* * * * *

FitzGerald's hesitancy about Major Moor's book was typical of the man. I am assured by Mr John Loder of Woodbridge, who knew him well, that it was inordinately difficult to get him to do anything. First he would be delighted with the idea, and next he would raise up a hundred objections; then, maybe, he would again, and finally he wouldn't. The wonder then is, not that he published so little, but that he published so much; and to whom the credit thereof was largely due is indicated in this passage from a letter of Mr W. B. Donne's, of date 25th March 1876.

"I am so delighted at the glory E. F. G. has gained by his translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. The 'Contemporary Review' and the 'Spectator' newspaper! It is full time that Fitz should be disinterred, and exhibited to the world as one of the most gifted of Britons. And Bernard Quaritch deserves a piece of plate or a statue for the way he has thrust the Rubaiyat to the front."

There is no understanding FitzGerald till one fully realises that vulgar ambition had absolutely no place in his nature. Your ass in the lion's skin nowadays is the ass who fain would be lionised; and the modern version of the parable of the talents is too often the man who, untalented, tries to palm off Brummagem counterfeits. FitzGerald's fear was not that he would write worse than half his compeers, but that he might write as ill. "This visionary inactivity," he tells John Allen, "is better than the mischievous activity of so many I see about me." He applied Malthus's teaching to literature; he was content so long as he pleased the Tennysons, some half-dozen other friends, and himself, than whom no critic ever was more fastidious. And when one thinks of all the "great poems" that were published during his lifetime, and read and praised (more praised than read perhaps), and then forgotten, one wonders if, after all, he was so wholly wrong in that he read for profit and scribbled for amusement,—that he communed with his own heart and was still. Besides, had he not "awful examples"? There was the Suffolk parson, his contemporary, who announced at nineteen that he had read all Shakespeare and Milton, and did not see why he should not at any rate equal them. So he fell to work—his poems were a joy to FitzGerald. Then there was Bernard Barton. FitzGerald glances at his passion for publishing, his belief that "there could not be too much poetry abroad." And lastly there was Carlyle, half scornful of FitzGerald's "ultra modesty and innocent far-niente life," his own superhuman activity regarded meanwhile by FitzGerald with a gentle half-pitying wonder, of which one catches a premonitory echo in this extract from a long letter {87} of Sir Frederick Pollock's to W. H. Thompson. It bears date 14th February 1840, two years before Carlyle and FitzGerald met:—

"Carlyle's 'Chartism' has been much read. It has fine things in it, but nothing new. He is eminently a man of one idea, but then neither he nor any one else knows exactly what that one is. So that by dint of shifting it about to and fro, and, as you observe, clothing his remarks in the safe obscurity of a foreign language, he manages to produce a great impression. Truly he is a trumpet that gives an uncertain sound, an instrument of no base metal, but played without book, whose compass is not ascertained, and continually failing from straining at too high a note. Spedding has not yet found him out; FitzGerald has, and we lamentably rejoice at our melancholy discovery. Never was there such a waste of Faith as in that man. He is ever preaching Faith. Very well, but in what? Why, again says he, 'Faith'—that is, Faith in Faith. Objectless, purposeless, unmeaning, disappearing, and eluding all grasp when any occasion for action arises, when anything is to be done, as sufficiently appears from the miserable unpracticability of the latter chapters of the 'Chartism,' where he comes forward to give directions for what is to be done."

FitzGerald's wide, albeit eclectic reading, is sufficiently illustrated on every page of his published Letters. When, fourteen years before his death, his eyesight began to fail him, he employed boy-readers, one of whom read him the whole of the Tichborne trial. One summer night in 1889 I sat and smoked with this boy, a pleasant young man, in the bar-parlour of the Bull Hotel. He told me how Mr FitzGerald always gave him plenty of plum-cake, and how they used to play piquet together. Only sometimes a tame mouse would come out and sit on the table, and then not a card must be dropped. A pretty picture! In the bar-parlour sat an oldish man, who presently joined in our conversation. He had made the lead coffin for "the old Major" (FitzGerald's father), and another for Mr John; and he seemed half to resent that he had not performed the same office for Mr Edward himself, for whom, however, he once built a boat. He told me, moreover, how years before Mr FitzGerald had congratulated him on some symptoms of heart disease, had said he had it himself, and was glad of it, for "when he came to die, he didn't want to have a lot of women messing about him."

Next day I went and called on FitzGerald's old housekeeper, Mrs Howe, and her husband. She the "Fairy Godmother," as FitzGerald delighted to call her, was blithe and chirpy as ever, with pleasant talk of "our gentleman": "So kind he was, not never one to make no obstacles. Such a joky gentleman he was, too. Why, once he says to me, 'Mrs Howe, I didn't know we had express trains here.' And I said, 'Whatever do you mean, sir?' and he says, 'Why, look at Mrs —-'s dress there.' And, sure enough, she had a long train to it, you know." Her husband ("the King of Clubs") was eighty-four, but the same cheery, simple soul he always was. Mr Spalding, one broiling day, saw him standing bare-headed, and peering intently for good five minutes into the pond at Little Grange. "What is it, Howe?" he asked him; and the old man presently answered, "How fond them ducks dew seem of water, to be sure." Which, for some cause or other, greatly tickled FitzGerald.

I was staying in Woodbridge at the "Bull," kept whilom by "good John Grout," from whom FitzGerald procured the Scotch ale which he would set to the fire till it "just had a smile on it," and who every Christmas sent him a present of mince-pies and a jug of punch. An excellent man, and a mighty horse-dealer, better versed in horse-flesh than in literature. After a visit from Lord Tennyson, FitzGerald told Grout that Woodbridge should feel itself honoured. John had not quite understood, so presently took a chance of asking my father who that gentleman was Mr FitzGerald had been talking of. "Mr Tennyson," said my father, "the poet- laureate." "Dissay," {90} said John, warily; "anyhow he didn't fare to know much about hosses when I showed him over my stables."

From my bedroom window I could see FitzGerald's old lodgings over Berry's, where he sojourned from 1860 till 1873. The cause of his leaving them is only half told in Mr Aldis Wright's edition of the Letters (p. 365, footnote). Mr Berry, a small man, had taken to himself a second wife, a buxom widow weighing fourteen stone; and she, being very genteel, could not brook the idea of keeping a lodger. So one day—I have heard FitzGerald tell the story—came a timid rap at the door of his sitting-room, a deep "Now, Berry, be firm," and a mild "Yes, my dear;" and Berry appeared on the threshold. Hesitatingly he explained that "Mrs Berry, you know, sir—really extremely sorry—but not been used, sir," &c., &c. Then from the rear, a deep "And you've got to tell him about Old Gooseberry, Berry," a deprecatory "Certainly, my love;" and poor Berry stammered forth, "And I am told, sir, that you said—you said—I had long been old Berry, but now—now you should call me Old Gooseberry." So FitzGerald had to make up his mind at last to migrate to his own house, Little Grange, which he had bought more than nine years before, and enlarged and made a very pretty place of. "I shall never live in it, but I shall die there," he once said to a friend. Both predictions were falsified, for he did live there nearly ten years, and his death took place at Merton, in Norfolk.

