Title: Two Suffolk Friends
Author: Groome, Francis Hindes, 1851-1902
Language: English
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Transcribed from the 1895 William Blackwood and Sons edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org



TWO SUFFOLK FRIENDS


BY
FRANCIS HINDES GROOME

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCV

_All Rights reserved_

TO
MOWBRAY DONNE
THE FRIEND OF THESE TWO FRIENDS

{Robert Hindes Groome: p0.jpg}



PREFACE.


Published originally in 'Blackwood's Magazine' four and six years ago,
and now a good deal extended, these two papers, I think, will be welcome
to many in East Anglia who knew my father, and to more, the world over,
who know FitzGerald's letters and translations.  I may say this with the
better grace and greater confidence, as in both there is so much that is
not mine, and both have already brought me so many kindly letters--from
Freshwater, Putney Hill, Liverpool, Cambridge, Aldeburgh, Italy, the
United States, India, and "other nations too tedious to mention."  All
the illustrations have been made in Bohemia from photographs taken by my
elder sister, except Nos. 6, 8, and 9, the first of which is from the
well-known photograph of FitzGerald by Cade of Ipswich, whilst the other
two I owe to my friend, Mr Edward Clodd.

F. H. G.



A SUFFOLK PARSON.


The chief aim of this essay is to present to a larger public than the
readers of a country newspaper my father's Suffolk stories; but those
stories may well be prefaced by a sketch of my father's life.  Such a
sketch I wrote shortly after his death, for the great 'Dictionary of
National Biography.'  It runs thus:--

   "Robert Hindes Groome, Archdeacon of Suffolk, was born at Framlingham
   in 1810.  Of Aldeburgh ancestry, he was the second son of the Rev.
   John Hindes Groome, ex-fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and
   rector for twenty-six years of Earl Soham and Monk Soham in Suffolk.
   From Norwich school he passed to Caius College, Cambridge, where he
   graduated B.A. in 1832, M.A. in 1836.  In 1833 he was ordained to the
   Suffolk curacy of Tannington-with-Brandish; in 1835 travelled through
   Germany as tutor to Rafael Mendizabal, the son of the Spanish
   ambassador; in 1839 became curate of Corfe Castle, Dorsetshire; and in
   1845 succeeded his father as rector of Monk Soham.  Here in the course
   of forty-four years he built the rectory-house and school, restored
   the fine old church, erected an organ, and re-hung the bells.  He was
   Archdeacon of Suffolk from 1869 till 1887, when failing eyesight
   forced him to resign, and when the clergy of the diocese presented him
   with his portrait.  He died at Monk Soham, 19th March 1889.  Archdeacon
   Groome was a man of wide culture--a man, too, of many friends.  Chief
   among these were Edward FitzGerald, William Bodham Donne, Dr Thompson
   of Trinity, and Henry Bradshaw, the Cambridge librarian, who said of
   him, 'I never see Groome but what I learn something new.'  He read
   much, but published little--a couple of charges, a sermon and lecture
   or two, some hymns and hymn-tunes, and a good many articles in the
   'Christian Advocate and Review,' of which he was editor from 1861 to
   1866.  His best productions are his Suffolk stories: for humour and
   tenderness these come near to 'Rab and his Friends.'"

An uneventful life, like that of most country clergymen.  But as
Gainsborough and Constable took their subjects from level East Anglia, as
Gilbert White's Selborne has little to distinguish it above other
parishes in Hampshire, {5} so I believe that the story of that quiet life
might, if rightly told, possess no common charm.  I have listened to my
father's talks with Edward FitzGerald, with William Bodham Donne, and
with two or three others of his oldest friends; such talks were like
chapters out of George Eliot's novels.  His memory was marvellous.  It
seems but the other day I told him I had been writing about Clarendon;
and "Clarendon," he said, "was born, I know, in 1608, but I forget the
name of the Wiltshire parish his birthplace.  Look it up."  I looked it
up, and the date _was_ 1608; the parish (Dinton) was, sure enough, in
Wiltshire.  Myself I have had again to consult an encyclopaedia for both
date and place-name, but he remembered the one distinctly and the other
vaguely after possibly thirty years.  In the same way he could recall the
whole plot of a play which he had not seen for half a century.  Holcroft's
'Road to Ruin,' thus, was one that he once described to me.  He was a
master of the art, now wellnigh lost, of "capping verses"; and he had a
rare knowledge of the less-known Elizabethan dramatists.  In his first
Charge occurs a quotation from an "old play"; and one of his hearers,
Canon "Grundy," inquired what play it might be.  "Ford's," said my
father, "''Tis pity she's no better than she should be.'"  And the good
man was perfectly satisfied.  But stronger than his love of Wordsworth
and music, of the classics and foreign theology, was his love of
Suffolk--its lore, its dialect, its people.  As a young man he had driven
through it with Mr D. E. Davy, the antiquary; and as archdeacon he
visited and revisited its three hundred churches in the Norwich diocese
during close on a score of years.  I drove with him twice on his rounds,
and there was not a place that did not evoke some memory.  If he could
himself have written those memories down!  He did make the attempt, but
too late.  This was all the result:--

"_Oct._ 23, 1886.

"I cannot see to read, but as yet I can see to write.  That is, I can see
the continuous grey line of writing, and can mechanically write one word
after another.  But if I leave off abruptly, I cannot always remember
what was the last word that I wrote, and read it generally I cannot.

{Monk Soham Church: p6.jpg}

"I should be thankful for being able to write at all, and I hope I am;
but I am not enough thankful.  The failure of my sight has been very
gradual, but of late it has been more sudden.  Three months ago I could
employ myself in reading; now I cannot, save with a book, such as the
Prayer-book, with which I am well acquainted, and which is of clear large
type.  So that as yet I can take my duty.

"I was born at Framlingham on January 18, 1810, so that I am now nearly
seventy-seven years old.  The house still stands where I was born, little
if at all changed.  It is the first house on the left-hand side of the
Market Hill, after ascending a short flight of steps.  My father, at the
time of my birth, was curate to his brother-in-law, Mr Wyatt, who was
then rector of Framlingham.  I was the younger of two sons, my brother
Hindes being thirteen months older than I was.

"As we left Framlingham in 1813, my recollections of it are very
indistinct.  I have an impression of being taken out to see a fire; but
as I have since been told that the fire happened a year before I was
born, I suppose that I have heard it so often spoken of that in the end I
came to believe that I myself had seen it.  Yet one thing I can surely
remember, that, being sent to a dame's school to keep me out of mischief,
I used to stand by her side pricking holes in some picture or pattern
which had been drawn upon a piece of paper.

"In 1813, after the death of Mr Wyatt, my father took the curacy of
Rendlesham, where we lived till the year 1815.  The rector of Rendlesham
at that time was Dr Henley, {8} who was also principal of the East India
College of Haileybury, so that we lived in the rectory, Dr Henley rarely
coming to the parish.  That house remains unchanged, as I shall have
occasion to tell.  Lois Dowsing was our cook, and lived nearly forty
years in my father's service--one of those faithful servants who said
little, but cared dearly for us all.

"Of Rendlesham I have clear recollection, and things that happened in it.
It was there I first learnt to read.  My mother has told me that I could
not be taught to know the letter H, take all the pains she could.  My
father, thinking that the fault lay in the teacher, undertook to
accomplish the task.  Accordingly he drew, as he thought, the picture of
a hog, and wrote a capital H under it.  But whether it was the fault of
the drawing--I am inclined to think that it was--or whether it was my
obstinacy, but when it was shown me, I persisted in calling it 'papa's
grey mare.'

"There was a high sandbank not far from the house, through which the
small roots of the bushes growing protruded.  My brother and I never
touched these.  We believed that if we pulled one of them, a bell would
ring and the devil would appear.  So we never pulled them.  In a ploughed
field near by was a large piece of ground at one end, with a pond in the
middle of it, and with many wild cherry-trees near it.  I can remember
now how pretty they were with their covering of white blossoms, and the
grass below full of flowers--primroses, cowslips, and, above all,
orchises.  But the pond was no ordinary one.  It was always called the 'S
pond,' being shaped like that letter.  I suspect, too, that it was a pond
of ill repute--perhaps connected with heathen worship--for we were warned
never to go near its edge, lest the Mermaid should come and _crome_ us
in.  _Crome_, as all East Anglians know, means 'crook'; and in later
years I remember a Suffolk boy at Norwich school translated a passage
from the 'Hecuba' of Euripides, in which the aged queen is described as
'leaning upon a crooked staff,' by 'leaning upon a _crome_ stick,' which
I still think was a very happy rendering.

"Not far also from the rectory was a cottage, in which lived a family by
the name of Catton.  Close to the cottage was a well, worked by buckets.
When the bucket was not being let down, the well was protected by a cover
made of two hurdles, which fell down and met in the middle.  These
hurdles, be it noted, were old and apparently rotten.  One day I was
playing near the well, and nothing would, I suppose, satisfy me but I
must climb up and creep over the well.  In the act of doing this I was
seen by Mrs Catton, who saved me, perhaps, from falling down the well,
and carried me home, detailing the great escape.  Well do I remember, not
so much the whipping, as the being shut up in a dark closet behind the
study.  So strong was and is the impression, that, on visiting Rendlesham
as archdeacon, when I was sixty years old, on going up to the rectory-
house I asked especially to see this dark closet.  There it was, dark and
unchanged since fifty-six years ago; and at the sight of it I had no
comfortable recollection, nor have I now.

"In the year 1814 was a great feast on the Green--a rejoicing for the
peace.  One thing still sticks to my memory, and that is the figure of
Mrs Sheming, a farmer's wife.  She was a very large woman, and wore a
tight-fitting white dress, with a blue ribbon round her waist, on which
was printed 'Peace and Plenty.'

"In the year 1815 we spent the summer in London, in a house in Brunswick
Square, which overlooked the grounds of the Foundling Hospital.  Three
events of that year have always remained impressed on my memory.  The
first was the death of little Mary, our only sister.  She must have been
a strangely precocious child, since at barely three years old she could
wellnigh read.  My mother, who died fifty-two years after in her eighty-
third year, on each year when Mary's death came round took out her
clothes, kept so long, and, after airing them, put them away in their own
drawer.  The second event, which I well remember, was being taken out to
see the illuminations for the battle of Waterloo.  I can perfectly
remember the face of Somerset House, all ablaze with coloured lamps.  The
third event was the funeral of a poor girl named Elizabeth Fenning." {11}

And there those childish reminiscences broke off--never to be resumed.
But from recollections of my father's talk--and he loved to talk of the
past--I will attempt to write what he himself might have written; no set
biography, but just the old household tales.

After the visit to London the family lived a while at Wickham Market,
where my father saw the long strings of tumbrils, laden with Waterloo
wounded, on their way from Yarmouth to London.  Then in 1818 they settled
at Earl Soham, my grandfather having become rector of that parish and
Monk Soham.  His father, Robinson Groome, the sea-captain, had purchased
the advowson of Earl Soham from the Rev. Francis Capper (1735-1818),
whose long tenure {12} of his two conjoint livings was celebrated by the
local epigrammatist:--

   "Capper, they say, has bought a horse--
      The pleasure of it bating--
   That man may surely keep a horse
      Who keeps a Groome in waiting."

