Account (unless a prose Analysis, for the History and Curiosity of the Thing) will be possible, for _me_ todo, at least. But I took no great pleasure in what I had done: and everyday get more and more a sort of Terror at re-opening any such MS. My'_Go'_ (such as it was) is _gone_, and it becomes _Work_: and the Upshotis not worth _working_ for. It was very well when it was a Pleasure. Soit is with Calderon. It is well enough to sketch such things out in warmBlood; but to finish them in cold! I wish I could finish the 'MightyMagician' in my new way: which I know you would like, in spite of yourcaveat for the Gracioso. I have not wholly dropt the two Students, butkept them quite under: and brought out the religious character of thePiece into stronger Relief. But as I have thrown much, if not intoLyric, into Rhyme, which strikes a more Lyric Chord, I have found it muchharder to satisfy myself than with the good old Blank Verse, which I usedto manage easily enough. The 'Vida es Sueno' again, though blank Verse, has been difficult to arrange; here also Clarin is not quenched, butsubdued: as is all Rosaura's Story, so as to assist, and not competewith, the main Interest. I really wish I could finish these some luckyday: but, as I said, it is so much easier to leave them alone; and when Ihad done my best, I don't know if they are worth the pains, or whetherany one (except you) would care for them even if they were worth caringfor. So much for my grand Performances: except that I amuse myself withjotting down materials (out of Vocabularies, etc. ) for a Vocabulary of_rural_ English, or _rustic_ English: that is, only the best countrywords selected from the very many Glossaries, etc. , relating chiefly tocountry matters, but also to things in general: words that carry theirown story with them, without needing Derivation or Authority, though bothare often to be found. I always say I have heard the Language of QueenElizabeth's, or King Harry's Court, in the Suffolk Villages: better agreat deal than that spoken in London Societies, whether Fashionable orLiterary: and the homely [strength] of which has made Shakespeare, Dryden, South, and Swift, what they could not have been without it. Butmy Vocabulary if ever done will be a very little Affair, if ever done:for here again it is pleasant enough to jot down a word now and then, butnot to equip all for the Press. 

FARLINGAY, WOODBRIDGE. _Nov_. 2/58. 

MY DEAR COWELL, . . . No. I have not read the Jami Diwan; partly because I find my Eyesare none the better, and partly because I have now no one to 'prick thesides of my Intent'; not even 'Vaulting Ambition' now. I have got theSeven Castles {348} in my Box here and old Johnson's Dictionary; andthese I shall strike a little Fire out of by and by: Jami also in timeperhaps. I have nearly finisht a metrical Paraphrase and Epitome of theMantic: but you would scarce like it, and who else would? It has amusedme to give a 'Bird's Eye' View of the Bird Poem in some sixteen hundredlines. I do not think one could do it as Salaman is done. As to Omar, Ihear and see nothing of it in Fraser yet: and so I suppose they don'twant it. I told Parker he might find it rather dangerous among hisDivines: he took it however, and keeps it. I really think I shall takeit back; add some Stanzas which I kept out for fear of being too strong;print fifty copies and give away; one to you, who won't like it neither. Yet it is most ingeniously tesselated into a sort of Epicurean Eclogue ina Persian Garden. 

INDEX TO LETTERS

_To_ JOHN ALLEN, 4, 5, 9, 10-21, 28, 29, 32-35, 40, 43-48, 55, 59, 66, 69, 71, 122, 138, 172, 196, 234, 235, 243, 252, 255, 280, 291 *

_To_ MRS. CHARLES ALLEN, 337 *

_To_ the Editor of the Athenaeum, 6

_To_ BERNARD BARTON, 50-52, 61, 62, 74, 88, 93, 96, 98, 99, 104-110, 132, 134, 142, 158, 168, 169, 173, 175, 178, 186, 189-191, 197, 209, 220, 222

_From_ CARLYLE, 127, 130, 181 _note_, 205, 298, 299, 302

_To_ CARLYLE, 213, 216, 226, 293, 295, 297

_To_ MRS. CHARLESWORTH, 154-157 *, 160 *, 161 *

_To_ E. B. COWELL, 204, 208, 211 *, 212 *, 228, 231, 232, 240, 248 *, 284, 304, 304 *, 306 *, 309-321, 328-335, 340, 341 *, 345, 348