{Little Grange: p91.jpg}

I wandered through the grounds of Little Grange, hardly changed except that there were now no doves. There was the "Quarterdeck" walk, and there was the Summerhouse, to which Charles Keene used to retire with his bagpipes. I can hear FitzGerald saying to my father, "Keene has a theory that we open our mouths too much; but whether he bottles up his wind to play the bagpipes, or whether he plays the bagpipes to get rid of his bottled-up wind, I do not know, and I don't suppose I ever shall know."

From Little Grange I walked two miles out to Bredfield Hall, FitzGerald's birthplace. It is a stately old Jacobean mansion, though sadly beplastered, for surely its natural colour is red-brick, like that of the outbuildings. Among these I came upon an old, old labourer, who "remembered Mr Edward well. Why, he'd often come up, he would, and sit on that there bench by the canal, nivver sayin' nothin'. But he took on wonnerful, that he did, if ivver they touched any of the owd trees." Not many of them are standing now, and what there are, are all "dying atop."

{The Cottage, Boulge: p93.jpg}

It is a short walk from Bredfield Hall to Bredfield church and vicarage. Both must be a good deal altered by restoration and enlargement since the days (1834-57) of George Crabbe, the poet's son, about whom there is so much in the Letters, and of whom I have often heard tell. He went up to the great Exhibition of 1851; and, after his return, my father asked him what he thought of it. "Thought of it, my dear sir! When I entered that vast emporium of the world's commerce, I lifted up my arms and SHOUTED for amazement." From Bredfield a charming walk through the fields (trudged how many times by FitzGerald!) leads to the little one-storeyed cottage in Boulge Park, where he lived from 1838 till 1853. It probably is scarcely changed at all, with its low-pitched thatch roof forming eyebrows over the brown-shuttered windows. "Cold and draughty," says the woman who was living in it, and who showed me FitzGerald's old parlour and bedroom. The very nails were still in the walls on which he hung his big pictures. Boulge Hall, then tenantless, a large modern white-brick house, brought me soon to Boulge church, half-hidden by trees. Fitzgerald sleeps beneath its redbrick tower. His grave is marked by a flat granite monument, carved with a cross-fleury. Pity, it seemed, that no roses grew over it. {94}

Afterwards, for auld langsyne, I took a long pull down the Deben river; and next morning I visited Farlingay Hall, the farmhouse where Carlyle stayed with FitzGerald in 1855. It is not a farmhouse now, but a goodly old-fashioned mansion, red-tiled, dormer-windowed, and all covered with roses and creepers. A charming young lady showed me some of the rooms, and pointed out a fine elm-tree in the meadow, beneath which Carlyle smoked his pipe. Finally, if any one would know more of the country round Woodbridge, let him turn up an article in the 'Magazine of Art' for 1885, by Professor Sidney Colvin, on "East Suffolk Memories, Inland and Home."

{Farlingay Hall: p95.jpg}

But, besides this, I saw a good deal of Mr John Loder, third in a line of Woodbridge booksellers, who knew FitzGerald for many years, and has much to tell of him which were well worth preserving. From him I received a loan of Mr Elihu Vedder's splendid illustrations to the 'Rubaiyat,' and a couple of presents. The first is a pencil-drawing of FitzGerald's yacht; the second, a book, "made up," like so many others, by FitzGerald, and comprising this one, three French plays, a privately printed article on Moore, and the first edition of 'A Little Dinner at Timmins's.' Then with Mr Barrett, the Ipswich bookseller, who likewise knew FitzGerald, I had two chance meetings; and last but not least, I spent a most pleasant day at Colchester with Mr Frederick Spalding, curator now of the museum there.

Sitting in his alcove, hewn out of the massy wall of the Norman keep, he poured forth story after story of FitzGerald, and showed me his memorials of their friendship. This was a copy of Miss Edgeworth's 'Frank,' in German and English, given to FitzGerald at Edgeworthstown (cf. 'Letters,' p. 74); and that, FitzGerald's own school copy of Boswell's 'Johnson,' which he gave Mr Spalding, first writing on the fly-leaf—"He was pleased to say to me one morning when we were alone in his study, 'Boswell, I am almost easier with you than with anybody' (vol. v. p. 75)." Here, again, was a scrap-book, containing, inter alia, a long and interesting unpublished letter from Carlyle to FitzGerald about the projected Naseby monument, and a fragment of a letter from Frederic Tennyson, criticising the Laureate's "Welcome to Alexandra." Not being a short-hand reporter or American interviewer, I am not going to try to reproduce Mr Spalding's discourse (he must do that himself some day); but a letter of his in the 'East Anglian' of 8th July 1889 I will reprint:—

The fishing Lugger built at Lowestoft was named the "Meum and Tuum," commonly called by the fishermen there the "Mum and Tum," much to Mr FitzGerald's amusement; and the ship alluded to by Mr Gosse was the pretty schooner of 15 tons, built by Harvey, of Wyvenhoe, and named the "Scandal," after "the main staple of Woodbridge." My friend, T. N., the skipper, gave a different account of the origin of the name. I was standing with him on the Lowestoft Fish Market, close to which the little "Scandal" was moored, after an early dive from her deck, when Tom was addressed by one of two ladies: "Pray, my man, can you tell me who owns that very pretty yacht?" "Mr Edward FitzGerald of Woodbridge, ma'am," said Tom, touching his cap. "And can you tell us her name?" "The 'Scandal,' ma'am." "Dear me! how came he to select such a very peculiar name?" "Well, ma'am, the fact is, all the other names were taken up, so that we were forced to have either that or none." The ladies at once moved on.

Mr Spalding, further, has placed in my hands a bundle of seventy letters, written to himself by FitzGerald between 1862 and 1882. Some of them relate to mere business matters (such as the building of Little Grange), and some to private affairs; but the following extracts have a high and exceptional value, as illustrating a feature in FitzGerald's life that is little touched on in the published Letters—his strong love of the sea and of sailors:—

"GELDESTONE HALL, BECCLES, Feb. 5, 1862. ['Letters,' p. 284.] {98}

". . . I have been twice to old Wright, who has built a Boat of about 14 feet on speculation: and has laid down the keel of a new wherry, on speculation also. But he has as yet no Orders, and thinks his Business is like to be very slack. Indeed the Rail now begins to creep over the Marsh, and even to come pretty close to the River, over which it is to cross into Beccles. But you, I think, surmise that this Rail will not hurt Wright so much as he fears it will. Poor old Boy—I found him well and hearty on Sunday; but on Sunday night and Monday he was seized with such Rheumatism (I think Rheumatic Gout) in one leg as has given him no rest or sleep since. It is, he says, 'as if somethin' was a-tearin' the Flesh off his Bones.' I showed him two of the guilty Screws which had almost let my Leaden Keel part from the wooden one: he says he had desired the Smith not to make too large heads, and the Smith accordingly made them too small; and some Apprentice had, he supposes, fixed them in without further inspection. There is such honesty and cheerfulness in Wright's Saxon Eyes and Countenance when he faces such a charge as disarms all one's wrath."

"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, July 17, '65. ['Letters,' p. 301.]

". . . Yes, I sent Newson and Cooper home to the Shipwreck Dinner at Woodbridge, and supposing they would be maudlin on Saturday, gave them Sunday to repent on, and so have lost the only fine Days we have yet had for sailing. To-day is a dead Calm. 'These are my Trials!' as a fine Gentleman said to Wesley, when his Servant put rather too many Coals on the Fire.

