“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, 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 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. Some boats have £600, 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 homœopathic 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, Cæsars, 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 Athenæums), 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! voilà que j’ai déjà dit tout ce que vient au bout de ma plume. Je ne bouge pas d’ici; cependant, l’année va son train. Toujours à vous et à les vôtres, 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 Æmilius 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 Æmilius 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 ‘Rubáiyát.’ 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.
“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 ‘Athenæum’ (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. journée, 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 “spŏok 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 Encyclopædia; 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 Naishápur, and planted here by my brother members of the Omar Khayyám 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.”