It was in the summer-house at Earl Soham that my father, a very small
boy, read 'Gil Blas' to the cook, Lois Dowsing, and the sweetheart she
never married, a strapping sergeant of the Guards, who had fought at
Waterloo.  And it was climbing through the window of this summer-house
that he tore a big rent in his breeches (he had just been promoted to
them), so was packed off to bed.  That afternoon my grandfather and
grandmother were sitting in the summer-house, and she told him of the
mishap and its punishment.  "Stupid child!" said my grandfather; "why, I
could get through there myself."  He tried, and he too tore his small-
clothes, but he was not sent to bed.

With his elder brother, John Hindes (afterwards Rector of Earl Soham), my
father went to school at Norwich under Valpy.  The first time my
grandfather drove them, a forty-mile drive; and when they came in sight
of the cathedral spire, he pulled up, and they all three fell a-weeping.
For my grandfather was a tender-hearted man, moved to tears by the
Waverley novels.  Of Valpy my father would tell how once he had flogged a
day-boy, whose father came the next day to complain of his severity.
"Sir," said Valpy, "I flogged your son because he richly deserved it.  If
he again deserves it, I shall again flog him.  And"--rising--"if you come
here, sir, interfering with my duty, sir, I shall flog you."  The parent
fled.

The following story I owe to an old schoolfellow of my father's, the Rev.
William Drake.  "Among the lower boys," he writes, "were a brother of
mine, somewhat of a pickle, and a classmate of his, who in after years
blossomed into a Ritualistic clergyman, and who was the son of a
gentleman, living in the Lower Close, not remarkable for personal beauty.
One morning, as he was coming up the school, the sound of weeping reached
old Valpy's ears: straightway he stopped to investigate whence it
proceeded.  'Stand up, sir,' he cried in a voice of thunder, for he hated
snivelling; 'what is the matter with you?'  'Please, sir,' came the
answer, much interrupted by sobs and tears, 'Bob Drake says I'm uglier
than my father, and that my father is as ugly as the Devil.'"

Another old Norwich story may come in here, of two middle-aged brothers,
Jeremiah and Ozias, the sons of a dead composer, and themselves
performers on the pianoforte.  At a party one evening Jeremiah had just
played something, when Ozias came up and asked him, "Brother Jerry, what
was that _beastly_ thing you were playing?"  "Ozias, it was our
father's," was the reproachful answer; and Ozias burst into tears.

{Monk Soham Rectory: p14.jpg}

When my father went up to Cambridge, his father went with him, and
introduced him to divers old dons, one of whom offered him this sage
advice, "Stick to your quadratics, young man.  _I_ got my fellowship
through my quadratics."  Another, the mathematical lecturer at
Peterhouse, was a Suffolk man, and spoke broad Suffolk.  One day he was
lecturing on mechanics, and had arranged from the lecture-room ceiling a
system of pulleys, which he proceeded to explain,--"Yeou see, I pull this
string; it will turn this small wheel, and then the next wheel, and then
the next, and then will raise that heavy weight at the end."  He
pulled--nothing happened.  He pulled again--still no result.  "At least
ta should," he remarked.

Music engrossed, I fancy, a good deal of my father's time at Cambridge.
He saw much of Mrs Frere of Downing, a pupil of a pupil of Handel's.  Of
her he has written in the Preface to FitzGerald's 'Letters.'  He was a
member of the well-known "Camus"; and it was he (so the late Sir George
Paget informed my doctor-brother) who settled the dispute as to
precedence between vocalists and instrumentalists with the apt quotation,
"The singers go before, the minstrels follow after."  He was an
instrumentalist himself, his instrument the 'cello; and there was a story
how he, the future Master of Trinity, and some brother musicians were
proctorised one night, as they were returning from a festive meeting,
each man performing on his several instrument.

He was an attendant at the debates at the Cambridge Union, _e.g._, at the
one when the question debated was, "Will Mr Coleridge's poem of 'The
Ancient Mariner' or Mr Martin's Act tend most to prevent cruelty to
animals?"  The voting was, for Mr Martin 5, for Mr Coleridge 47; and
"only two" says a note written by my father in 1877, "of the seven who
took part in the debate are now living--Lord Houghton and the Dean of
Lincoln.  How many still remember kind and civil Baxter, the
harness-maker opposite Trinity; and how many of them ever heard him sing
his famous song of 'Poor Old Horse'?  Yet for pathos, and, unhappily in
some cases, for truth, it may well rank even with 'The Ancient Mariner.'
And Baxter used to sing it so tenderly."

Meanwhile, of the Earl Soham life--a life not unlike that of "Raveloe"--my
father had much to tell.  There was the Book Club, with its meetings at
the "Falcon," where, in the words of a local diarist, "a dozen honest
gentlemen dined merrily."  There were the heavy dinner-parties at my
grandfather's, the regulation allowance of port a bottle per man, but
more _ad libitum_.  And there was the yearly "Soham Fair," on July 12,
when my grandfather kept open house for the parsons or other gentry and
their womankind, who flocked in from miles around.  On one such occasion
my father had to squire a new-comer about the fair.  The wife of a
retired City alderman, she was enormously stout, and had chosen to appear
in a low dress.  ("Hillo, bor! what are yeou a-dewin' with the Fat
Woman?"--one can imagine the delicate raillery.)

A well-known Earl-Sohamite was old Mr P---, who stuttered and was
certainly eccentric.  In summer-time he loved to catch small "freshers"
(young frogs), and let them hop down his throat, when he would stroke his
stomach, observing, "B-b-b-b-eautifully cool."  He was a staunch believer
in the claims of the "Princess Olive."  She used to stay with him, and he
always addressed her as "Your Royal Highness."  Then, there was Dr
Belman.  He was playing whist one evening with a maiden lady for partner.
She trumped his best card, and, at the end of the hand, he asked her the
reason why.  "Oh, Dr Belman" (smilingly), "I judged it judicious."
"_Judicious_!  JUDICIOUS!!  JUDICIOUS!!!  _You old fool_!"  She never
again touched a card.  Was it the same maiden lady who was the strong
believer in homoeopathy, and who one day took five globules of aconite in
mistake for three?  Frightened, she sent off for her homoeopathic
adviser--he was from home.  So, for want of a better, she called in old
Dr Belman.  He came, looked grave, shook his head, said if people would
meddle with dangerous drugs they must take the consequences.  "But,
madam," he added, "I will die with you;" and, lifting the bottle of the
fatal globules, swallowed its whole contents. {17}

To the days of my father's first curacy belongs the story of the old
woman at Tannington, who fell ill one winter when the snow was on the
ground.  She got worse and worse, and sent for Dr Mayhew, who questioned
her as to the cause of her illness.  Something she said made him think
that the fault must lie with either her kettle or her tea-pot, as she
seemed, by her account, to get worse every time she drank any tea.  So he
examined the kettle, turned it upside down, and then, in old Betty's own
words, "Out drop a big toad.  He tarned the kittle up, and out ta fell
flop."  Some days before she had "deeved" her kettle into the snow
instead of filling it at the pump, and had then got the toad in it, which
had thus been slowly simmering into toad-broth.  At Tannington also they
came to my father to ask him to let them have the church Bible and the
church key.  The key was to be spun round on the Bible, and if it had
pointed at a certain old woman who was suspected of being a witch, they
would have certainly ducked her.

A score of old faded letters, close-written and crossed, are lying before
me: my father wrote them in 1835 to his father, mother, and brother from
Brussels, Mainz, Leipzig, Dresden, Prague, Munich, &c.  At Frankfurt he
dined with the Rothschilds, and sat next the baroness, "who in face and
figure was very like Mrs Cook, and who spoke little English, but that
little much to the purpose.  For one dish I must eat because 'dis is
Germany,' and another because 'dis is England,' placing at the word a
large slice of roast-beef on my plate.  The dinner began at half-past
two, and lasted three mortal hours, during the first of which I ate
because I was hungry, during the second out of politeness, and during the
third out of sheer desperation."  Then there is a descent into a silver-
mine with the present Lord Wemyss (better known as Lord Elcho), a
gruesome execution of three murderers, and a good deal besides of some
interest,--but the interest is not of Suffolk.

During his six years' Dorset curacy my father was elected mayor of the
little borough of Corfe Castle; and it was in Dorset, on 1st February
1843, that he married my mother, Mary Jackson (1815-93), the youngest
daughter of the Rev. James Leonard Jackson, rector of Swanage, and of
Louisa Decima Hyde Wollaston.  Her father, my grandfather, was a great
taker of snuff; and one blustery day he was walking upon the cliffs when
his hat blew off.  He chased it and chased it over two or three fields
until at last he got it in the angle of two stone walls.  "Aha! my
friend, I think I have you now," said my grandfather, and proceeded to
take a leisurely pinch of snuff, when a puff of wind came and blew the
hat far out to sea.  There are many more Dorsetshire stories that recur
to my memory; but neither here is the interest of Suffolk.  So to Suffolk
we will come back, like my father in 1845, in which year he succeeded his
father as rector of Monk Soham.

Monk Soham is a straggling parish of 1600 acres and 400 inhabitants. {20}
It lies remote to-day, as it lay remote in pre-Reformation times, when it
was a cell of St Edmundsbury, whither refractory monks were sent for
rustication.  Hence its name (the "south village of the monks"); and
hence, too, the fish-ponds for Lenten fare, in the rectory gardens.  Three
of them enclose the orchard, which is planted quincunx-wise, with yew
hedge and grass-walk all round it.  The "Archdeacon's Walk" that grass-
walk should be named, for my father paced it morning after morning.  The
pike and roach would plash among the reeds and water-lilies; and "Fish,
fish, do your duty," my father would say to them.  Whereupon, he
maintained, the fish always put out their noses and answered, "If _you_
do your duty, _we_ do our duty,"--words fully as applicable to parson as
to sultan.

{"Fish, fish, do your duty.": p20.jpg}

The parish has no history, unless that a former rector, Thomas Rogerson,
was sequestrated as a royalist in 1642, and next year his wife and
children were turned out of doors by the Puritans.  "After which," Walker
tells us, "Mr Rogerson lived with a Country-man in a very mean Cottage
upon a Heath, for some years, and in a very low and miserable Condition."
But if Monk Soham has no history, its church, St Peter's, is striking
even among Suffolk churches, for the size of the chancel, the great
traceried east window, and the font sculptured with the Seven Sacraments.
The churchyard is pretty with trees and shrubs--those four yews by the
gates a present from FitzGerald; and the rectory, half a mile off, is
almost hidden by oaks, elms, beeches, and limes, all of my father's and
grandfather's planting.  Else the parish soon will be treeless.  It was
not so when my father first came to it.  Where now there is one huge
field, there then would be five or six, not a few of them meadows, and
each with pleasant hedgerows.  There were two "Greens" then--one has many
years since been enclosed; and there was not a "made" road in the entire
parish--only grassy lanes, with gates at intervals.  "High farming" has
wrought great changes, not always to the profit of our farmers, whose
moated homesteads hereabouts bear old-world names--Woodcroft Hall, Blood
Hall, Flemings Hall, Crows Hall, Windwhistle Hall, and suchlike.  "High
farming," moreover, has swallowed up most of the smaller holdings.  Fifty
years ago there were ten or a dozen farms in Monk Soham, each farm with
its resident tenant; now the number is reduced to less than half.  It
seems a pity, for a twofold reason: first, because the farm-labourer thus
loses all chance of advancement; and secondly, because the English yeoman
will be soon as extinct as the bustard.