". . . Somehow, I always feel at home here,—partly that the place itself is very suited to me: I have known it these 40 years, particularly connected with my Sister Kerrich, whose Death has left a sort of sad interest shed over it. It was a mere Toss-up in 1860 whether I was to stay at Woodbridge, or come to reside here, when my residing would have been of some use to her then, and her Children now.

"Now then I am expecting my 'Merry Men' from Woodbridge, to get out my Billyboy, and get into what Sailors call the Doldrums, . . . "

"3 SION HILL, RAMSGATE, August 25/65. ['Letters,' p. 301.]

"I got here all right and very quick from our Harbour on Monday Morng. And here I shall be till Monday: then shall probably go with my Brother [Peter] to Dover and Calais: and so hope to be home by the middle or later part of next week. . . . To-day is going on a Regatta before the windows where I write: shall I never have done with these tiresome Regattas? And to-night the Harbour is to be captured after an obstinate defence by 36-pounders in a sham fight, so we shall go deaf to Bed. We had really a famous sail from Felixtow Ferry; getting out of it at 7 A.M., and being off Broadstairs (3 miles from here) as the clock on the shore struck twelve. After that we were an hour getting into this very Port, because of a strong Tide against us. . . ."

"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, March 28, 1866. ['Letters,' p. 303.]

". . . The change has been of some use, I think, in brightening me. My long solitary habit of Life now begins to tell upon me, and I am got past the very cure which only could counteract it: Company or Society: of which I have lost the Taste too long to endure again. So, as I have made my Bed, I must lie in it—and die in it. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, April 2, '66. [Ib.]

". . . I am going to be here another week: as I think it really has freshened me up a bit. Especially going out in a Boat with my good Fletcher, though I get perished with the N.E. wind. I believe I never shall do unless in a Lodging, as I have lived these 40 years. It is too late, I doubt, to reform in a House of one's own. . . . Dove, {101} unlike Noah's Dove, brings no report of a green leaf when I ask him about the Grass seed. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, April 3, '66. [Ib.]

". . . Looking over the Tombstones of the old Churchyard this morning, I observed how very many announced the Lease of Life expired at about the same date which I entered upon last Saturday [fifty-seven]. I know it is time to set one's House in order—when Mr Dove has done his part."

"COWES, ISLE OF WIGHT, Friday, June 30, 1866. ['Letters,' p. 305.]

"We got here very well on Tuesday eveng. Wednesday I sent Newson and Crew over to Portsmouth, where they didn't see the one thing I sent them for, namely, Nelson's Ship, the 'Victory,' but where they bought two Pair of Trousers, which they call 'Dungaree.' Yesterday we went to Poole—a place I had long a very slight Desire to see; and which was not worth the seeing. To-day we came back here: I regretting rather we had not run further along the Coast to Weymouth and Teignmouth, where I should have seen my Friend Mansfield the Shipwright. It was a little weakness of mine, in not changing orders, but, having talked of going only to Poole, I left it as it was. The weather has been only too fine: the sea too calm. Here we are in front of this pretty place, with many Yachts at anchor and sailing about us: nearly all Schooners, little and great, of all which I think we are the 'Pitman' (see Moor's 'Words'). I must say I am very tired of seeing only Schooners. Newson was beaten horribly yesterday by a Ryde open Boat of about 7 or 8 tons, which stood right into the wind, but he soon afterwards completely distanced a Billy- boy, which put us in Spirits again. I am very contented (in my way) pottering about here alone, or with my Crew of two, and I believe cd bundle on for a Month in such a way. But I shall soon be home. I have thought of you To-day when your Sale is going on, at the same time as my Sail. Pretty Wit! . . ."

* * * * *

The next letter refers to an accident that befell the Scandal. She was lying at Lowestoft, in the Fishmarket basin, when a huge Continental steamer came drifting down on her. "Mr FitzGerald," so Mr Spalding tells me, "just said in his slow melodious voice, {103} 'My poor little ship will be cracked like a nutshell;' and he took my arm to force me ashore. But I refused to go unless he went too, and just then the cable held on the weather-side of the steamer towering up above us; still, our 'channel- boards,' over which the shrouds are tautened, were crushed up flat to the yacht's side, and perhaps some stanchions were injured too."

"SCANDAL, Sept. 19, '66. [Ib.]

". . . Mr Manby is wrong about our getting no compensation for the Damage (so far as it cd be seen) inflicted on us by the steamer. Whether we could claim it or not, the Steamer Captain granted it: being (as Newson says) quite a Gentleman, &c. So we have had the Carpenters for two Days, who have restored the broken Stanchions, &c. What mischief the Shock may have done to the Body of the Ship remains to be proved: 'Anyhow, it can't have done her any good,' says Job's Comforter, Captn. Newson. The Steamer's Captain admitted that he had expected us to be cracked like a Walnut.

"Now, I want you to tell me of this. You know of Newson's lending Posh {104} money. I have advised that, beside an I.O.U. from Posh, he should give security upon some of his Effects: Boats, Nets, or other Gear. Tell me how this should be done, if you can: the Form of Writing required: and perhaps what Interest Newson should have on his Money.

"Last night at the 'Suffolk' I was where Newson, Posh, & Co. were at their Ale: a little of which got into Newson's head: who began to touch up Posh about such an Apparatus of Rockets, Mortars, etc., for the Rescue of those two stranded Vessels, when he declares that he and one or two Felixstowe Men would have pushed off a Boat through the pauses of the Surf, and done all that was wanted. He had seen, and been on, the Shipwash scores of times when the jump of the Ship pitched him on his Back, and sent the Topmast flying. So had Posh on the Home-sand here, he said; his Sand was just as bad as Tom's, he knew; and the Lowestoft Men just as good as the Felixstowe, &c. I fomented the Quarrel gently:—no Quarrel, or I should not: all Newson meant (which I believe is very true) there are so many men here, and no one Man to command, that they are worse off with all their Men and Boats than at the Ferry [Bawdsey], where Newson or Percival are Spokesmen and Masters. This I have explained to Posh To-day, as he was sitting, like Abraham, in his Tent—like an Apostle, mending his nets. 'Posh, your Frill was out last night?' 'No—no—only I didn't like to hear the Lowestoft Chaps weren't as good, etc., especially before the Stranger Men from Harwich, etc.'"

"LOWESTOFT, October 7, '66. [Ib.]

". . . 'Posh' went off in his new, old Lugger, {105} which I call 'The Porpoise,' on Thursday: came in yesterday with a Last and a half of Herrings: and is just put to Sea again, Sunday though it be. It is reported to be an extraordinary Herring Year, along shore: and now he goes into deeper Water. I am amused to see Newson's devotion to his younger Friend: he won't leave him a moment if possible, was the first to see him come in yesterday, and has just watched him out of sight. He declined having any Bill of Sale on Posh's Goods for Money lent; old as he is (enough to distrust all Mankind)—has perfect reliance on his Honour, Industry, Skill, and Luck. This is a pretty Sight to me. I tell Newson he has at last found his Master, and become possessed of that troublesome thing: an anxious Regard for some one.

"I was noticing for several Days how many Robins were singing along the 'London Road' here; and (without my speaking of it) Lusia Kerrich told me they had almost a Plague of Robins at Gelson [Geldestone]: 3 or 4 coming into the Breakfast room every morning; getting under Kerrich's Legs, &c. And yesterday Posh told me that three came to his Lugger out at Sea; also another very pretty Bird, whose name he didn't know, but which he caught and caged in the Binnacle, where it was found dead in due time. . . .

