Two Suffolk Friends Part 7

". . . Indeed, I only write now because I am shut up in my s.h.i.+p 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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bler 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, _Sat.u.r.day_, _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 p.r.o.nounced a Beauty by Posh & Co. As for mine, she stood up and crew like a c.o.c.k 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 d.i.c.kens'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 fas.h.i.+on 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 pa.s.sage."

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 Dest.i.tution. 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 s.h.i.+ps I made Corcyra; thence, upon the fifth, To Delphi; where to the presiding G.o.d A l.u.s.tratory 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds 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.