Tom Pepper was the last of our Monk Soham yeomen--a man, said my father,
of the stuff that furnished Cromwell with his Ironsides.  He was a strong
Dissenter; but they were none the worse friends for that, not even though
Tom, holding forth in his Little Bethel, might sometimes denounce the
corruptions of the Establishment.  "The clargy," he once declared,
"they're here, and they ain't here; they're like pigs in the garden, and
yeou can't git 'em out."  On which an old woman, a member of the flock,
sprang up and cried, "That's right, Brother Pepper, kitch 'em by the
fifth buttonhole!" {22}  Tom went once to hear Gavazzi lecture at
Debenham, and next day my father asked him how he liked it.  "Well," he
said, "I thowt I should ha' beared that chap they call _Jerry Baldry_,
but I din't.  Howsomdiver, this one that spook fare to laa it into th'
owd Pope good tidily."  Another time my father said something to him
about the Emperor of Russia.  "Rooshur," said Tom; "what's that him yeou
call Prooshur?"  And yet again, when a concrete wall was built on to a
neighbouring farm-building, Tom remarked contemptuously that he "din't
think much of them consecrated walls."  Withal, what an honest, sensible
soul it was!

Midway between the rectory and Tom Pepper's is the "Guildhall," an
ancient house, though probably far less ancient than its name.  It is
parish property, and for years has served as an almshouse for ten or a
dozen old people.  My father used to read the Bible to them, and there
was a black cat once which would jump on to his knees, so at last it was
shut up in a cupboard.  The top of this cupboard, however, above the
door, was separated from the room only by a piece of pasted paper; and
through this paper the cat's head suddenly emerged.  "Cat, you bitch!"
said old Mrs Wilding, and my father could read no more.  Nay, his father
(then in his last illness) laughed too when he heard the story.

The average age of those old Guildhall people must have been much over
sixty, and some of them were nearly centenarians--Charity Herring, who
was always setting fire to her bed with a worn-out warming-pan, and James
Burrows, of whom my father made this jotting in one of his note-books:
"In the year 1853 I buried James Burrows of this parish at the reputed
age of one hundred years.  Probably he was nearly, if not altogether that
age.  Talking with him a few years before his death, I asked if his
father had lived to be an old man, and he said that he had.  I asked him
then about his grandfather, and his answer was that he had lived to be a
'wonnerful owd man.'  'Do you remember your grandfather?'  'Right well: I
was a big bor when he died.'  'Did he use to tell you of things which he
remembered?'  'Yes, he was wery fond of talking about 'em: he used to say
he could remember the Dutch king coming over.'  James Burrows could not
read or write, nor his father probably before him: so that this statement
must have been based on purely traditional grounds.  Assume he was born
in 1755 he would have been a 'big bor,' fifteen years old, in 1770; and
assume that his grandfather died in 1770 aged ninety-six, this would make
him to have been born in 1675, fourteen or fifteen years before William
of Orange landed."

Then there were Tom and Susan Kemp.  He came from somewhere in Norfolk,
the scene, I remember, of the 'Babes in the Wood,' and he wore the only
smock-frock in the parish, where the ruling fashion was
"thunder-and-lightning" sleeve-waistcoats.  Susan's Sunday dress was a
clean lilac print gown, made very short, so as to show white stockings
and boots with cloth tops.  Over the dress was pinned a little black
shawl, and her bonnet was unusually large, of black velvet or silk, with
a great white frill inside it.  She was troubled at times with a
mysterious complaint called "the wind," which she thus described, her
finger tracing the course it followed within her: "That fare to go round
and round, and then out ta come a-raspin' and a-roarin'."  Another of her
ailments was swelled ankles.  "Oh, Mr Groome!" she would say, "if yeou
could but see my poare legs, yeou'd niver forget 'em;" and then, if not
stopped, she would proceed to pull up her short gown and show them.  If
my father had been out visiting more than to her seemed wise, she would,
when he told her where he had been to, say: "Ah! there yeou go
a-rattakin' about, and when yeou dew come home yeou've a cowd, I'll be
bound," which often enough was the case.  Susan's contempt was great for
poor folks dressing up their children smartly; and she would say with
withering scorn, "What do har child want with all them
wandykes?"--_vandykes_ being lace trimmings of any sort.  Was it of
spoilt children that she spoke as "hectorin' and bullockin'
about"?--certainly it was of one of us, a late riser, that she said, "I'd
soon out-of-bed har if I lived there."

Susan's treatment of Harry Collins, a crazy man subject to fits, was wise
and kind.  Till Harry came to live with the Kemps, he had been kept in
bed to save trouble.  Susan would have no more of bed for him than for
ordinary folks, but sent him on many errands and kept him in excellent
order.  Her commands to him usually began with, "Co', Henry, be
stirrin';" and he stood in wholesome awe of her, and obeyed her like a
child.  His fits were curious, for "one minute he'd be cussin' and
swearin', and the next fall a-prayin'."  Once, too, he "leapt out of the
winder like a roebuck."  Blind James Seaman, the other occupant of
Susan's back-room, came of good old yeoman ancestry.  He wore a long blue
coat with brass buttons; and his favourite seat was the sunny bank near
our front gate.

In the room over Susan Kemp's lived Will Ruffles and his wife, a very
faithful old couple.  The wife failed first.  She had hurt herself a good
deal with a fall down the rickety stairs.  Will saw to her to the last,
and watched carefully over her.  The schoolmistress then, a Miss
Hindmarsh, took a great liking for the old man; and a friend of hers, a
widow lady in London, though she had never seen him, made him a regular
weekly allowance to the end of his life--two shillings, half-a-crown, and
sometimes more.  This gave Will many little comforts.  Once when my
sister took him his allowance, he told her how, when he was a young man,
a Gipsy woman told him he should be better off at the end of his life
than at the beginning; and "she spook truth," he said, "but how she knew
it I coon't saa."  Will suffered at times from rheumatism, and had great
faith in some particular green herb pills, which were to be bought only
at one particular shop in Ipswich.  My sister was once deputed to buy him
a box of these pills, and he told her afterwards, "Them there pills did
me a lot of good, and that show what fooks saa about rheumatics bein' in
the boones ain't trew, for how could them there pills 'a got into the
boones?"  He was very fond of my father, whom he liked to joke with him.
"Mr Groome," he once said, "dew mob me so."

Will, like many other old people in the parish, believed in
witchcraft,--was himself, indeed, a "wise man" of a kind.  My father once
told him about a woman who had fits.  "Ah!" old Will said, "she've fallen
into bad hands."  "What do you mean?" asked my father; and then Will said
that years before in Monk Soham there was a woman took bad just like this
one, and "there wern't but me and John Abbott in the place could git her
right."  "What did you do?" said my father.  "We two, John and I, sat by
a clear fire; and we had to bile some of the clippins of the woman's
nails and some of her hair; and when ta biled"--he paused.  "What
happened?" asked my father; "did you hear anything?"  "Hear anything!  I
should think we did.  When ta biled, we h'ard a loud shrike a-roarin' up
the chimley; and yeou may depind upon it, she warn't niver bad no more."

Once my father showed Will a _silhouette_ of his father, old Mr Groome of
Earl Soham, a portly gentleman, dressed in the old-fashioned style.
"Ruffles, who is this?" he asked, knowing that Will had known his father
well, and thinking he would recognise it.  After looking at it carefully
for some time, Will said, "That's yar son, the sailor."  My eldest
brother at that time might be something over twenty, and bore not the
faintest resemblance to our grandfather; still, Will knew that he had
been much abroad, and fancied a tropical sun might have blackened him.

By his own accounts, Will's feats of strength as a younger man, in the
way of reaping, mowing, &c., were remarkable; and there was one great
story, with much in it about "goolden guineas," of the wonderful sale of
corn that he effected for one of his masters.  At the rectory gatherings
on Christmas night Will was one of the principal singers, his
_chef-d'oeuvre_ "Oh! silver [query _Sylvia_] is a charming thing," and
"The Helmingham Wolunteers."  That famous corps was raised by Lord Dysart
to repel "Bony's" threatened invasion; its drummer was John Noble,
afterwards the wheelwright in Monk Soham.  Once after drill Lord Dysart
said to him: "You played that very well, John Noble;" and "I know't, my
lord, I know't," was John's answer--an answer that has passed into a
Suffolk proverb, "I know't, my lord, I know't, as said John Noble."

Mrs Curtis was quite a character--a little woman, with sharp brown eyes
that took in everything.  Her tongue was smooth, her words were soft, and
yet she could say bitter things.  She had had a large family, who married
and settled in different parts.  One son had gone to New Zealand--"a
country, Dr Fletcher tell me, dear Miss, as is outside the frame of the
earth, and where the sun go round t'other way."  It was for one of her
sons, when he was ill, that my mother sent a dose of castor-oil; and next
day the boy sent to ask for "some more of Madam Groome's nice gravy."
Another boy, Ephraim, once behaved so badly in church that my father had
to stop in his sermon and tell Mrs Curtis to take her son out.  This she
did; and from the pulpit my father saw her driving the unfortunate
Ephraim before her with her umbrella, banging him with it first on one
side and then on the other.  Mrs Curtis it was who prescribed the honey-
plaster for a sore throat.  "Put on a honey-plaster, neighbour dear; that
will draw the misery out of you."  And Mrs Curtis it was who, having
quarrelled with another neighbour, came to my father to relate her
wrongs: "Me a poor lone widow woman, and she ha' got a father to protect
her."  The said father was old James Burrows, already spoken of, who was
over ninety, and had long been bedridden.

Mrs Mullinger was a strange old woman.  People said she had an evil eye;
and if she took a dislike to any one and looked evilly at their pigs,
then the pigs would fall ill and die.  Also, when she lived next door to
another cottage, with only a wall dividing the two chimneys, if old Mrs
Mullinger sat by her chimney in a bad temper, no one on the other side
could light a fire, try as they might.

{Monk Soham Schoolhouse and Guildhall: p30.jpg}

Phoebe Smith and her husband Sam lived in one of the downstair rooms.  At
one time of her life Phoebe kept a little dame's school on the Green.  One
class of her children, who were reading the Miracles, were called "Little
Miracles"; and whenever my father went in, "Little Miracles" were called
up by that name to read to him.  Old Phoebe had intelligence above the
common; she read her Bible much, and thought over it.  She was fond, too,
of having my sister read hymns to her, and would often lift her hands in
admiration at any passage she particularly liked.  She commended a cotton
dress my sister had on one day when she went to see her--a blue Oxford
shirting, trimmed with a darker shade.  "It is a nice solemn dress," she
said, as she lifted a piece to examine it more closely; "there's nothing
flummocky about it."