"P.S.—Posh (as Cooper, whom I question, tells me) was over 12 miles from Land when the four Robins came aboard: a Bird which he nor Cooper had ever seen to visit a Ship before. The Bird he shut up in the Binnacle he describes as of 'all sorts of Colours'—perhaps a Tomtit!—and I fear it was roasted in the Binnacle, when Posh lighted up at night, forgetting his Guest. 'Poor little fallow!'"

"LOWESTOFT, Dec. 4, 1866. [Ib.]

"I am sorry you can't come, but have no doubt that you are right in not coming. You may imagine what I do with myself here: somehow, I do believe the Seaside is more of my Element than elsewhere, and the old Lodging Life suits me best. That, however, I have at Woodbridge; and can be better treated nowhere than there.

"I have just seen Posh, who had been shooting his Lines in the Morning: had fallen asleep after his Sunday Dinner, and rose up like a Giant refreshed when I went into his house. His little Wife, however, told him he must go and tidy his Hair, which he was preparing to obey. Oh! these are the People who somehow interest me; and if I were not now too far advanced on the Road to Forgetfulness, I should be sad that my own Life had been such a wretched Concern in comparison. But it is too late, even to lament, now. . . .

"There is a Wedding-party next door: at No. 11; I being in 12; Becky having charge of both houses. There is incessant vulgar Giggling and Tittering, and 5 meals a Day, Becky says. Oh! these are not such Gentlefolks as my Friends on the Beach, who have not 5 meals a Day. I wonder how soon I shall quarrel with them, however—I don't mean the Wedding Party. . . . At Eight or half-past I go to have a Pipe at Posh's, if he isn't half-drunk with his Friends."

"LOWESTOFT, Jan. 5/67. ['Letters,' p. 306.]

"I really was to have gone home To-day, but made a little Business with Posh an excuse for waiting over Sunday. This very Day he signs an Agreement for a new Herring-lugger, of which he is to be Captain, and to which he will contribute some Nets and Gear. I daresay I had better have left all this alone: but, if moderately lucky, the Vessel will pay something, at any rate: and in the meanwhile it really does me some good, I believe, to set up this little Interest here: and even if I lose money, I get some Fun for it. So now I shall be very glad to drop Esquire, and be addressed, as 'Herring-merchant,' for the future.

"Posh has been doing well this week with Cod-fishing, as only one other Boat has been out (owing to the others not having a Set-net to catch bait with). His fish have fetched a good price, even from the old Jew, Levi. {108} I believe I have smoked my Pipe every evening but one with Posh at his house, which his quiet little Wife keeps tidy and pleasant. The Man is, I do think, of a Royal Nature. I have told him he is liable to one Danger (the Hare with many Friends)—so many wanting him to drink. He says, it's quite true, and that he is often obliged to run away: as I believe he does: for his House shows all Temperance and Order. This little Lecture I give him—to go the way, I suppose, of all such Advice. . . ."

"12 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, Feb. 8, '67. ['Letters,' p. 308.]

"Posh shall be at the Train for his Hare. When I went to look for him last Night, he was in his Shod, by the light of a Candle examining a Petman Pig [Suffolk for 'the smallest pig in a litter'], about the size of Newson's Watch, and swell'd out 'as taut as a Drum,' Posh said. A Friend had given him this Production of Nature: it hadn't grown a bit (except swelling up) for 3 weeks, in spite of Posh's Medicines last Sunday: so as he is 'a'most minded to make away with it, poor little thing.' He almost let it drop when I suddenly appeared, in a theatrical Style, at the Door.

"You seem to think there is no hurry about a Gardener [at Little Grange] just yet. Mr Berry still thinks that Miss —-'s man would do well: as it is, he goes out for work, as Miss —- has not full Employment for him. He and his Wife are very respectable too, I hear. So in spite of my Fear of Unprotected Females, &c., he might do. Perhaps you might see him one day as you pass the Unprotected one's Grounds, and hear. I have hardly work enough for one Whole Man, as is the case with my Neighbour, who yet is a Female. . . ."

"'BECKY'S,' Saturday, May 18, '67. [Ib.]

". . . Posh is very busy with his Lugger [the 'Meum and Tuum'], which will be decked by the middle of next Week. I have just left him: having caught him with a Pot of white paint (some of which was on his Face), and having made him dine on cold Beef in the Suffolk Hotel Bowling-green, washing all down with two Tankards of Bullard's Ale. He was not displeased to dine abroad; as this is Saturday, when he says there are apt to be 'Squalls' at home, because of washing, &c. His little Boy is on the mending hand: safe, indeed, I hope, and believe, unless they let him into Draughts of Air: which I have warned them against.

"Yesterday we went to Yarmouth, and bought a Boat for the Lugger, and paraded the Town, and dined at the Star Tavern (Beefsteak for one), and looked into the Great Church: where when Posh pulled off his Cap, and stood erect but not irreverent, I thought he looked as good an Image of the Mould that Man was originally cast in, as you may chance to see in the Temple of The Maker in these Days.

"The Artillery were blazing away on the Denes; and the little Band-master, who played with his Troop here last summer, joined us as we were walking, and told Posh not to lag behind, for he was not at all ashamed to be seen walking with him. The little well-meaning Ass! . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Longest Day, '67. ['Letters,' p. 309.]

". . . As to talking over Posh, etc., with me, there is plenty of time for that; indeed, as yet we cannot come to a final estimate of the Property, since all is not yet bought: sails, cables, warps, Ballast, &c. As to his services hitherto, I yesterday gave him 20 pounds, telling him that I couldn't compute how much he had done for me: nor could he, he said, and would be contented with anything.

"No cloven Hoof as yet! It was his Birthday (yesterday), and we all had a walk to the new Lugger, and then to Mutford, where we had a fresh-water Sail on the Broad: Ale at the Inn, and Punch in the 'Suffolk' Bowling- green at night. Oh! 'tis a pleasant Time. But it passes, passes. I have not been out to Sea once since we've been here; only loitering about on shore.

"LOWESTOFT, April 14/68. ['Letters,' p. 316.]

". . . Meanwhile the Crews loiter about the Town: A. Percival, Frost, and Jack in his Kingfisher Guernsey: to whom Posh does the honours of the place. He is still busy with his Gear: his hands of a fine Mahogany, from Stockholm tar, but I see he has some return of hoseness. I believe that he and I shall now sign the Mortgage Papers that make him owner of Half Meum and Tuum. I only get out of him that he can't say he sees anything much amiss in the Deed. He is delightful with his Babe, whose name is Clara—'Hallo, Clara!' etc. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Tuesday, June 16, 1868. [Ib.]