_To_ MRS. COWELL, 307, 308, 326

_To_ GEORGE CRABBE, 247, 266-268, 273, 274, 282, 284

_To_ W. B. DONNE, 22-26, 31, 41, 97, 187, 198, 203, 206, 210, 241, 253, 259, 279

_To_ SAMUEL LAURENCE, 75, 90, 116, 117, 121, 137, 140, 146, 166, 170, 215, 225, 233, 242

_To_ W. F. POLLOCK, 114, 115, 125, 133, 283

_From_ JAMES SPEDDING, 75 _note_

_To_ FREDERIC TENNYSON, 57, 66, 76, 81, 86, 91, 101, 111, 118, 139, 141, 143, 144, 150, 163, 176, 180, 188, 192, 199, 200, 223, 236, 244, 249, 254, 256, 260, 269, 271, 275, 285, 287

_From_ W. M. THACKERAY, 280

_To_ W. M. THACKERAY, 38, 281

_From_ W. H. THOMPSON, 22 _note_

_To_ W. H. THOMPSON, 79, 85

_The asterisks indicate the letters which are here printed for the firsttime_. 

Footnotes:

{0a} See Letters and Literary Remains of Edward FitzGerald, vol. Iii. P. 464. 

{14} Now Librarian of the William Salt Library at Stafford: introducedto FitzGerald at Cambridge by Thackeray. [He died 10th February 1893, aged 82. ]

{19} Through the kindness of Mr. Thomas Allen, I have been enabled torecover these missing stanzas:--

 TO A LADY SINGING. 

 1. 

 Canst thou, my Clora, declare, After thy sweet song dieth Into the wild summer air, Whither it falleth or flieth? Soon would my answer be noted, Wert thou but sage as sweet throated. 

 2. 

 Melody, dying away, Into the dark sky closes, Like the good soul from her clay Like the fair odor of roses: Therefore thou now art behind it, But thou shalt follow and find it. 

{22} 'My dear Donne, ' as FitzGerald called him, 'who shares withSpedding my oldest and deepest love. ' He afterwards succeeded J. M. Kemble as Licenser of Plays. The late Master of Trinity, then GreekProfessor, wrote to me of him more than five and twenty years ago, 'Itmay do no harm that you should be known to Mr. Donne, whose acquaintanceI hope you will keep up. He is one of the finest gentlemen I know, andno ordinary scholar--remarkable also for his fidelity to his friends. '

{23} The Return to Nature, or, a Defence of the Vegetable Regimen, dedicated to Dr. W. Lambe, and written in 1811. It was printed in 1821in The Pamphleteer, No. 38, p. 497. 

{28} Wherstead Lodge on the West bank of the Orwell, about two milesfrom Ipswich, formerly belonged to the Vernon family. The FitzGeraldslived there for about ten years, from 1825 to 1835, when they removed toBoulge, near Woodbridge, the adjoining Parish to Bredfield. 

{32} By De Quincey, in Tait's Magazine, Sept. 1834, etc. 

{38} At Boulge. 

{42} Life of Cowper. 

{43a} Probably the Perse Grammar School. 

{43b} See Carlyle's Life of Sterling, c. Iv. 

{44} East Anglian for 'shovel. '

{45} Mrs. Schutz lived till December, 1847. 

{50a} The Quaker Poet of Woodbridge, whose daughter FitzGeraldafterwards married. 

{50b} His eldest brother, John Purcell FitzGerald. 

{52} Letters from an eminent Prelate to one of his Friends, 2nd ed. ;1809, p. 114, Letter XLVI. 

{57} A noted prize fighter. 

{58} Widow of Serjeant Frere, Master of Downing College, Cambridge. 

{59} Probably Mrs. Schutz of Gillingham Hall, already mentioned. 

{60a} Coram Street. 

{60b} Wordsworth, The Fountain, ed. 1800. 

{61a} William Browne. 

{61b} Probably Bletsoe. 

{62} Where FitzGerald's uncle, Mr. Peter Purcell, lived. 

{64} By Captain Allen F. Gardiner, R. N. , 1836. 

{65} In an article in Blackwood's Magazine for April 1830, p. 632, headed Poetical Portraits by a Modern Pythagorean. FitzGerald eitherquoted the lines from memory, or intentionally altered them. Theyoriginally stood, His spirit was the home Of aspirations high; A temple, whose huge dome Was hidden in the sky. 

Robert Macnish, LL. D. , was the author of The Anatomy of Drunkenness andThe Philosophy of Sleep. 

{66a} Master Humphrey's Clock. 

{66b} Where Thackeray was then also living. 

{67} At Geldestone Hall, near Beccles. 

{73a} His sister. 

{73b} R. W. Evans, Vicar of Heversham. 

{73c} The Paris Sketch Book. 

{73d} V. 9. 