Among the other Guildhall people were old Mrs "Ratty" Kemp, widow of the
Rat-catcher; {31} old one-eyed Mrs Bond, and her deaf son John; old Mrs
Wright, a great smoker; and Mrs Burrows, a soldier's widow, our only
Irishwoman, from whom Monk Soham conceived no favourable opinion of the
Sister Isle.  Of people outside the Guildhall I will mention but one,
James Wilding, a splendid type of the Suffolk labourer.  He was a big
strong man, whose strength served him one very ill turn.  He was out one
day after a hare, and a farm-bailiff, meeting him, tried to take his gun;
James resisted, and snapped the man's arm.  For this he got a year in
Ipswich jail, where, however, he learnt to read, and formed a strong
attachment for the chaplain, Mr Daniel.  Afterwards, whenever any of us
were driving over to Ipswich, and James met us, he would always say, "If
yeou see Mr Daniel, dew yeou give him my love."  Finally, an emigration
agent got hold of James, and induced him to emigrate, with his wife, his
large family, and his old one-legged mother, to somewhere near New
Orleans.  "How are you going, Wilding?" asked my father a few days before
they started.  "I don't fare to know rightly," was the answer; "but we're
goin' to sleep the fust night at Debenham" (a village four miles off),
"and that'll kinder break the jarney."  They went, but the Southern
States and the negroes were not at all to their liking, and the last
thing heard of them was they had moved to Canada.

So James Wilding is gone, and the others are all of them dead; but some
stories still remain to be cleared off.  There was the old farmer at the
tithe dinner, who, on having some bread-sauce handed to him, extracted a
great "dollop" on the top of his knife, tasted it, and said, "Don't chuse
none."  There was the other who remarked of a particular pudding, that he
"could rise in the night-time and eat it"; and there was the third, who,
supposing he should get but one plate, shovelled his fish-bones under the
table.  There was the boy in Monk Soham school who, asked to define an
earthquake, said, "It is when the 'arth shug itself, and swallow up the
'arth"; and there was his schoolmate, who said that "America was
discovered by British Columbia."  There was old Mullinger of Earl Soham,
who thought it "wrong of fooks to go up in a ballune, as that fare {33}
so bumptious to the Almighty."  There was the actual balloon, which had
gone up somewhere in the West of England, and which came down in (I
think) the neighbouring parish of Bedfield.  As it floated over Monk
Soham, the aeronaut shouted, "Where am I?" to some harvesters, who,
standing in a row, their forefingers pointed at him, shouted back,
"Yeou're in a ballune, bor."  There was old X., who, whenever my father
visited him, would grumble, talk scandal, and abuse all his neighbours,
always, however, winding up piously with "But 'tis well."  There was the
boy whom my father put in the stocks, but who escaped by unlacing his
"high-lows," and so withdrawing his feet.  There was the clergyman,
preaching in a strange church, who asked to have a glass of water in the
pulpit, and who, after the sermon, remarked to the clerk in the vestry,
"That might have been gin-and-water, John, for all the people could
tell."  And, taking the duty again there next Sunday, he found to his
horror it _was_ gin-and-water: "I took the hint, sir--I took the hint,"
quoth John, from the clerk's desk below.  There was the Monk Soham woman
who, when she got a letter from her son in Hull, told the curate that
"that did give me a tarn at fust, for I thought that come from the hot
place."  There was another Monk Soham woman who told my sister one day
that she had been reading in the Bible "about that there gal Haggar," and
who, after discussing the story of Hagar, went on, "When that gal grew up
she went and preached to some fooks in a city that were livin' bad
lives."  My sister did not know about this, so inquired where she had
found it, and she turned to the Book of the Prophet Haggai--Hagar and
Haggai to her were one and the same.  There was the manufacturer of
artificial manures who set up a carriage and crest; and a friend asked my
father what the motto would be.  "Mente et manu res," was the ready
answer.  There was the concert at Ipswich, where the chairman, a very
precise young clergyman, announced that "the Rev. Robert Groome will sing
(ahem!) '_Thomas_ Bowling.'"  The song was a failure; my father each time
was so sorely tempted to adopt the new version.  There was the old woman
whom my father heard warning her daughter, about to travel for the first
time by rail, "Whativer yeou do, my dear, mind yeou don't sit nigh the
biler."  There was the old maiden lady, who every morning after breakfast
read an Ode of Horace; and the other maiden lady, a kinswoman of my
father's, who practised her scales regularly long after she was sixty.
She, if you crushed her in an argument, in turn crushed you with,
"_Well_, _there it is_."  There was much besides, but memory fails, and
space.

From country clergyman to country archdeacon may seem no startling
transition; yet it meant a great change in my father's tranquil life.  For
one thing it took him twice a-year up to London, to Convocation; and in
London he met with many old friends and new.  Then there were frequent
outings to Norwich, and the annual visitations and the Charge.  On the
first day of his first visitation, at Eye, there was the usual luncheon,
and the usual very small modicum of wine.  Lunch over, the Rev. Richard
Cobbold, the author of 'Margaret Catchpole,' proposed my father's health
in a fervid oration, which wound up thus: "Gentlemen, I call upon you to
drink the health of our new archdeacon,--to drink it, gentlemen, in
flowing bumpers."  It sounded glorious, but the decanters were empty; and
my father had to order (and pay for) two dozen of sherry.  At an Ipswich
visitation there was the customary roll-call of the clergy, among whom
was a new-comer, a Scotchman, Mr Colquhoun.  "Mr--, Mr--," faltered the
apparitor, coming unexpectedly on this uncouth name; suddenly he rose a-
tiptoe and to the emergency,--"Mr Cockahoon."

In one of the deaneries my father found a churchyard partly sown with
wheat.  "Really, Mr Z---," he said to the incumbent, "I must say I don't
like to see this."  And the old churchwarden chimed in, "That's what I
saa tew, Mr Archdeacon; I saa to our parson, 'Yeou go whatin' it and
whatin' it, why don't yeou tater it?'"  This found its way into 'Punch,'
with a capital drawing by Charles Keene, whom my father met often at
FitzGerald's.  But there is another unrecorded story of an Irish
clergyman, the Rev. "Lucius O'Grady."  He had quarrelled with one of his
churchwardens, whose name I forget; the other's was Waller.  So my father
went over to arbitrate between the disputants, and Mr "O'Grady" concluded
an impassioned statement of his wrongs with "Voila tout, Mr Archdeacon,
voila tout."  "Waller tew," quoth churchwarden No. 1; "what ha' _he_ to
dew with it?"  And there was the visit to that woful church, damp,
rotten, ruinous.  The inspection over, the rector said to my father,
"Now, Mr Archdeacon, that we've done the old church, you must come and
see my new stables."  "Sir," said my father, "when your church is in
decent order, I shall be happy to see your new stables."  And "the next
time," he told me, "I really could ask to see them."

Two London reminiscences, and I have done.  A former Monk Soham
schoolmistress had married the usher of the Marlborough Street police
court.  My father went to see them, and as he was coming away, an
officious Irishman opened the cab-door for him, with "Good luck to your
Rivirince, and did they let you off aizy?"  And once my father was
waiting on one of the many platforms of Clapham Junction, when suddenly a
fashionably dressed lady dropped on her knees before him, exclaiming,
"Your blessing, holy Father."  "God bless me!" cried my father,--then
added quietly, "and you too, my dear lady."

So at last I come to my father's own Suffolk stories.  In 1877-78 I made
my first venture in letters as editor for the 'Ipswich Journal' of a
series of "Suffolk Notes and Queries."  They ran through fifty-four
numbers, my own set of which is, I fancy, almost unique.  I had a goodly
list of contributors--all friends of my father's--as Mr FitzGerald, Mr
Donne, Captain Brooke of Ufford, Mr Chappell, Mr Aldis Wright, Bishop
Ryle, and Professors Earle, Cowell, and Skeat.  Of them I was duly proud;
still, my father and I wrote, between us, two-thirds of the whole.  He
was the "Habitans in Alto" (_High_ Suffolk, forsooth), _alias_ "Rector,"
_alias_ "Philologus," "Hippicus," &c.--how we used to laugh at those
aliases.  Among his contributions were three papers on the rare old
library of Helmingham Hall (Lord Tollemache's), four on Samuel Ward, the
Puritan preacher of Ipswich, three on Suffolk minstrelsy, and these
sketches written in the Suffolk dialect.  Of that dialect my father was a
past-master; once and once only did I know him nonplussed by a Suffolk
phrase.  This was in the school at Monk Soham, where a small boy one day
had been put in the corner.  "What for?" asked my father; and a chorus of
voices answered, "He ha' bin tittymatauterin," which meant, it seems,
playing at see-saw.  I retain, of course, my father's own spelling; but
he always himself maintained that to reproduce the dialect phonetically
is next to impossible--that, for instance, there is a delicate _nuance_
in the Suffolk pronunciation of _dog_, only faintly suggested by _dawg_.



I.
OLD TIMES.


Fooks alluz saa as they git old,
   That things look wusser evry day;
They alluz sed so, I consate;
   Leastwise I've h'ard my mother saa,

When she was growed up, a big gal,
   And went to sarvice at the Hall,
She han't but one stuff gownd to wear,
   And not the lissest mite of shawl.

But now yeou caan't tell whue is whue;
   Which is the missus, which the maid,
There ain't no tellin'; for a gal,
   Arter she's got her wages paid,

Will put 'em all upon her back,
   And look as grand as grand can be;
My poor old mother would be stamm'd {39}
   _Her_ gal should iver look like she.

And 'taint the lissest bit o' use
   To tell 'em anything at all;
They'll only laff, or else begin
   All manner o' hard names to call.

Praps arter all it 'tain't the truth,
   That one time's wusser than the t'other;
Praps I'm a-gittin' old myself,
   And fare to talk like my old mother.

I shaan't dew nowt by talkin' so,
   I'd better try the good old plan,
Of spakin' sparing of most folks,
   And dewin' all the good I can.

J. D.



II.


My father used to repeat one stanza of an old song; I wonder whether the
remainder still exists in any living memory.  That one stanza ran:--

   "The roaring boys of Pakefield,
      Oh, how they all do thrive!
   They had but one poor parson,
      And him they buried alive."

Whether the prosperity of Pakefield was to be dated or derived from the
fact of their burying their "one poor parson" is a matter of dangerous
speculation, and had better be left in safe obscurity; else other places
might be tempted to make trial of the successful plan.  But can any one
send a copy of the whole song?

From the same authority I give a stanza of another song:--

   "The cackling old hen she began to collogue,
   Says she unto the fox, 'You're a stinking old rogue;
   Your scent it is so strong, I do wish you'd keep away;'
   The cackling old hen she began for to say."

The tune, as I still remember it, is as fine as the words--for fine they
certainly are, as an honest expression of opinion, capable of a large
application to other than foxes.