". . . Thank you for the Books, which were all right: except in so far that they were anointed by the oozings of some Rhubarb Jam which Mrs Berry very kindly introduced among them. I am at my Don Quixote again; and really only sorry that I can read it so much more easily this year than last that I shall be all the sooner done with it. Mackerel still come in very slow, sometimes none at all: the dead-calm nights play the deuce with the Fishing, and I see no prospect of change in the weather till the Mackerel shall be changing their Quarters. I am vexed to see the Lugger come in Day after day so poorly stored after all the Labour and Time and Anxiety given to the work by her Crew; but I can do no more, and at any-rate take my own share of the Loss very lightly. I can afford it better than they can. I have told Newson to set sail and run home any Day, Hour, or Minute, when he wishes to see his Wife and Family. But at present he seems contented to eat Fish here: whether some of the few 'Stulls' {113} which Posh brings in, or what his now innumerable friends the Trawlers are always offering. In fact, I think Newson looks to Lowestoft as a Summer Pasture, and is in no hurry to leave it. He lives here well for nothing, except Bread, Cheese, and Tea and Sugar. He has now taken to Cocoa, however, which he calls 'Cuckoo' to my hearing; having become enamoured of that Beverage in the Lugger, where it is the order of the day. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Monday, July 13, '68. [Ib.]

". . . Posh made up and paid off on Saturday. I have not yet asked him, but I suppose he has just paid his way: I mean, so far as Grub goes. The Brother of one of his Crew was killed the night we got here, in a Lugger next to Posh's, by a Barque running into her, and knocking him—or, I doubt, crushing him—overboard.

". . . When are we to have rain? Last night it lightened to the South, as we sat in the Suffolk Gardens—I, and Posh, and Mrs Posh, and Sparks; Newson and Jack being with some other friends in another Department. Posh and I had been sauntering in the Churchyard, and reading the Epitaphs: looking at his own little boy's Grave—'Poor little Fellow! He wouldn't let his Mother go near him—I can't think why—but kept his little Fingers twisted in my Hair, and wouldn't let me go; and when Death strook him, as I may say, halloo'd out 'Daddy!'"

"LOWESTOFT, Sunday, Aug. 30, '69. ['Letters,' p. 318.]

". . . You will see by the enclosed that Posh has had a little better luck than hitherto. One reason for my not going to Woodbridge is, that I think it possible this N.E. wind may blow him hither to tan his nets. Only please God it don't tan him and his people first. . . .

"Lord and Lady Hatherley were here last week—no, this week: and I met them on the pier one day, as unaffected as ever. He is obliged, I believe, to carry the Great Seal about with him; I told him I wondered how he could submit to be so bored; on which my lady put in about "Sense of Duty," etcetera-rorum. But I (having no Great Seal to carry) went off to Southwold on Wednesday, and lay off there in the calm nights till yesterday: going to Dunwich, which seemed to me rather delightful.

"Newson brought in another Moth some days ago; brownish, with a red rump. I dare say very common, but I have taken enormous pains to murder it: buying a lump of some poison at Southwold which the Chemist warned me to throw overboard directly the Moth was done for: for fear of Jack and Newson being found dead in their rugs. The Moth is now pinned down in a lucifer match box, awaiting your inspection. You know I shall be glad to see you at any time. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Sept. 4, '69. [Ib.]

"I wish you were coming here this Evening, as I have several things to talk over.

"I would not meddle with the Regatta—to Newson's sorrow, who certainly must have carried off the second 10 pounds prize. And the Day ended by vexing me more than it did him. Posh drove in here the day before to tan his nets: could not help making one with some old friends in a Boat-race on the Monday, and getting very fuddled with them on the Suffolk Green (where I was) at night. After all the pains I have taken, and all the real anxiety I have had. And worst of all, after the repeated promises he had made! I said, there must now be an end of Confidence between us, so far as that was concerned, and I would so far trouble myself about him no more. But when I came to reflect that this was but an outbreak among old friends on an old occasion, after (I do believe) months of sobriety; that there was no concealment about it; and that though obstinate at first as to how little drunk, &c., he was very repentant afterwards—I cannot let this one flaw weigh against the general good of the man. I cannot if I would: what then is the use of trying? But my confidence in that respect must be so far shaken, and it vexes me to think that I can never be sure of his not being overtaken so. I declare that it makes me feel ashamed very much to play the Judge on one who stands immeasurably above me in the scale, whose faults are better than so many virtues. Was not this very outbreak that of a great genial Boy among his old Fellows? True, a Promise was broken. Yes: but if the Whole Man be of the Royal Blood of Humanity, and do Justice in the Main, what are the people to say? He thought, if he thought at all, that he kept his promise in the main. But there is no use talking: unless I part company wholly, I suppose I must take the evil with the good.

"Well, Winter will soon be here, and no more 'Suffolk' Bowling-greens. Once more I want you to help in finding me a lad, or boy, or lout, who will help me to get through the long Winter nights—whether by cards or reading—now that my eyes are not so up to their work as they were. I think they are a little better: which I attribute to the wearing of these hideous Goggles, which keep out Sun, Sea, Sand, &c. But I must not, if I could, tax them as I have done over books by lamplight till Midnight. Do pray consider this for me, and look about. I thought of a sharp lad—that son of the Broker—if he could read a little decently he would do. Really one has lived quite long enough.

"—will be very glad to show you his place at any time. His Wife is really a very nice Lady, and his Boy one of the nicest I have seen these 30 years. He himself sees wonderful things: he saw 2 sharks (supposed by Newson to be Sweet Williams) making love together out of the water at Covehithe; and a shoal of Porpoises tossing up a Halibut into the Air and catching it again. You may imagine Newson's demure face listening to all this, and his comments afterwards. . . ."

"SUFFOLK HOTEL, LOWESTOFT, Sept. 21, '69. [Ib.]

"Thank you much for your Letter, which I got last night when I went for my usual dose of Grog and Pipe.

"Posh came up with his Lugger last Friday, with a lot of torn nets, and went off again on Sunday. I thought he was wrong to come up, and not to transmit his nets by Rail, as is often done at 6d. a net. But I did not say so to him,—it is no unamiable point in him to love home: but I think he won't make a fortune by it. However, I may be very wrong in thinking he had better not have come. He has made about the average fishing, I believe: about 250 pounds. Some boats have 600 pounds, I hear; and some few not enough to pay their way.

"He came up with a very bad cold and hoarseness; and so went off, poor fellow: he never will be long well, I do think. I was foolish to forget G. Crabbe's homoeopathic Aconite: but I sent off some pills of it to Grimsby last night. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, March 2/70. ['Letters,' p. 324.]

". . . Posh has, I believe, gone off to Southwold in hope to bring his Lugger home. I advised him last night to ascertain first by Letter whether she were ready for his hands; but you know he will go his own way, and that generally is as good as anybody's. He now works all day in his Net-loft; and I wonder how he keeps as well as he is, shut up there from fresh Air, and among frowzy Nets. But he is in good Spirits; and that goes some way to keep the Body well, you know. I think he has mistaken in not sending the Meum and Tuum to the West this Spring, not because the Weather seems to promise in all ways so much better than last (for that no one could anticipate), but on account of the high Price of Fish of any sort; which has been an evident fact for the last six months. But I have not meddled, nor indeed is it my Business to meddle now. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Wednesday, Sept. 8, '70. ['Letters,' p. 323.]

". . . Indeed, I only write now because I am shut up in my ship by rain, and so write letters.