{75} The artist, of whom Spedding wrote to Thompson in 1842 when hewished them to become acquainted, 'There is another man whom I have askedto come a little after 10; because you do not know him, and mutual selfintroductions are a nuisance. If however he should by any misfortune ofmine arrive before I do, know that he is Samuel Laurence, a portraitpainter of real genius, of whom during the last year I have seen a greatdeal and boldly pronounce him to be worthy of all good men's love. He isone of the men of whom you feel certain that they will never tire you, and never do anything which you will wish they had not done. Hisadvantages of education have been such as it has pleased God (who wasnever particular about giving his favourite children a good education) tosend him. But he has sent him what really does as well or better--theclearest eye and the truest heart; and it may be said of him as of SirPeter that

 Nature had but little clay Like that of which she moulded him. '

{79a} Afterwards Greek Professor and Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. 

{79b} In a letter to me written in August 1881 he says, "To-morrow comesdown my Italian sister to Boulge (Malebolge?), and I await her visitshere. "

{80a} The British and Foreign Review, 1840, Art. On 'The PresentGovernment of Russia, ' pp 543-591. 

{80b} _Ibid. _ pp. 510-542. 

{80c} _Ibid. _ p. 355, etc. , Art. On 'Introduction to the Literature ofEurope. '

{82} On Hero Worship. 

{89} Major Moor of Great Bealings; author of The Hindu Pantheon, SuffolkWords, Oriental Fragments, etc. 

{90a} By Gerald Griffin. 

{90b} The chapel of the Palazzo del Podesta, or Bargello, then used as aprison. 

{93} The London coach. 

{96} The owner of Bredfield House, where E. F. G. Was born. 

{97} Hor. Od. 1. 4. 14, 15. 

{98} Hor. Od. IV. 5, 25-27. Horrida . . . Foetus per metasyntaxin'horrid abortions. '

{99} Not for the Cabinet Cyclopaedia, but the Library of UsefulKnowledge. It was never finished. 

{100a} See Barton's Letters, p. 70. 

{100b} Vol. III. P. 318. 

{100c} The correct reading is 'lonesome. '

{102} No. 30, where his father and mother lived. 

{106} Shakespeare, Macb. I. 3, 146, 147. 

{111} Milton, P. L. IX. 445. 

{114a} Who was in America with Lord Ashburton. 

{114b} The late Sir W. F. Pollock, formerly Queen's Remembrancer. 

{114c} The Library of Useless Knowledge, by Athanasius Gasker [E. W. Clarke, son of E. D. Clarke, the Traveller], published in 1837. 

{115a} Referring to the 1842 edition of Tennyson's Poems. 

{115b} Spedding was at this time in America with Lord Ashburton. 

{122} The Rev. T. R. Matthews, of Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge:formerly Curate of Bolnhurst and Colmworth, Chaplain of the House ofIndustry, Bedford, and incumbent of Christ Church in that town. He died4th Sept 1845, and his memory is still cherished by those who werebrought under his influence. Dr. Brown, the biographer of Bunyan, informs me, 'There is a little Nonconformist community at Ravensden, about three miles from Bedford, first formed by his adherents, and theykeep hung upon the wall behind the pulpit the trumpet Mr. Matthews usedto blow on village greens and along the highways to gather hiscongregation. '

{123} William Browne. 

{125} On Levett; quoted from memory. 

{128} There were two Parsons who wrote accounts of Naseby--Mastin in1792, and Locking in 1830. --_Note by E. F. G. _

{134} Georg. I. 208-211. 

{135} Referring to a passage in the Garden of Cyrus, near the end: 'Tokeep our eyes open longer, were but to act our _Antipodes_. The Huntsmenare up in _America_, and they are already past their first sleep in_Persia_. '

{137} This was a series of notes, drawn up by Carlyle for FitzGerald'sguidance, and afterwards incorporated almost verbatim in an Appendix tothe Life of Cromwell. 

{138} Spedding. 

{139} FitzGerald's copy of the 1676 edition is now in my possession. 

{142a} Where his brother Peter FitzGerald lived

{142b} See Letter to Barton of 2 Sept. 1841. 

{146a} Elegy xi. 

{146b} Mrs. Wilkinson, his sister. 

{147} Practical Hints on Light and Shade in Painting, by John Burnet, 1826, pp. 25, 26. 

{149} His housekeeper at Little Grange. 

{152} Reliquiae Antiquae, i. 233. 

{155} An old woman at Wherstead in whom FitzGerald took great interest. She died early in March 1844, at the age of 84. 

{157} The Rector of Boulge. 

{159} His parrot. 

{161} W. Cookson, M. D, of Lincoln died 12 April 1844. 