I cannot vouch for a like antiquity for the following sea-verses; but
they are so good that I venture to append them to their more ancient
brethren:--

   "And now we haul to the 'Dog and Bell,'
   Where there's good liquor for to sell;
   In come old Archer with a smile,
   Saying, 'Drink, my lads, 'tis worth your while.'

   Ah! but when our money's all gone and spent,
   And none to be borrowed nor none to be lent;
   In comes old Archer with a frown,
   Saying, 'Get up, Jack, let John sit down.'"

Alas, poor Jack! and John Countryman too, when the like result arrives.

J. D.

Fifteen years after my father had penned this note, and more than two
years after his death, I received from a West Indian reader of 'Maga,'
who had heard it sung by a naval officer (since deceased), the following
version of the second sea-song:--

   "Cruising in the Channel with the wind North-east,
   Our ship she sails nine knots at least;
   Our thundering guns we will let fly,
   We will let fly over the twinkling sky--
      Huzza! we are homeward bound,
      Huzza! we are homeward bound.

   And when we arrive at the Plymouth Dock,
   The girls they will around us flock,
   Saying, 'Welcome, Jack, with your three years' pay,
   For we see you are homeward bound to-day'--
      Huzza! we are homeward bound,
      Huzza! we are homeward bound.

   And when we come to the --- {42} Bar,
   Or any other port in so far,
   Old Okey meets us with a smile,
   Saying, 'Drink, my lads, 'tis worth your while'--
      Huzza! we are homeward bound,
      Huzza! we are homeward bound.

   Ah! but when our money's all gone and spent,
   And none to be borrowed, nor none to be lent,
   Old Okey meets us with a frown,
   Saying, 'Get up, Jack, let John sit down,
      For I see you are outward bound,'
      For, see, we are outward bound."



III.
ONE OF JOHN DUTFEN'S "QUEERIES."


I am werry much obligated to yeou, Mr Editer, for printin' my lines.  I
hain't got no more at spresent, so I'll send yeou a queery instead.  I
axed our skule-master, "What's a queery?" and he saa, "Suffen {43a}
queer," so I think I can sute yeou here.

When I was a good big chap, I lived along with Mr Cooper, of Thraanson.
{43b}  He was a big man; but, lawk! he was wonnerful paad over with
rheumatics, that he was.  I lived in the house, and arter I had done up
my hosses, and looked arter my stock, I alluz went to bed arly.  One
night I h'ard {43c} my missus halloin' at the bottom of the stairs.
"John," sez she, "yeou must git up di-rectly, and go for the doctor; yar
master's took werry bad."  So I hulled {43d} on my clothes, put the
saddle on owd Boxer, and warn't long gittin to the doctor's, for the owd
hoss stromed along stammingly, {43e} he did.  When the doctor come, he
saa to master, "Yeou ha' got the _lump-ague_ in yar lines; {43f} yeou
must hiv a hot baath."  "What's that?" sez master.  "Oh!" sez the doctor,
"yeou must hiv yar biggest tub full o' hot water, and laa in it ten
minnits."  Sune as he was gone, missus saa, "Dew yeou go and call Sam
Driver, and I'll hit {44a} the copper."  When we cum back, she saa, "Dew
yeou tew {44b} take the mashin'-tub up-stairs, and when the water biles
yeou cum for it."  So, byne by we filled the tub, and missus saa, "John,
dew yeou take yar master's hid; {44c} and Sam, yeou take his feet, and
drop 'im in."  We had a rare job to lift him, I warrant; but we dropt him
in, and, O lawk! how he did screech!--yeou might ha' h'ard 'im a mile
off.  He splounced out o' the tub flop upon the floor, and dew all we
could we coon't 'tice him in agin.  "Yeou willans," sez he, "yeou've kilt
me."  But arter a bit we got him to bed, and he laa kind o' easy, till
the doctor cum next mornin'.  Then he towd the doctor how bad he was.  The
doctor axed me what we'd done.  So I towd him, and he saa, "Was the water
warm?"  "Warm!" sez I, "'twould ommost ha' scalt a hog."  Oh, how he did
laff!  "Why, John bor," sez he, "yeou must ha' meant to bile yar master
alive."  Howsomdiver, master lost the _lump-ague_ and nivver sed nothin'
about the tub, 'cept when he saa to me sometimes kind o' joky, "John bor,
dew yeou alluz kip {44d} out o' hot water."

JOHN DUTFEN. {44e}

This story has a sequel.  My father told it once at the dinner-table of
one of the canons in Norwich.  Every one laughed more or less, all but
one, the Rev. "Hervey Du Bois," a rural dean from the Fens.  He alone
made no sign.  But he was staying in the house; and that night the
Canoness was aroused from her sleep by a strange gurgling sound
proceeding from his room.  She listened and listened, till, convinced
that their guest must be in a fit, she at last arose, and listened
outside his door.  A fit he was in--sure enough--of laughter.  He was
sitting up in bed, rocking backwards and forwards, and ever and again
ejaculating, "Why, John bor, yeou must ha' meant to bile yar master
alive."  And then he went off into another roar.



IV.  CAPTAIN WARD.


         "That piece of song,
   That old and antique song we heard last night."

   --'Twelfth Night,' II. iv.

This old song was lately taken down from the lips of an old Suffolk (Monk
Soham) labourer, who has known it and sung it since he was a boy.  The
song is of much repute in the parish where he lives, and may possibly be
already in print.  At all events it is a genuine "old and antique" song,
whose hero may have been one of the sea captains or rovers who continued
their privateering in the Spanish Main and elsewhere, and upon all
comers, long after all licence from the Crown had ceased.  The Rainbow
was the name of one of the ships which formed the English fleet when they
defeated the Spanish Armada in 1588, and she was re-commissioned,
apparently about 1618.  The two verses in brackets are from the version
of another labourer in my parish, who also furnished some minor _variae
lectiones_, as "robber" for "rover," "Blake" for "Wake," &c.

RECTOR.

Come, all ye valiant soldiers
   That march to follow the drum,
Let us go meet with Captain Ward
   When on the sea he come.

He is as big a rover
   As ever you did hear,
Yeou hain't h'ard of such a rover
   For many a hundred year.

There was three ships come sailing
   From the Indies to the West,
Well loaded with silks and satins
   And welwets of the best.

Who should they meet but Captain Ward,
   It being a bad meeting,
He robbed them of all their wealth,
   Bid them go tell the King.

["Go ye home, go ye home," says Captain Ward,
   "And tell your King from me,
If he reign King of the countrie,
   I will be King at Sea."]

Away went these three gallant ships,
   Sailing down of the main,
Telling to the King the news
   That Ward at sea would reign.

The King he did prepare a ship,
   A ship of gallant fame,
She's called the gallant Rainbow--
   Din't yeou niver hear her name?

She was as well purwided
   As e'er a ship could be,
She had three hundred men on board
   To bear her company.

Oh then the gallant Rainbow
   Sailed where the rover laid;
"Where is the captain of your ship?"
   The gallant Rainbow said.

"Here am I," says Captain Ward,
   "My name I never deny;
But if you be the King's good ship,
   You're welcome to pass by."

"Yes, I am one of the King's good ships,
   That I am to your great grief,
Whilst here I understand you lay
   Playing the rogue and thief."

"Oh! here am I," says Captain Ward;
   "I value you not one pin;
If you are bright brass without,
   I am true steel within."

At four o'clock o' the morning
   They did begin to fight,
And so they did continue
   Till nine or ten at night.

[Says Captain Ward unto his men,
   "My boys, what shall we do?
We have not got one shot on board,
   We shall get overthrow.]

"Fight you on, fight you on," says Captain Ward,
   "Your sport will pleasure be,
And if you fight for a month or more
   Your master I will be."

Oh! then the gallant Rainbow
   Went raging down of the main,
Saying, "There lay proud Ward at sea,
   And there he must remain."

"Captain Wake and Captain Drake,
   And good Lord Henerie,
If I had one of them alive,
   They'd bring proud Ward to me."

Appended was this editorial note: "The date of Captain Ward is
approximately established by Andrew Barker's 'Report of the two famous
Pirates, Captain Ward and Danseker' (Lond. 1609, 4to), and by Richard
Daburn's 'A Christian turn'd Turke, or the tragical Lives and Deaths of
the two famous Pyrates, Ward and Dansiker.  As it hath beene publickly
acted' (Lond. 1612, 4to).

And the next week there was the following answer:--

   "Having found that in Chappell's 'Popular Music of the Olden Time'
   there was mention made of a tune called 'Captain Ward,' I wrote to Mr
   Chappell himself.  He says about the ballad: 'For "A famous sea-fight
   between Captain Ward and the Rainbow" see Roxburghe Collection, v. 3,
   fol. 56, printed for F. Coles, and another with printer's name cut off
   in the same volume, fol. 654; an edition in the Pepys Collection, v.
   4, fol. 202, by Clarke Thackeray and Passinger; two in the Bayford,
   [643, m. 9 / 65] and [643, m. 10 / 78].  These are by W. Onbey, and
   the second in white letter.  Further, two Aldermary Church Yard
   editions in Rox. v. 3, folios 652 and 861.  The ballad has an
   Elizabethan cut about it, beginning, "Strike up, you lusty Gallants."
   If I remember rightly, Ward was a famous pirate of Elizabeth's reign,
   about the same time as Dansekar the Dutchman.'

   "I went down myself to Magdalene, and saw the copy in the Pepysian
   Library there.  It is entirely different from that in the 'Suffolk N.
   and Q.,' though at the same time there are slight resemblances in
   expression.  As ballads they are quite distinct.  I suppose the other
   copies to which Mr Chappell refers are like the Pepysian, which begins
   as he says, 'Strike up, ye lusty Gallants.'

   "W. ALDIS WRIGHT.

   "CAMBRIDGE."



V.
A SOVEREIGN REMEDY.


Not many years since, not far from Ipswich, some practical agriculturists
met--as, for all I know, they may meet now--at a Farmers' Club to discuss
such questions as bear practically upon their business and interests.  One
evening the subject for discussion was, "How to cure hot yards," _i.e._,
yards where the manure has become so heated as to be hurtful to the
cattle's feet.  Many remedies were suggested, some no doubt well worth
trying, others dealing too much maybe in small-talk of acids and alkalis.
None of the party was satisfied that a cure had been found which stood
the test of general experience.  Then they asked an elderly farmer, who
had preserved a profound silence through all the discussion, what he
would recommend.  His answer was very true and to the point.  "Gentlemen,"
he said, "yeou shu'nt have let it got so."

HIPPICUS.