"I had a letter from Posh yesterday, telling me he was sorry we had not 'parted Friends.' That he had been indeed 'a little the worse for Drink'—which means being at a Public-house half the Day, and having to sleep it off the remainder: having been duly warned by his Father at Noon that all had been ready for sailing 2 hours before, and all the other Luggers gone. As Posh could walk, I suppose he only acknowledges a little Drink; but, judging by what followed on that little Drink, I wish he had simply acknowledged his Fault. He begs me to write: if I do so, I must speak very plainly to him: that, with all his noble Qualities, I doubt that I can never again have Confidence in his Promise to break this one bad Habit, seeing that he has broken it so soon, when there was no occasion or excuse: unless it were the thought of leaving his Wife so ill at home. The Man is so beyond others, as I think, that I have come to feel that I must not condemn him by general rule; nevertheless, if he ask me, I can refer him to no other. I must send him back his own written Promise of Sobriety, signed only a month before he broke it so needlessly: and I must even tell him that I know not yet if he can be left with the Mortgage as we settled it in May. . . .

"P.S.—I enclose Posh's letter, and the answer I propose to give to it. I am sure it makes me sad and ashamed to be setting up for Judge on a much nobler Creature than myself. But I must consider this a case in which the outbreak was worse than needless, and such as must almost destroy any Confidence I can feel for the future. I can only excuse it as a sort of Desperation at his Wife's Illness—strange way as he took of improving the occasion. You see it was not old Friends not seen for some time, but one or two of the Crew he is always with.

"I had thought of returning him his written Promise as worthless: desiring back my Direction to my Heirs that he should keep on the lugger in case of my Death. But I will wait for what you say about all this. I am really sorry to trouble you over and over again with the matter. But I am so fearful of blundering, where a Blunder may do so much harm. I think that Posh ought to be made to feel this severely: and, as his Wife is better, I do not mind making him feel it, if I can. On the other hand, I do not wish to drive him, by Despair, into the very fault which I have so tried to cure him of. Pray do consider, and write to me of this, returning me the two Papers.

"His mother did not try to excuse him at all: his Father would not even see him go off. She merely told me parenthetically, 'I tell him he seem to do it when the Governor is here.'" {121}

"LOWESTOFT, Saturday, Feb. 25, 1871. ['Letters,' p. 331.]

". . . The two Hens travelled so comfortably, that, when let out of the basket, they fed, and then fought together. Your Hen was pronounced a Beauty by Posh & Co. As for mine, she stood up and crew like a Cock three times right on end, as Posh reports: a command of Voice in a Hen reputed so unlucky {122} that Mr and Mrs Fletcher, Senior, who had known of sad results from such unnatural exhibitions, recommended her being slain and stewed down forthwith. Posh, however, resolves to abide the upshot. . . . Posh and his Father are very busy getting the Meum and Tuum ready for the West; Jemmy, who goes Captain, is just now in France with a Cargoe of salt Herrings. I suppose the Lugger will start in a fortnight or so. My Eyes refuse reading here, so I sit looking at the sea (with shut eyes), or gossiping with the women in the Net-loft. All- fours at night. Thank you for the speckled Hen; Posh expressed himself much obliged for his. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Sunday, Sept. 29/72. ['Letters,' p. 345.]

". . . Posh—after no fish caught for 3 weeks—has had his boat come home with nearly all her fleet of nets torn to pieces in last week's winds. On Wednesday he had to go 8 miles on the other side of Halesworth after a runaway—came home, drenched from top to toe, with a great Bulrush in his hand, which he could not help admiring as he went along: and went with me to the Theatre afterwards, where he admired the 'Gays,' as he called the Scenes; but fell asleep before Shylock had whetted his knife in the Merchant of Venice. . . ."

"LOWESTOFT, Friday, Jan. 9, 1874. ['Letters, p. 366.]

". . . No doubt Berry thinks that his Month's Notice, which was up last Monday, was enough. Against that I have to say, that, after giving that Notice, he told George Moor that I might stay while I pleased; and he drove me away for a week by having no one but his own blind Aunt to wait on me. What miserable little things! They do not at all irritate, but only bore me. I have seen no more of Fletcher since I wrote, though he called once when I was out. I have left word at his house, that, if he wishes to see me before I go, here am I to be found at tea-time. I only hope he has taken no desperate step. I hope so for his Family's sake, including Father and Mother. People here have asked me if he is not going to give up the Business, &c. Yet there is Greatness about the Man: I believe his want of Conscience in some particulars is to be referred to his Salwaging Ethics; and your Cromwells, Caesars, and Napoleons have not been more scrupulous. But I shall part Company with him if I can do so without Injury to his Family. If not, I must let him go on under some 'Surveillance': he must wish to get rid of me also, and (I believe, though he says not) of the Boat, if he could better himself."

"LOWESTOFT, Sunday, Feb. 28, 1875. ['Letters,' p. 370.]

". . . I believe I wrote you that Fletcher's Babe, 10 months old, died of Croup—to be buried to-morrow. I spoke of this in a letter to Anna Biddell, who has written me such a brave, pious word in return that I keep to show you. She thinks I should speak to Fletcher, and hold out a hand to him, and bid him take this opportunity to regain his Self-respect; but I cannot suppose that I could make any lasting impression upon him. She does not know all."

"WOODBRIDGE, Dec. 23/76. ['Letters,' p. 396.]

". . . I do not think there is anything to be told of Woodbridge News: anyhow, I know of none: sometimes not going into the Street for Days together. I have a new Reader—Son of Fox the Binder—who is intelligent, enjoys something of what he reads, can laugh heartily, and does not mind being told not to read through his Nose: which I think is a common way in Woodbridge, perhaps in Suffolk."

"WOODBRIDGE, March 31/79. ['Letters, p. 435.]

". . . A month ago Ellen Churchyard told me—what she was much scolded for telling—that for some three weeks previous Mrs Howe had been suffering so from Rheumatism that she had been kept awake in pain, and could scarce move about by day, though she did the house work as usual, and would not tell me. I sent for Mr Jones at once, and got Mrs Cooper in, and now Mrs H. is better, she says. But as I tell her, she only gives a great deal more of the trouble she wishes to save one by such obstinacy. We are now reading the fine 'Legend of Montrose' till 9; then, after ten minutes' refreshment, the curtain rises on Dickens's Copperfield, by way of Farce after the Play; both admirable. I have been busy in a small way preparing a little vol. of 'Readings in Crabbe's Tales of the Hall' for some few who will not encounter the original Book. I do not yet know if it will be published, but I shall have done a little work I long wished to do, and I can give it away to some who will like it. I will send you a copy if you please when it is completed."

"11 MARINE TERRACE, LOWESTOFT, Wednesday.

"DEAR SPALDING,—Please to spend a Sovereign for your Children or among them, as you and they see good. I have lost the Faculty of choosing Presents, you still enjoy it: so do this little Office for me. All good and kind wishes to Wife and Family: a happy Xmas is still no idle word to you."

"WOODBRIDGE, Jan. 12, '82. ['Letters,' p. 477.]

". . . The Aconite, which Mr Churchyard used to call 'New Year's Gift,' has been out in my Garden for this fortnight past. Thrushes (and, I think, Blackbirds) try to sing a little: and half yesterday I was sitting, with no more apparel than in my rooms, on my Quarter-deck" [i.e., the walk in the garden of Little Grange].

"April 1, 1882. ['Letters,' p. 481.]

"Thank you for your Birthday Greeting—a Ceremony which, I nevertheless think, is almost better forgotten at my time of life. But it is an old, and healthy, custom. I do not quite shake off my Cold, and shall, I suppose, be more liable to it hereafter. But what wonderful weather! I see the little trees opposite my window perceptibly greener every morning. Mr Wood persists in delaying to send the seeds of Annuals; but I am going to send for them to-day. My Hyacinths have been gay, though not so fine as last year's: and I have some respectable single red Anemones—always favourites of mine.