{166} _Note by E. F. G. _--Also, bottle-brown: in general all bottledthings are not so fresh coloured as before they were put in. A gherkinloses considerably in freshness. The great triumph of a housekeeper iswhen her guests say, 'Why, are these _really_ bottled gooseberries! Theylook like fresh, etc. '

{174a} The MS. Of this has been preserved. 

{174b} To the Rev. Francis de Soyres. 

{181} On the 26th of October, Carlyle wrote to FitzGerald:

'One day we had Alfred Tennyson here; an unforgettable day. He staidwith us till late; forgot his stick: we dismissed him with Macpherson'sFarewell. Macpherson (see Burns) was a Highland robber; he played thatTune, of his own composition, on his way to the gallows; asked, "If inall that crowd the Macpherson had any clansman?" holding up the fiddlethat he might bequeath it to some one. "Any kinsman, any soul thatwished him well?" Nothing answered, nothing durst answer. He crushedthe fiddle under his foot, and sprang off. The Tune is rough as hemp, but strong as a lion. I never hear it without something of emotion, --poorMacpherson; tho' the Artist hates to play it. Alfred's dark face grewdarker, and I saw his lip slightly quivering!'

{185} By James Montgomery: 'Friends' in his Miscellaneous Poems (Works, ii. 298, ed. 1836). 

{189} Miss Cooke. 

{190} Great aunt of W. B. Donne. 

{196} At Keysoe Vicarage

{197} See letter to Allen, August 1842. 

{198} At the Norwich Festival. 

{201} James White, author of The Earl of Gowrie, etc. 

{202} A Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo. 

{203} See the Memoir of Bernard Barton by E. F. G. Prefixed to theposthumous volume of selections from his Poems and Letters, p. Xxvi. 

{204a} Address to the members of the Norwich Athenaeum, October 17th, 1845. 

{204b} Now Professor of Sanskrit at Cambridge. 

{205a} Professor Cowell explains to me that this refers to a passage ofAusonius in his poem on the Moselle. It occurs in the description of thebank scenery as reflected in the river (194, 5):

 Tota natant crispis juga motibus et tremit absens Pampinus, et vitreis vindemia turget in undis. 

FitzGerald used to admire the break in the line after _absens_. 

{205b} A reminiscence of Shelley's Evening, as this was of a line inWordsworth's Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a picture of Peele Castle in astorm. 

{205c} The short _pasticcio_ of the battle referred to in the letter toBarton, 22 Sept. 1842. 

{209} Trinity Church, Bedford. 

{210a} On King's Parade. 

{210b} Mrs. Perry. 

{211a} F. B. Edgeworth died 12th Oct. 1846. 

{211b} Euphranor. 

{213} The Rev. J. T. Nottidge of Ipswich died 21 Jan. 1847. 

{220} [The last two words are crossed out. --W. A. W. ]

{222} Francis Duncan, rector of West Chelborough. 

{225} Morris Moore's letters on the Abuses of the National Gallery wereaddressed to The Times at the end of 1846 and the beginning of 1847 withthe signature 'Verax. ' They were collected and published in a pamphletby Pickering in 1847. 

{227} See Carlyle's Cromwell (ed. I), i. 193. 

{230a} Pliny, Ep. III. 21. 

{230b} In a subsequent letter, written when this was supposed to belost, he says, 'I liked all your quotations, and wish to read Busbequius;whose name would become an owl. '

{231} Lord Hatherley. 

{232} In the People's Journal, ed. Saunders, iv. 355-358. 

{233} iv. 104. 

{235} 26 Feb. 1848. 

{238} Dombey and Son. 

{240} Hellenica, II. I. 25. 

{241} Evenings with a Reviewer. 

{242} A lithograph of the portrait by Laurence. 

{243} Bernard Barton died 19 Feb. 1849. 

{247} Grandson of the poet, afterwards Rector of Merton, near Walton, Norfolk. 

{251} No one but FitzGerald in humorous self-depreciation would applysuch an epithet to this delightful piece of biography. 

{252a} Selections from the Poems and Letters of Bernard Barton. 

{252b} Of course this is not intended to be taken quite seriously. Itis to be remembered that FitzGerald also said of them, 'There are manyverses whose melody will linger in the ear, and many images that willabide in the memory. Such surely are those of men's hearts brighteningup at Christmas "like a fire new-stirred"--of the stream that leaps alongover the pebbles "like happy hearts by holiday made light"--of thesolitary tomb showing from afar "like a lamb in the meadow, " etc. '

{254a} Diogenes and his Lantern. 

{254b} Old Lady Lambert. 

{261} E. B. Cowell. 

{262a} The Rev. George Crabbe, son of the Poet, and Vicar of Bredfield. 

{262b} Bramford, near Ipswich. 

{265} Charles Childs. 

