Letters of Edward FitzGerald Volume I Part 2

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Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when June is past: For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

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Ask me no more where those stars light That downward fall at dead of night: For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

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Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest: For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

These lines are exaggerated, as all in Charles's time, but very beautiful. . . .

Yours most affectionately, E.

LONDON, _Nov_. [27, 1832.]

MY DEAR ALLEN,

The first thing I do in answering your letter is to tell you that I am angry at your saying that your conscience p.r.i.c.ks you for not having written to me before. I am of that superior race of men, that are quite content to hear themselves talk, and read their own writing. But, in seriousness, I have such love of you, and of myself, that once every week, at least, I feel spurred on by a sort of gathering up of feelings to vent myself in a letter upon you: but if once I hear you say that it makes your conscience thus uneasy till you answer, I shall give it up.

Upon my word I tell you, that I do not in the least require it. You, who do not love writing, cannot think that any one else does: but I am sorry to say that I have a very young-lady-like partiality to writing to those that I love. . . . I have been reading Shakespeare's Sonnets: and I believe I am unprejudiced when I say, I had but half an idea of him, DemiG.o.d as he seemed before, till I read them carefully. How can Hazlitt call Warton's the finest sonnets? There is the air of pedantry and labour in his. But Shakespeare's are perfectly simple, and have the very essence of tenderness that is only to be found in the best parts of his Romeo and Juliet besides. I have truly been lapped in these Sonnets for some time: they seem all stuck about my heart, like the ballads that used to be on the walls of London. I have put a great many into my Paradise, giving each a fair white sheet for himself: there being nothing worthy to be in the same page. I could talk for an hour about them: but it is not fit in a letter. . . .

I shall tell you of myself, that I have been better since I wrote to you.

Mazzinghi {14} tells me that November weather breeds Blue Devils--so that there is a French proverb, 'In October, de Englishman shoot de pheasant: in November he shoot himself.' This I suppose is the case with me: so away with November, as soon as may be. 'Canst thou my Clora' is being put in proper musical trim: and I will write it out for you when all is right. I am sorry you are getting so musical: and if I take your advice about so big a thing as Christianity, take you mine about music. I am sure that this pleasure of music grows so on people, that many of the hours that you would have devoted to Jeremy Taylor, etc. will be melted down into tunes, and the idle train of thought that music puts us into. I fancy I have discovered the true philosophy of this: but I think you must have heard me enlarge. Therefore 'satis.'

I have gabbled on so long that there is scarce room for my quotation. But it shall come though in a shapeless manner, for the sake of room. Have you got in your Christian Poet, a poem by Sir H. Wotton--'How happy is he born or taught, that serveth not another's will'? It is very beautiful, and fit for a Paradise of any kind. Here are some lines from old Lily, which your ear will put in the proper metre. It gives a fine description of a fellow walking in Spring, and looking here and there, and p.r.i.c.king up his ears, as different birds sing. 'What bird so sings, but doth so wail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: "Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue,"

she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave p.r.i.c.k-song! who is't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear: against heaven's gate he claps his wings, the morn not waking till he sings. Hark, too, with what a pretty note poor Robin Redbreast tunes his throat: Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring: "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring.' This is very English, and pleasant, I think: and so I hope you will. I could have sent you many a more sentimental thing, but nothing better. I admit nothing into my Paradise, but such as breathe content, and virtue: I count 'Back and syde' to breathe both of these, with a little good drink over.

_Wednesday_ [28 _Nov._ 1832].

P.S. I sealed up my letter yesterday, forgetting to finish. I write thus soon 'becase I gets a frank.' You shall benefit by another bit of poetry. I do not admit it into my Paradise, being too gloomy: but it will please both of us. It is the prototype of the Pensieroso.

Hence all you vain delights!

As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly!

There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see 't, But only melancholy; Oh sweetest melancholy!