VI.
THE ONLY DARTER.


A SUFFOLK CLERGYMAN'S REMINISCENCE. {52a}

Our young parson said to me t'other daa, "John," sez he, "din't yeou
nivver hev a darter?"  "Sar," sez I, "I had one once, but she ha' been
dead close on thatty years."  And then I towd him about my poor mor.
{52b}

"I lost my fust wife thatty-three years ago.  She left me with six bors
and Susan.  She was the owdest of them all, tarned sixteen when her
mother died.  She was a fine jolly gal, with lots of sperit.  I coon't be
alluz at home, and tho' I'd nivver a wadd {52c} to saa aginst Susan, yet
I thowt I wanted some one to look arter her and the bors.  Gals want a
mother more than bors.  So arter a year I married my second wife, and a
rale good wife she ha' bin to me.  But Susan coon't git on with her.
She'd dew {52d} what she was towd, but 'twarn't done pleasant, and when
she spook she spook _so_ short.  My wife was werry patient with her; but
dew all she could, she nivver could git on with Susan.

"I'd a married sister in London, whue cum down to see us at Whissuntide.
She see how things fared, and she saa to me, 'John,' sez she, 'dew yeou
let Susan go back with me, and I'll git her a good place and see arter
her.'  So 'twas sattled.  Susan was all for goin', and when she went she
kiss't me and all the bors, but she nivver sed nawthin' to my wife, 'cept
just 'Good-bye.'  She fared to git a nice quite {53} place; but then my
sister left London, and Susan's missus died, and so she had to git a
place where she could.  So she got a place where they took in lodgers,
and Susan and her missus did all the cookin' and waitin' between 'em.
Susan sed arterwards that 'twarn't what she had to dew, but the runnin'
up-stairs; that's what killt her.  There was one owd gentleman, who lived
at the top of the house.  He'd ring his bell, and if she din't go
di-reckly, he'd ring and ring agen, fit to bring the house down.  One daa
he rung three times, but Susan was set fast, and coon't go; and when she
did, he spook so sharp, that it wholly upset her, and she dropt down o'
the floor all in a faint.  He hollered out at the top o' the stairs; and
sum o' the fooks cum runnin' up to see what was the matter.  Arter a bit
she cum round, and they got her to bed; but she was so bad that they had
to send for the doctor.  The owd gentleman was so wexed, he sed he'd paa
for the doctor as long as he could; but when the doctor sed she was
breedin' a faver, nawthing would satisfy her missus but to send her to
the horspital, while she could go.

"So she went into the horspital, and laa five weeks and din't know
nobody.  Last she begun to mend, and she sed that the fooks there were
werry kind.  She had a bed to herself in a big room with nigh twenty
others.  Ivry daa the doctor cum round, and spook to 'em all in tarn.  He
was an owdish gentleman, and sum young uns cum round with him.  One
mornin' he saa to Susan, 'Well, my dear,' sez he, 'how do yeou feel to-
day?'  She saa, 'Kind o' middlin', sir.'  She towd me that one o' the
young gentlemen sort o' laffed when he h'ard her, and stopped behind and
saa to her, 'Do yeou cum out o' Suffolk?'  She saa, 'Yes; what, do yeou
know me?'  She was _so_ pleased!  He axed her where she cum from, and
when she towd him, he saa, 'I know the clargyman of the parish.'  He'd a
rose in his button-hole, and he took it out and gov it her, and he saa,
'Yeou'll like to hev it, for that cum up from Suffolk this mornin'.'  Poor
mor, she was _so_ pleased!  Well, arter a bit she got better, and the
doctor saa, 'My dear, yeou must go and git nussed at home.  That'll dew
more for yeou than all the doctors' stuff here.'

"She han't no money left to paa for her jarney.  But the young gentleman
made a gatherin' for her, and when the nuss went with her to the station,
he holp her into the cab, and gov her the money.  Whue he was she din't
know, and I don't now, but I alluz saa, 'God bless him for it.'

"One mornin' the owd parson--he was yar father--sent for me, and he saa,
'John,' sez he, 'I ha' had a letter to say that Susan ha' been in the
horspital, but she is better now, and is cummin' home to-morrow.  So yeou
must meet her at Halser, {55} and yeou may hiv my cart.'  Susan coon't
write, so we'd nivver h'ard, sin' her aunt went away.  Yeou may s'pose
how I felt!  Well, I went and met her.  O lawk, a lawk! how bad she did
look!  I got her home about five, and my wife had got a good fire, and
ivrything nice for her, but, poor mor! she was wholly beat.  She coon't
eat nawthin'.  Arter a bit, she tuk off her bonnet, and then I see she
han't no hair, 'cept a werry little.  That wholly beat me, she used to
hev such nice hair.  Well, we got her to bed, and for a whole week she
coon't howd up at all.  Then she fare to git better, and cum down-stairs,
and sot by the fire, and begun to pick a little.  And so she went on,
when the summer cum, sometimes better and sometimes wuss.  But she spook
werry little, and din't seem to git on no better with my wife.  Yar
father used to cum and see her and read to her.  He was werry fond of
her, for he had knowed her ivver sin' she was born.  But she got waker
and waker, and at last she coon't howd up no longer, but took wholly to
her bed.  How my wife did wait upon her!  She'd try and 'tice her to ate
suffen, {56a} when yar father sent her a bit o' pudden.  I once saa to
him, 'What do yeou think o' the poor mor?'  'John,' sez he, 'she's werry
bad.'  'But,' sez I, 'dew she know it?'  'Yes,' sez he, 'she dew; but she
een't one to saa much.'  But I alluz noticed, she seem werry glad to see
yar father.

"One day I'd cum home arly; I'd made one jarney. {56b}  So I went up to
see Susan.  There I see my wife laad outside the bed close to Susan;
Susan was kind o' strokin' her face, and I h'ard her saa, 'Kiss me,
mother dear; yeou're a good mother to me.'  They din't see me, so I crep'
down-stairs, but it made me werry comforble.

"Susan's bed laa close to the wall, so that she could alluz make us know
at night if she wanted anything by jest knockin'.  One night we h'ard her
sing a hymn.  She used to sing at charch when she was a little gal, but I
nivver h'ard her sing so sweetsome as she did then.  Arter she'd
finished, she knockt sharp, and we went di-reckly.  There she laa--I can
see her now--as white as the sheets she laa in.  'Father,' sez she, 'am I
dyin'?'  I coon't spake, but my wife sed, 'Yeou're a-dyin', dear.'  'Well,
then,' sez she, ''tis bewtiful.'  And she lookt hard at me, hard at both
of us; and then lookt up smilin', as if she see Some One.

"She was the only darter I ivver had."

JOHN DUTFEN.

Is it extravagant to believe that this simple story, told by a country
parson, is worth whole pages of learned arguments against
Disestablishment? {57}  Anyhow, to support such arguments, I will here
cite an ancient ditty of my father's.  He had got it from "a true East
Anglian, of Norfolk lineage and breeding," but the exegesis is wholly my
father's own.



VII.


Robin Cook's wife {58a} she had an old mare, {58b}
   Humpf, humpf, hididdle, humpf!
And if you'd but seen her, Lord! how you'd have stared, {58c}
   Singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf."

This old mare she had a sore back, {58d}
   Humpf, &c.
And on her sore back there was _hullt_ an old sack, {58e}
   Singing, &c.

Give the old mare some corn in the sieve, {59a}
   Humpf, &c.
And 'tis hoping God's husband (_sic_) the old mare may live,
   Singing, &c.

This old mare she chanced for to die, {59b}
   Humpf, &c.
And dead as a nit in the roadway she lie, {59c}
   Singing, &c.

All the dogs in the town _spook_ for a bone, {59d}
   Humpf, &c.
All but the Parson's dog, {59e} he went wi' none,
   Singing, "Folderol diddledol, hidum humpf."



VIII.
"MASTER CHARLEY."


A SUFFOLK LABOURER'S STORY.

The Owd Master at the Hall had two children--Mr James and Miss Mary.  Mr
James was ivver so much owder than Miss Mary.  She come kind o'
unexpected like, and she warn't but a little thing when she lost her
mother.  When she got owd enough Owd Master sent her to a young ladies'
skule.  She was there a soot o' years, and when she come to staa at home,
she _was_ such a pretty young lady, _that_ she was.  She was werry fond
of cumpany, but there warn't the lissest bit wrong about her.  There was
a young gentleman, from the sheres, who lived at a farm in the next
parish, where he was come to larn farmin'.  He was werry fond of her, and
though his own folks din't like it, it was all sattled that he was soon
to marry her.  Then he hear'd suffen about her, which warn't a bit true,
and he went awaa, and was persuaded to marry somebody else.  Miss Mary
took on bad about it, but that warn't the wust of it.  She had a baby
before long, and he was the father on't.

O lawk, a lawk! how the Owd Master did break out when he hear'd of it!  My
mother lived close by, and nussed poor Miss Mary, so I've h'ard all about
it.  He woun't let the child stop in the house, but sent it awaa to a
house three miles off, where the woman had lost her child.  But when Miss
Mary got about, the woman used to bring the baby--he was "Master
Charley"--to my mother's.  One daa, when she went down, my mother towd
her that he warn't well; so off she went to see him.  When she got home
she was late, and the owd man was kep' waitin' for his dinner.  As soon
as he see her, he roared out, "What! hev yeou bin to see yar bastard?"  "O
father," says she, "yeou shoun't saa so."  "Shoun't saa so," said he,
"shoun't I?  I can saa wuss than that."  And then he called her a bad
name.  She got up, nivver said a wadd, but walked straight out of the
front door.  They din't take much notiz at fust, but when she din't come
back, they got scared, and looked for her all about; and at last they
found her in the moot, at the bottom of the orchard.

O lawk, a lawk!

The Owd Master nivver could howd up arter that.  'Fore that, if he was
put out, yeou could hear 'im all over the farm, a-cussin' and swearin'.
He werry seldom spook to anybody now, but he was alluz about arly and
late; nothin' seemed to tire him.  'Fore that he nivver went to charch;
now he went reg'ler.  But he wud saa sumtimes, comin' out, "Parson's a
fule."  But if anybody was ill, he bod 'em go up to the Hall and ax for
suffen. {62}  There was young Farmer Whoo's wife was werry bad, and the
doctor saa that what she wanted was London poort.  So he sent my father
to the marchant at Ipswich, to bring back four dozen.  Arter dark he was
to lave it at the house, but not to knock.  They nivver knew where ta
come from till arter he died.  But he fare to get waker, and to stupe
more ivry year.

Yeou ax me about "Master Charley."  Well, he growed up such a pretty bor.
He lived along with my mother for the most part, and Mr James was so fond
of him.  He'd come down, and plaa and talk to him the hour togither, and
Master Charley would foller 'im about like a little dawg.

One daa they was togither, and Owd Master met 'em.  "James," said he,
"what bor is that alluz follerin' yeou about?"  He said, "It's Mary's
child."  The owd man tarned round as if he'd bin shot, and went home all
himpin' along.  Folks heared him saa, "Mary's child!  Lord!  Lord!"  When
he got in, he sot down, and nivver spook a wadd, 'cept now and then,
"Mary's child!  Lord!  Lord!"  He coun't ate no dinner; but he towd 'em
to go for my mother; and when she come, he saa to her, "Missus, yeou must
git me to bed."  And there he laa all night, nivver slapin' a bit, but
goin' on saain, "Mary's child!  _Lord_!  _Lord_!" quite solemn like.
Sumtimes he'd saa, "I've bin a bad un in my time, I hev."