"Aldis Wright has been spending his Easter here; and goes on to Beccles, where he is to examine and report on the Books and MSS. of the late George Borrow at Oulton."

* * * * *

The handwriting is shaky in this letter, and it is the last of the series. It should have closed this article, but that I want still to quote one more letter to my father, and a poem:—

"WOODBRIDGE, March 16, 1878. ['Letters,' pp. 410, 418.]

"MY DEAR GROOME,—I have not had any Academies that seemed to call for sending severally: here are some, however (as also Athenaeums), which shall go in a parcel to you, if you care to see them. Also, Munro's Catullus, which has much interested me, bad Scholar as I am: though not touching on some of his best Poems. However, I never cared so much for him as has been the fashion to do for the last half century, I think. I had a letter from Donne two days ago: it did not speak of himself as other than well; but I thought it indicated feebleness.

"Eh! voila que j'ai deja dit tout ce que vient au bout de ma plume. Je ne bouge pas d'ici; cependant, l'annee va son train. Toujours a vous et a les votres, E. F. G.

"By the by, I enclose a Paper of some stepping-stones in 'Dear Charles Lamb'—drawn up for my own use in reading his Letters, and printed, you see, for my Friends—one of my best Works; though not exact about Book Dates, which indeed one does not care for.

"The Paper is meant to paste in as Flyleaf before any Volume of the Letters, as now printed. But it is not a 'Venerable' Book, I doubt. Daddy Wordsworth said, indeed, 'Charles Lamb is a good man if ever good man was'—as I had wished to quote at the End of my Paper, but could not find the printed passage."

* * * * *

The poem turned up in a MS. book of my father's, while this article was writing. It is a version of the "Lucius AEmilius Paullus," already published by Mr Aldis Wright, in vol. ii. p. 483 of the 'Remains,' but the two differ so widely that lovers of FitzGerald will be glad to have it. Here, then, it is:—



A PARAPHRASE BY EDWARD FITZGERALD OF THE SPEECH OF PAULLUS AEMILIUS IN LIVY, lib. xlv. c. 41.

"How prosperously I have served the State, And how in the Midsummer of Success A double Thunderbolt from heav'n has struck On mine own roof, Rome needs not to be told, Who has so lately witness'd through her Streets, Together, moving with unequal March, My Triumph and the Funeral of my Sons. Yet bear with me if in a few brief words, And no invidious Spirit, I compare With the full measure of the general Joy My private Destitution. When the Fleet Was all equipp'd, 'twas at the break of day That I weigh'd anchor from Brundusium; Before the day went down, with all my Ships I made Corcyra; thence, upon the fifth, To Delphi; where to the presiding God A lustratory Sacrifice I made, As for myself, so for the Fleet and Army. Thence in five days I reach'd the Roman camp; Took the command; re-organis'd the War; And, for King Perseus would not forth to fight, And for his camp's strength could not forth be forced, I slipped between his Outposts by the woods At Petra, thence I follow'd him, when he Fight me must needs, I fought and routed him, Into the all-constraining Arms of Rome Reduced all Macedonia. And this grave War that, growing year by year, Four Consuls each to each made over worse Than from his predecessor he took up, In fifteen days victoriously I closed. With that the Flood of Fortune, setting in Roll'd wave on wave upon us. Macedon Once fall'n, her States and Cities all gave in, The royal Treasure dropt into my Hands; And then the King himself, he and his Sons, As by the finger of the Gods betray'd, Trapp'd in the Temple they took refuge in. And now began my over-swelling Fortune To look suspicious in mine eyes. I fear'd The dangerous Seas that were to carry back The fruit of such a Conquest and the Host Whose arms had reap'd it all. My fear was vain: The Seas were laid, the Wind was fair, we touch'd Our own Italian Earth once more. And then When nothing seem'd to pray for, yet I pray'd; That because Fortune, having reach'd her height, Forthwith begins as fatal a decline, Her fall might but involve myself alone, And glance beside my Country. Be it so! By my sole ruin may the jealous Gods Absolve the Common-weal—by mine—by me, Of whose triumphal Pomp the front and rear— O scorn of human Glory—was begun And closed with the dead bodies of my Sons. Yes, I the Conqueror, and conquer'd Perseus, Before you two notorious Monuments Stand here of human Instability. He that was late so absolute a King Now, captive led before my Chariot, sees His sons led with him captive—but alive; While I, the Conqueror, scarce had turn'd my face From one lost son's still smoking Funeral, And from my Triumph to the Capitol Return—return in time to catch the last Sigh of the last that I might call my Son, Last of so many Children that should bear My name to Aftertime. For blind to Fate, And over-affluent of Posterity, The two surviving Scions of my Blood I had engrafted in an alien Stock, And now, beside himself, no one survives Of the old House of Paullus."

Myself, on the whole, I greatly prefer this version to Mr Aldis Wright's: still, which is the later, which the earlier, it were hard to determine on internal grounds. For, as has befallen many a greater poet, FitzGerald's alterations were by no means always improvements. One sees this in the various editions of his masterpiece, the 'Rubaiyat.' However, by a comparison of the date (1856) on the fly-leaf of my father's notebook with that of a published letter of FitzGerald's to Professor Cowell (May 28, 1868), I am led to conclude that my father's copy is an early draft.

THE END.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.



MISERERE.

{Music score: p133.jpg}

"Lord, have mercy."

1. LORD, who wast content to die, That poor sinners may draw nigh cres. To the throne of grace on high, p Miserere, Domine.

2. Who dost hear my every groan, Intercedest at the throne, cres. Making my poor prayers Thine own, p Miserere, Domine.

3. When some sorrow, pressing sore, Tells me, that life nevermore cres. Can be, as it was of yore, p Miserere, Domine.

4. Let me hear the Voice, that said, "It is I, be not afraid"; cres. So the sorrow shall be stay'd, p Miserere, Domine.

5. When the hour of death is nigh, And the watchers, standing by, cres. Raise the supplicating cry, p Miserere, Domine.

6. Take me to Thy promised rest, Number me among the blest, p Poor, and yet a welcomed guest. f Alleluia, Domine.



Footnotes:

{5} I remember once walking from Alton to Petersfield, and passing unwittingly through Selborne.

{8} This was the Samuel Henley, D.D., that translated Beckford's 'Vathek' from the French.

{11} She was hanged on 26th June 1815, for attempting to poison her master's family; and her story, reprinted from 'Maga,' forms a chapter in Paget's 'Paradoxes and Puzzles' (1874). That chapter I read to my father the summer before his death. It disappointed him, for he had always cherished the popular belief in her innocence.

{12} I am reminded of a case, long afterwards, where a clergyman had obtained a wealthy living on the condition that the retiring rector should, so long as he lived, receive nearly half the tithes. An aged man at the time the bargain was struck, that rector lived on and on for close upon twenty years; and his successor would ever and again come over to see my father, and ask his "advice." "What could I advise him?" said my father; "for we live in Suffolk, not Venice, so a bravo is out of the question."