{266} Containing an article by Spedding on Euphranor. 

{267a} The Cowells had gone to live in Oxford. 

{267b} Euphranor. 

{268} Azael the Prodigal, adapted from Scribe and Auber's L'EnfantProdigue. 

{272} On the English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century

{273} To Polonius. 

{274} To visit his friend John Allen. 

{275} Esmond. 

{282} Six Dramas from Calderon. 

{283a} Chief Justice. 

{283b} Baron Parke, afterwards Lord Wensleydale. 

{284} This conjecture was correct. See p. 307. 

{285a} The Gardener and the Nightingale in Sir W. Jones's PersianGrammar. 

{285b} Vicarage. 

{287a} Farlingay Hall, sometimes called Farthing Cake Hall. 

{287b} Mrs. De Soyres. 

{291} Not Harry, but Franklin Lushington in Points of War. 

{292a} It was in the autumn of 1791. 

{292b} From Cowley's translation of Anacreon. 

{292c} P. 148. 

{302a} This with a wider margin, or in some other way distinguishablefrom the rest of the inscription. 

{302b} Some volumes of which C. Had brought down to Suffolk, being thenengaged with his Frederick II. _MS. Note by FitzGerald_. 

{304} Salaman and Absal. 

{307} In another letter written about the same time he says, 'The letterto Major Price at the beginning is worth any Money, and almost any Love!'This dedication by Major Moor to his old comrade-in-arms FitzGerald wouldsometimes try to read aloud but would break down before he could finishit. 

{308a} The Selection from his Letters, etc. , published after his death, in which FitzGerald wrote a sketch of his life. 

{308b} On Comparative Mythology, in the Oxford Essays for 1856. 

{308c} Life's a Dream: The Great Theatre of the World. From the Spanishof Calderon. 

{309} In an article on Spanish Literature in the Westminster Review forApril 1851, pp. 281-323. 

{311} In his 'Memoire sur la poesie philosophique et religieuse chez lesPersans. ' His edition of the text of Attar's poem came out in 1857, butthe French translation only in 1863. 

{312} In his 'Geschichte der schonen Redekunste Persiens. '

{313} Mrs. Cowell's father and mother. 

{316} This Apologue FitzGerald afterwards turned into verse; but itremained an unfinished fragment. Professor Cowell has kindly filled upthe gaps which were left. 

 A Saint there was who three score Years and ten In holy Meditation among Men Had spent, but, wishing, ere he came to close With God, to meet him in complete Repose, Withdrew into the Wilderness, where he Set up his Dwelling in an aged Tree Whose hollow Trunk his Winter Shelter made, And whose green branching Arms his Summer Shade. And like himself a Nightingale one Spring Making her Nest above his Head would sing So sweetly that her pleasant Music stole Between the Saint and his severer Soul, And made him sometimes [heedless of his] Vows Listening his little Neighbour in the Boughs. Until one Day a sterner Music woke The sleeping Leaves, and through the Branches spoke-- 'What! is the Love between us two begun And waxing till we Two were nearly One For three score Years of Intercourse unstirr'd Of Men, now shaken by a little Bird; And such a precious Bargain, and so long A making, [put in peril] for a Song?'

{317} George Borrow, Author of The Bible in Spain, etc. 

{318} Evan Banks, by Miss Williams. See Allan Cunningham's Songs ofScotland, iv. 59. 

{319} Boswell's Johnson, 11 April 1776. 

{320} This struck E. F. G. So much that he introduced it into OmarKhayyam, stanza xxxiii. Professor Cowell writes, 'I well remembershewing it to FitzGerald and reading it with him in his early Persiandays at Oxford in 1855. I laughed at the quaintness; but the idea seizedhis imagination from the first, and, like Virgil with Ennius' roughjewels, his genius detected gold where I had seen only tinsel. He hasmade two grand lines out of it. '

{322} A retired clergyman who lived at Bramford. 

{323a} On Comparative Mythology. Oxford Essays, 1856. 

{323b} Fraser's Magazine for April 1857. 

{328} M. Garcin de Tassy scrupulously observed this injunction in hisNote sur les Ruba'iyat de Omar Khaiyam, which appeared in the journalAsiatique. 

{337} See Letter to John Allen, 12 July 1840. 

{344} Rather of the Orthodox reader by Omar himself. 

{348} Hatifi's Haft Paikar, a poem on the Seven Castles of Bahram Gur, as I learn from Professor Cowell, 'each with its princess who lives init, and tells Bahram a story. ' He adds, 'We always used the name with anunderstood playful reference to Corporal Trim's unfinished story of theKing of Bohemia and _his_ Seven Castles. '