Next mornin' Mr James sent for the doctor.  But when he come, Owd Master
said, "Yeou can do nothin' for me; I oon't take none o' yar stuff."  No
more he would.  Then Mr James saa, "Would yeou like to see the parson?"
He din't saa nothin' for some time, then he said, "Yeou may send for
him."  When the parson come--and he was a nice quite {63} owd gentleman,
we were werry fond of him--he went up and staa'd some time; but he nivver
said nothin' when he come down.  Howsomdiver, Owd Master laa more quiter
arter that, and when they axed him to take his med'cin he took it.  Then
he slep' for some hours, and when he woke up he called out quite clear,
"James."  And when Mr James come, he saa to him, "James," sez he, "I ha'
left ivrything to yeou; do yeou see that Mary hev her share."  You notiz,
he din't saa, "Mary's child," but "Mary hev her share."  Arter a little
while he said, "James, I should like to see the little chap."  He warn't
far off, and my mother made him tidy, and brushed his hair and parted it.
Then she took him up, and put him close to the bed.  Owd Master bod 'em
put the curtain back, and he laa and looked at Master Charley.  And then
he said, quite slow and tendersome, "Yeou're a'most as pritty as your
mother was, my dear."

Them was the last words he ivver spook.

Mr James nivver married, and when he died he left ivrything to Master
Charley.



EDWARD FITZGERALD: AN AFTERMATH.


My earliest recollections of FitzGerald go back to thirty-six years.  He
and my father were old friends and neighbours--in East Suffolk, where
neighbours are few, and fourteen miles counts for nothing.  They never
were great correspondents, for what they had to say to one another they
said mostly by word of mouth.  So there were notes, but no letters; and
the notes have nearly all perished.  In the summer of 1859 we were
staying at Aldeburgh, a favourite place with my father, as the home of
his forefathers.  They were sea-folk; and Robinson Groome, my
great-grandfather, was owner of the Unity lugger, on which the poet
Crabbe went up to London.  When his son, my grandfather, was about to
take orders, he expressed a timid hope that the bishop would deem him a
proper candidate.  "And who the devil in hell," cried Robinson Groome,
"should he ordain if he doesn't ordain you, my dear?" {68}  This I have
heard my father tell FitzGerald, as also of his "Aunt Peggy and Aunt D."
(_i.e._, Deborah), who, if ever Crabbe was mentioned in their hearing,
always smoothed their black mittens and remarked--"_We_ never thought
much of Mr Crabbe."

{Edward FitzGerald: p67.jpg}

Our house was Clare Cottage, where FitzGerald himself lodged long
afterwards.  "Two little rooms, enough for me; a poor civil woman pleased
to have me in them."  It fronts the sea, and is (or was) a small
two-storeyed house, with a patch of grass before it, a summer-house, and
a big white figurehead, belike of the shipwrecked Clare.  So over the
garden-gate FitzGerald leant one June morning, and asked me, a boy of
eight, was my father at home.  I remember him dimly then as a tall sea-
browned man, who took us boys out for several sails, on the first of
which I and a brother were both of us woefully sea-sick.  Afterwards I
remember picnics down the Deben river, and visits to him at Woodbridge,
first in his lodgings on the Market Hill over Berry the gunsmith's, and
then at his own house, Little Grange.  The last was in May 1883.  My
father and I had been spending a few days with Captain Brooke of Ufford,
the possessor of one of the finest private libraries in England. {69}
From Ufford we drove on to Woodbridge, and passed some pleasant hours
with FitzGerald.  We walked down to the riverside, and sat on a bench at
the foot of the lime-tree walk.  There was a small boy, I remember,
wading among the ooze; and FitzGerald, calling him to him, said--"Little
boy, did you never hear tell of the fate of the Master of Ravenswood?"
And then he told him the story.  At dinner there was much talk, as
always, of many things, old and new, but chiefly old; and at nine we
started on our homeward drive.  Within a month I heard that FitzGerald
was dead.

From my own recollections, then, of FitzGerald himself, but still more of
my father's frequent talk of him, from some notes and fragments that have
escaped hebdomadal burnings, from a visit that I paid to Woodbridge in
the summer of 1889, and from reminiscences and unpublished letters
furnished by friends of FitzGerald, I purpose to weave a patchwork
article, which shall in some ways supplement Mr Aldis Wright's edition of
his Letters. {70}  Those letters surely will take a high place in
literature, on their own merits, quite apart from the interest that
attaches to the translator of Omar Khayyam, to the friend of Thackeray,
Tennyson, and Carlyle.  Here and there I may cite them; but whoso will
know FitzGerald must go to the fountain-head.  And yet that the letters
by themselves may convey a false impression of the man is evident from
several articles on them--the best and worst Mr Gosse's in the
'Fortnightly' (July 1889).  Mr Gosse sums him up in the statement that
"his time, when the roses were not being pruned, and when he was not
making discreet journeys in uneventful directions, was divided between
music, which greatly occupied his younger thought, and literature, which
slowly, but more and more exclusively, engaged his attention."  There is
truth in the statement; still this pruner of roses, who of rose-pruning
knew absolutely nothing, was one who best loved the sea when the sea was
rough, who always put into port of a Sunday that his men might "get their
hot dinner."  He was one who would give his friend of the best--oysters,
maybe, and audit ale, which "dear old Thompson" used to send him from
Trinity--and himself the while would pace up and down the room, munching
apple or turnip, and drinking long draughts of milk.  He was a man of
marvellous simplicity of life and matchless charity: hereon I will quote
a letter of Professor Cowell's, who did, if any one, know FitzGerald
well:--

   "He was no Sybarite.  There was a vein of strong scorn of all self-
   indulgence in him, which was very different.  He was, of course, very
   much of a recluse, with a vein of misanthropy towards men in the
   abstract, joined to a tender-hearted sympathy for the actual men and
   women around him.  He was the very reverse of Carlyle's description of
   the sentimental philanthropist, who loves man in the abstract, but is
   intolerant of 'Jack and Tom, who have wills of their own.'"

FitzGerald's charities are probably forgotten, unless by the recipients;
and how many of them must be dead, old soldiers as they mostly were, and
suchlike!  But this I have heard, that one man borrowed 200 pounds of
him.  Three times he regularly paid the interest, and the third time
FitzGerald put his note of hand in the fire, just saying he thought that
would do.  His simplicity dated from very early times.  For when he was
at Trinity, his mother called on him in her coach-and-four, and sent a
gyp to ask him to step down to the college-gate, but he could not
come--his only pair of shoes was at the cobbler's.  And down to the last
he was always perfectly careless as to dress.  I can see him now, walking
down into Woodbridge, with an old Inverness cape, double-breasted,
flowered satin waistcoat, slippers on feet, and a handkerchief, very
likely, tied over his hat.  Yet one always recognised in him the Hidalgo.
Never was there a more perfect gentleman.  His courtesy came out even in
his rebukes.  A lady one day was sitting in a Woodbridge shop, gossiping
to a friend about the eccentricities of the Squire of Boulge, when a
gentleman, who was sitting with his back to them, turned round, and,
gravely bowing, gravely said, "Madam, he is my brother."  They were
eccentric, certainly, the FitzGeralds.  FitzGerald himself remarked of
the family: "We are all mad, but with this difference--_I_ know that I
am."  And of that same brother he once wrote to my father:--

   LOWESTOFT: _Dec._ 2/66.

   MY DEAR GROOME,--"At least for what I know" (as old Isaac Clarke used
   to say), I shall be at home next week as well as this.  How could you
   _expect_ my Brother 3 times?  You, as well as others, should really
   (for his Benefit, as well as your own) either leave it all to Chance,
   or appoint _one_ Day, and then decline any further Negotiation.  This
   would really spare poor John an immense deal of (in sober Truth)
   "Taking the Lord's Name in vain."  I mean his eternal _D.V._, which,
   translated, only means, "If _I_ happen to be in the Humour."  You must
   know that the feeling of being _bound_ to an Engagement is the very
   thing that makes him wish to break it.  Spedding once told me this was
   rather my case.  I believe it, and am therefore shy of ever making an
   engagement.  _O si sic omnia_!--Yours truly,

   E. F. G.

Of another brother, Peter, the Catholic brother, as John was the
Protestant one, he wrote:--

   LOWESTOFT, _Tuesday_, _Feb._ 16, 1875.

   You may have heard that my Brother Peter is dead, of Bronchitis, at
   Bournemouth.  He was taken seriously ill on Thursday last, and died on
   Saturday without pain; and I am told that his last murmured words were
   _my_ name--thrice repeated.  A more amiable Gentleman did not live,
   with something _helpless_ about him--what the Irish call an "Innocent
   man"--which mixed up Compassion with Regard, and made it perhaps
   stronger. . . .

Many odd tales were current in Woodbridge about FitzGerald himself.  How
once, for example, he sailed over to Holland, meaning to look upon Paul
Potter's "Bull," but how, on arriving there, he found a favourable
homeward breeze, and so sailed home.  How, too, he took a ticket for
Edinburgh, but at Newcastle found a train on the point of starting for
London, and, thinking it a pity to lose the chance, returned thereby.
Both stories must be myths, for we learn from his letters that in 1861 he
really did spend two days in Holland, and in 1874 other two in Scotland.
Still, I fancy both stories emanated from FitzGerald, for all Woodbridge
united could not have hit upon Paul Potter's "Bull."

Except in February 1867, when he was strongly opposed to Lord
Rendlesham's election, he took no active part in politics.  "Don't write
politics--I agree with you beforehand," is a postscript (1852) to
Frederic Tennyson; and in a letter from Mr William Bodham Donne to my
father occurs this passage: "E. F. G. informs me that he gave his
landlord instructions in case any one called about his vote to say that
Mr F. would _not_ vote, advised every one to do the same, and let the
rotten matter bust itself."  So it certainly stands in the letter, which
bears date 29th October 1868; but, according to Mr Mowbray Donne, "the
phrase was rather: 'Let the rotten old ship go to pieces of itself.'  At
least," he adds, "so I have always heard it; and this suggests that once
there was a galleon worth preserving, but that he would not patch up the
old craft.  He may have said both, of course."  Anyhow, rightly or
wrongly, FitzGerald was sorrowfully convinced that England's best day was
over, and that he, that any one, was powerless to arrest the inevitable
doom.  "I am quite assured that this Country is dying, as other Countries
die, as Trees die, atop first.  The lower limbs are making all haste to
follow."  He wrote thus in 1861, when the local squirearchy refused to
interest itself in the "_manuring_ and _skrimmaging_" of the newly
established rifle corps.  And here are some more vaticinations of evil:--

   "I have long felt about England as you do, and even made up my mind to
   it, so as to sit comparatively, if ignobly, easy on that score.
   Sometimes I envy those who are so old that the Curtain will probably
   fall on them before it does on their Country.  If one could save the
   Race, what a Cause it would be! not for one's own glory as a member of
   it, nor even for its glory as a Nation: but because it is the only
   spot in Europe where Freedom keeps her place.  Had I Alfred's voice, I
   would not have mumbled for years over In Memoriam and The Princess,
   but sung such strains as would have revived the [Greek text] to guard
   the territory they had won."