Welcome folded arms, and fixed eyes, A sigh, that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain heads, and pathless gloves, Places which pale pa.s.sion loves!

Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls!

A midnight dell, a pa.s.sing groan!

These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as [lovely] melancholy.

(From the _Nice Valour_, _or the Pa.s.sionate Madman_, by Fletcher.)

I think these lines are quite of the finest order, and have a more headlong melancholy than Milton's, which are distinctly copied from these, as you must confess. And now this is a very long letter, and the best thing you can do when you get to the end, is to Da Capo, and read what I ordered you about answering. My dear fellow, it is a great pleasure to me to write to you; and to write out these dear poems. . . .

Believe me that I am your very loving friend,

E. F. G.

[_Dec_. 7, 1832.]

MY DEAR ALLEN,

You can hardly have got through my last letter by this time. I hope you liked the verses I sent you. The news of this week is that Thackeray has come to London, but is going to leave it again for Devons.h.i.+re directly.

He came very opportunely to divert my Blue Devils: notwithstanding, we do not see very much of each other: and he has now so many friends (especially the Bullers) that he has no such wish for my society. He is as full of good humour and kindness as ever. The next news is that a new volume of Tennyson is out: containing nothing more than you have in MS.

except one or two things not worth having. . . .

When you write back (of which there is no hurry) send me an account that you and your Brother were once telling me at Bosherston, of three Generals condemned to die after the siege of Pembroke in Cromwell's time: and of the lot being brought by a little child. Give me their names, etc. (if you can) pretty circ.u.mstantially: or else, tell me where I can find some notice of it. . . .

I have been poring over Wordsworth lately: which has had much effect in bettering my Blue Devils: for his philosophy does not abjure melancholy, but puts a pleasant countenance upon it, and connects it with humanity.

It is very well, if the sensibility that makes us fearful of ourselves is diverted to become a cause of sympathy and interest with Nature and mankind: and this I think Wordsworth tends to do. I think I told you of Shakespeare's sonnets before: I cannot tell you what sweetness I find in them.

So by Shakespeare's Sonnets roasted, and Wordsworth's poems basted, My heart will be well toasted, and excellently tasted.

This beautiful couplet must delight you, I think. I will also give you the two last verses about Clora: though it is more complete and better without them: strange to say. You must have the goodness to repeat those you know over first, and then fall upon these: for there is a sort of reasoning in them, which requires proper order, as much as a proposition of Euclid. The first of them is not to my liking, but it is too much trouble about a little thing to work it into a better. You have the two first stanzas {19}--"ergo"

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Nothing can utterly die: Music aloft upspringing Turns to pure atoms of sky Each golden note of thy singing: And that to which morning did listen At eve in a rainbow may glisten.

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Beauty, when laid in the grave, Feedeth the lily beside her: Therefore the soul cannot have Station or honour denied her: She will not better her essence, But wear a crown in G.o.d's presence.

Q.E.D.

And I think there is quite enough of Clora and her music. I am hunting about the town for an ancient drinking cup, which I may use when I am in my house, in quality of housekeeper. Have the goodness to make my remembrances to all at that most pleasant house Freestone: I am quite serious in telling you how it is by far the pleasantest family I ever was among.

My sister is far better. We walk very much and see such sights as the town affords. To-day I have bought a little terrier to keep me company.

You will think this is from my reading of Wordsworth: but if that were my cue, I should go no further than keeping a primrose in a pot for society.

Farewell, dear Allen. I am astonished to find myself writing a very long letter once a week to you: but it is next to talking to you: and after having seen you so much this summer, I cannot break off suddenly.

I am your most affectionate friend,

E. F. G.

Have you got this beginning to your MS. of the Dream of Fair Women? It is very splendid.

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As when a man that sails in a balloon Down looking sees the solid s.h.i.+ning ground Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon,-- Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound:

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And takes his flags, and waves them to the mob That shout below, all faces turn'd to where Glows rubylike the far-up crimson globe Filled with a finer air:

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