{17} A writer in the 'Athenaeum' (I could make a shrewd guess at his name), after quoting the whist story, goes on: "Dr Belman was the country doctor who, on being asked what he thought of Phrenology, answered with equal promptitude and gravity, 'I never keep it and never use it. But I have heard that, given every three hours in large doses, it has been very efficacious in certain cases of gout.'"

{20} In 1881 the population was exactly 400. Ten years before it had been 470, ten years later had sunk to 315.

{22} I don't think it was Tom who employed that truly Suffolk simile—"I look upon this here chapel as the biler, yeou togither as the dumplins, and I'm the spoon that stars yeou up."

{31} Nicknames are very common—"Wedgy," "Shadder," "Stumpy," "Buskins," "Colly," &c.

{33} Seemed.

{39} Amazed.

{42} Word forgotten.

{43a} Something.

{43b} Thrandeston.

{43c} Heard.

{43d} Flung.

{43e} Amazingly.

{43f} Loins.

{44a} Heat.

{44b} Do you two.

{44c} Head.

{44d} Do you always keep.

{44e} Dutfen, bridle in cart harness.

{52a} This story is less unknown than its fellows, for in 1878 Mr FitzGerald got some copies of it reprinted at Woodbridge to give to his friends. I may well, however, republish it, for since the appearance of FitzGerald's 'Letters,' in which it is referred to (pp. 427, 428), I have had many requests for copies,—requests with which I was unable to comply, myself having only one copy.

{52b} Mawther, girl.

{52c} Word.

{52d} Do.

{53} Quiet.

{55} Halesworth.

{56a} Something.

{56b} Fr. journee, one day's work without halt, ending about 3 P.M.

{57} Query, would not the burning of 'Pickwick' and 'Bleak House' by the common hangman do more to appease Nonconformist susceptibility than even Disestablishment? 'Salem Chapel,' again, and 'Adam Bede.' Fancy 'Adam Bede 'without Mr Irwine, who yet is not held up for a model parson.

{58a} "Robin Cook's wife" evidently refers to some well-known character, and is doubtless intended to personify "England."

{58b} The "old mare" is some old institution, and probably embodies the "Established Church."

{58c} The mare was not perfect. What institution is, that has its alloy of humanity? Lookers-on see these failings and stare.

{58d} But the "sore back"! It evidently alludes to some special ailment, one which would make it difficult for any one to ride her.

{58e} So an "old sack" was thrown over her. Some such measures have from earliest times been found necessary to enable each occupant of the different sees to keep his seat and maintain order. In older times "Canons" were made; of late other measures have been taken—e.g., "An Act for the Regulation of Divine Service." The sack was then "hullt on,"—thrown on,—but roughly, not gently. This is noteworthy.

{59a} "Corn in the sieve" evidently refers to some more palatable measure than the "old sack." "Give her some oats, do not give her the sack only." Perhaps the Ecclesiastical Commissioners may represent the present givers of corn.

{59b} But all in vain, whether to enable the riders to mount on the "sore back," or for prolonging her life. "She chanced for to die." The Church disestablished.

{59c} And lies in the highroad, a prize for all comers.

{59d} But by "dead as a nit" evidently is meant more than disestablished; it means also disendowed. Else, what of "all the dogs in the town," each craving and clamouring for his bone? It was so three hundred years ago. Each dog "spook for a bone," and got it.

{59e} "All but the Parson's dog." The poor vicars never got back a bit of the impropriate tithes; the seats of learning got comparatively little. The "dogs about town" got most. Then, in the last touching words, "the Parson's dog he went wi' none," yet still singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf."

{62} Something.

{63} Quiet.

{68} A copy of his will lies before me; it opens:—"In the name of God, Amen. I, Robinson Groome, of Aldeburgh, Suffolk, mariner, being of sound mind and disposing disposition, and considering the perils and dangers of the seas and other uncertainties of this transitory world, do, for the sake of avoiding controversies after my decease, make this my Will," &c.

{69} Years before, FitzGerald and my father called together at Ufford. The drawing-room there had been newly refurnished, and FitzGerald sat himself down on an amber satin couch. Presently a black stream was seen trickling over it. It came from a penny bottle of ink, which FitzGerald had bought in Woodbridge and put in a tail-pocket.

{70} Letters and Literary Remains of Edward FitzGerald. (3 vols. Macmillan, 1889; 2d ed. of Letters, 2 vols. 1894.) Reference may also be made to Mr Wright's article in the 'Dictionary of National Biography'; to another, of special charm and interest, by Professor Cowell, in the new edition of Chambers's Encyclopaedia; to Sir Frederick Pollock's Personal Reminiscences; to the Life of Lord Houghton; to an article by Edward Clodd in the 'English Illustrated Magazine' (1894); to the 'Edinburgh Review' (1895); and to FitzGerald's Letters to Fanny Kemble in 'Temple Bar' (1895).

{76} This was the hymn—its words, like the music, by my father—that is printed at the end of this volume.

{81} Reprinted in vol. ii. of the American edition of FitzGerald's Works.

{87} That letter is one item in the printed and manuscript, prose and verse, contents of four big Commonplace Books, formed by the late Master of Trinity, and given at his death by Mrs Thompson to my father. They included a good many unpublished poems by Lord Tennyson, Frederic Tennyson, Archbishop Trench, Thackeray, Sir F. Doyle, &c. My father gave up the Tennysoniana to Lord Tennyson.

{90} Suffolk for "I daresay."

{94} So I wrote six years since, and now a rose tree does grow over it, a rose tree raised in Kew Gardens from hips brought by William Simpson, the veteran artist traveller, from Omar's grave at Naishapur, and planted here by my brother members of the Omar Khayyam Club on 7th October 1893 ('Concerning a Pilgrimage to the Grave of Edward FitzGerald.' By Edward Clodd Privately printed, 1894).

{98} I append throughout the page of the published letters that comes nearest in date.

{101} Mr Dove was the builder of Little Grange.

{103} His voice was unforgetable. Mr Mowbray Donne quotes in a letter this passage from FitzGerald's published Letters: "What bothered me in London was—all the Clever People going wrong with such clever Reasons for so doing which I couldn't confute." And he adds: "How good that is. I can hear him saying 'which I couldn't confute' with a break on his tone of voice at the end of 'couldn't.' You remember how he used to speak—like a cricket-ball, with a break on it, or like his own favourite image of the wave falling over. A Suffolk wave—that was a point."

{104} Posh was the nickname of a favourite sailor, the lugger's skipper, as Bassey was Newson's. Posser, mentioned presently, was, Mr Spalding thinks, Posh's brother, at any rate a fisherman and boatman, with whom Mr FitzGerald used to sail in Posh's absence.

{105} A second-hand boat that Posh bought at Southwold before the building of the "Meum and Tuum."

{108} This Levi it was, the proprietor of a fish-shop at Lowestoft, that used always to ask FitzGerald of the welfare of his brother John: "And how is the General, bless him?"

"How many times, Mr Levi, must I tell you my brother is no General, and never was in the army?"

"Ah, well, it is my mistake, no doubt. But anyhow, bless him."

{113} An extra large mackerel.—Sea Words and Phrases.

{121} An odd contrast all this to the calmness with which your ordinary Christian discharges (his duty and) a drunken servant, or shakes off a disreputable friend.

{122} Compare the old folk rhyme—

"A whistling woman and a crowing hen Are hateful alike to God and men."

THE END