The curtain has fallen twelve years now on FitzGerald,--it is fifty-four
years since he wrote those words: God send their dark forebodings may
prove false!  But they clouded his life, and were partly the cause why,
Ajax-like, he loitered in his tent.

His thoughts on religion he kept to himself.  A letter of June 1885 from
the late Master of Trinity to my father opens thus:--

   "MY DEAR ARCHDEACON,--I ought to have thanked you ere this for your
   letter, and the enclosed hymn, which we much admire, and cannot but be
   touched by. {76}  The more perhaps as our dear dead friend seems to
   have felt its pathos.  I have more to repent of than he had.  Two of
   the purest-living men among my intimates, FitzGerald and Spedding,
   were prisoners in Doubting Castle all their lives, or at least the
   last half of them.  This is to me a great problem,--not to be solved
   by the ordinary expedients, nor on this side the Veil, I think."

A former rector of Woodbridge, now many years dead, once called on
FitzGerald to express his regret that he never saw him at church.  "Sir,"
said FitzGerald, "you might have conceived that a man has not come to my
years of life without thinking much of these things.  I believe I may say
that I have reflected on them fully as much as yourself.  You need not
repeat this visit."  Certain it is that FitzGerald's was a most reverent
mind, and I know that the text on his grave was of his own choosing--"It
is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves."  I know, too, that
sometimes he would sit and listen in a church porch while service was
going on, and slip away unperceived before the people came out.  Still,
it seems to me beyond question that his version of the 'Rubaiyat' is an
utterance of his soul's deepest doubts, and that hereafter it will come
to be recognised as the highest expression of Agnosticism:--

   "With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
   And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
      And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
   'I came like Water, and like Wind I go.'

   Into this Universe, and _Why_ not knowing
   Nor _Whence_, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
      And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
   I know not _Whither_, willy-nilly blowing.

   * * * * *

   We are no other than a moving row
   Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
      Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
   In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

   But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
   Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
      Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
   And one by one back in the Closet lays."

Yet to how many critics this has seemed but a poem of the wine-cup and
roses!

FitzGerald proved a most kindly contributor to the series of "Suffolk
Notes and Queries" that I edited for the 'Ipswich Journal' in 1877-78.
The following were some of his notes, all signed "Effigy"--a play on his
initials:--

"_Major Moor_, _David Hume_, _and the Royal George_.--In a review of
Burton's Life of Hume, p. 354 of the 'Gentleman's Magazine,' April 1849,
is the following quotation from the book, and the following note upon it:

   "'Page 452.  "Major M---, with whom I dined yesterday, said that he
   had frequently met David Hume at their military mess in Scotland, and
   in other parties.  That he was very polite and pleasant, though
   thoughtful in company, generally reclining his head upon his hand, as
   if in study; from which he would suddenly recover," &c.  [Note by the
   Editor, John Mitford of Benhall.]  We merely add that Major M--- was
   Major Moor, author of the Hindoo Pantheon, a very learned and amiable
   person.'

"A very odd blunder for one distinguished Suffolk man to make of another,
and so near a neighbour.  For David Hume died in 1776, when Major Moor
was about seven years old; by this token that (as he has told me) he saw
the masts of the ROYAL GEORGE slope under water as she went down in 1782,
while he was on board the transport that was to carry him to India, a
cadet of thirteen years old.

"Nearly sixty years after this, Major Moor (as I also heard him relate)
was among the usual company going over one of the Royal Palaces--Windsor,
I think--when the cicerone pointed out a fragment of the Royal George's
mast, whereupon one elderly gentleman of the party told them that _he_
had witnessed the disaster; after which Major Moor capped the general
amazement by informing the little party that they had two surviving
witnesses of it among them that day.

"_Suffolk Minstrelsy_.--These fragments of a Suffolk Harvest-Home Song,
remembered by an old Suffolk Divine, offer room for historical and
lyrical conjecture.  I think the song must consist of _tew_ several
fragments.

   "'Row tu me, tow tu me,' says He-ne-ry Burgin,
      'Row tu me, row tu me, I prah;
   For I ha' tarn'd a Scotch robber across the salt seas,
      Tu ma-i-nt'n my tew brothers and me.'"

   "The Count de Grasse he stood amaz'd,
      And frigh-te-ned he were,
   For to see these bold Bri-tons
      So active in war."

"_Limb_.--I find this word, whose derivation has troubled Suffolk
vocabularies, quoted in its Suffolk sense from Tate Wilkinson, in 'Temple
Bar Magazine' for January 1876.  Mrs White--an actress somewhere in the
Shires,--she may have derived from Suffolk, however--addresses her
daughter, Mrs Burden, in these words: 'I'll tell you what, Maam, if you
contradict me, I'll fell you at my feet, and trample over your corse,
Maam, for you're a _limb_, Maam, your father on his deathbed told me you
were a _limb_.'  (_N.B._--Perhaps Mr White it was who derived from _us_.)
And again when poor Mrs Burden asks what is meant by a _parenthesis_, her
mother exclaims, 'Oh, what an infernal _limb_ of an actress you'll make,
not to know the meaning _of prentice_, plural of _apprentices_!'  Such is
Tate's story if correctly quoted by 'Temple Bar.'  Not long ago I heard
at Aldbro', 'My mother is a _limb_ for salt pork.'"

The Suffolk dialect was ever a pet hobby of FitzGerald's.  For years he
was meditating a new edition of Major Moor's 'Suffolk Words,' but the
question never was settled whether words of his own collecting were to be
incorporated in the body of the work or relegated to an appendix.  So the
notion remained a notion.  Much to our loss, for myself I prefer his 'Sea-
Words and Phrases along the Suffolk Coast' (in the scarce 'East Anglian,'
1868-69 {81}) to half his translations.  For this "poor old Lowestoft sea-
slang," as FitzGerald slightingly calls it, illustrates both his strong
love of the sea and his own quaint lovable self.  One turns over its
pages idly, and lights on dozens of entries such as these:--

"BARK.--'The surf _bark_ from the Nor'ard;' or, as was otherwise said to
me, 'The sea aint lost his woice from the Nor'ard yet,'--a sign, by the
way, that the wind is to come from that quarter.  A poetical word such as
those whose business is with the sea are apt to use.  Listening one night
to the sea some way inland, a sailor said to me, 'Yes, sir, the sea roar
for the loss of the wind;' which a landsman properly interpreted as
meaning only that the sea made itself heard when the wind had subsided."

"BRUSTLE.--A compound of _Bustle_ and _Rustle_, I suppose.  'Why, the old
girl _brustle_ along like a Hedge-sparrow!'--said of a round-bowed vessel
spuffling through the water.  I am told that, comparing little with
great, the figure is not out of the way.  Otherwise, what should these
ignorant seamen know of Hedge-sparrows?  Some of them do, however; fond
of birds, as of other pets--Children, cats, small dogs--anything in short
considerably under the size of--a Bullock--and accustomed to
birds-nesting over your cliff and about your lanes from childhood.  A
little while ago a party of Beechmen must needs have a day's frolic at
the old sport; marched bodily into a neighbouring farmer's domain,
ransacked the hedges, climbed the trees, coming down pretty figures, I
was told, (in plainer language) with guernsey and breeches torn fore and
aft; the farmer after them in a tearing rage, calling for his gun--'They
were Pirates--They were the Press-gang!' and the boys in Blue going on
with their game laughing.  When they had got their fill of it, they
adjourned to Oulton Boar for 'Half a pint'; by-and-by in came the raging
farmer for a like purpose; at first growling aloof; then warming towards
the good fellows, till--he joined their company, and--insisted on paying
their shot."

"CARDS.--Though often carried on board to pass away the time at
All-fours, Don, or Sir-wiser (_q.v._), nevertheless regarded with some
suspicion when business does not go right.  A friend of mine vowed that,
if his ill-luck continued, over the cards should go; and over they went.
Opinions differ as to swearing.  One Captain strictly forbade it on board
his lugger; but he, also continuing to get no fish, called out, 'Swear
away, lads, and see what that'll do.'  Perhaps he only meant as Menage's
French Bishop did; who going one day to Court, his carriage stuck fast in
a slough.  The Coachman swore; the Bishop, putting his head out of the
window, bid him not do that; the Coachman declared that unless he did,
his horses would never get the carriage out of the mud.  'Well then, says
the Bishop, just for this once then.'"

"EGG-BOUND.--Probably an inland word; but it was only from one of the
beach I heard it.  He had a pair of--what does the reader think?--Turtle-
doves in his net-loft, looking down so drolly--the delicate
creatures--from their wicker cage on the rough work below, that I
wondered what business they had there.  But this truculent Salwager
assured me seriously that he had 'doated on them,' and promised me the
first pair they should hatch.  For a long while they had no family, so
long '_neutral_' indeed as to cause grave doubts whether they were a pair
at all.  But at last one of them began to show signs of cradle-making,
picking at some hay stuffed into the wicker-bars to encourage them; and I
was told that she was manifestly '_egg-bound_.'"

"NEW MOON.--When first seen, be sure to turn your money over in your
pocket by way of making it grow there; provided always that you see her
face to face, not through a glass (window)--for, in that case, the charm
works the wrong way.  'I see the little dear this evening, and give my
money a twister; there wasn't much, but I roused her about.'  Where
'_her_' means the Money, not the Moon.  Every one knows of what gender
all that is amiable becomes in the Sailor's eyes: his Ship, of course--the
'Old Dear'--the 'Old Girl'--the 'Old Beauty,' &c.  I don't think the Sea
is so familiarly addrest; _she_ is almost too strong-minded, capricious,
and terrible a Virago, and--he is wedded to her for better or worse.  Yet
I have heard the Weather (to whose instigation so much of that Sea's ill-
humours are due) spoken of by one coming up the hatchway, 'Let's see how
_she_ look now.'  The Moon is, of course, a Woman too; and as with the
German, and, I believe, the ancient Oriental people, 'the blessed Sun
himself a fair hot Wench in a flame-colour'd taffeta,' and so _she_
rises, _she_ sets, and _she_ crosses the Line.  So the Timepiece that
measures the hours of day and night.  A Friend's Watch going wrong of
late, I advised Regulating; but was gravely answer'd that '_She_ was a
foreigner, and he did not like meddling with _her_.'  The same poor
ignorant was looking with me one evening at your fine old church
[Lowestoft] which sadly wanted regulating too: lying all along indeed
like a huge stranded Ship, with one whole side battered open to the ribs,
through which 'the Sea-wind sang shrill, chill'; and he 'did not like
seeing her so distress'd'; remembering boyish days, and her good old
Vicar (of course I mean the _former_ one: pious, charitable, venerable
Francis Cunningham), and looking to lie under her walls, among his own
people--'if not,' as he said, '_somewhere else_.'  Some months after,
seeing the Church with her southern side restored to the sun, the same
speaker cried, 'Well done, Old Girl!  Up, and crow again!'"

* * * * *

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."





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