Edward FitzGerald and Posh | Page 5

pride himself, and take pleasure in,
those qualities of his master, the existence of which he would be the
first to deny.
Where, however, a literary genius condescends to an intimacy with a
simple son of sea and shore who is not only practically illiterate but is
entirely ignorant of his patron's prowess, the opinions of the illiterate
concerning the personal characteristics of the genius obtain a very

remarkable value as being honest criticism by man of man,
uninfluenced by the spirit either of disingenuous adulation or of equally
disingenuous depreciation. That these opinions are in the eyes of a
disciple of the great man quaint, almost insolently crude is a matter of
course. But when they tend to show the master not only great in letters
but great in heart, soul, human kindness, and generosity, they form,
perhaps, the most notable tribute to a great personality.
{Cottage at corner of Boulge Park, where FitzGerald lived for many
years: p30.jpg}
With the exception of Charles Lamb, no man's letters have endeared his
memory to so many readers as have the letters of Edward FitzGerald.
But FitzGerald's friends (to whom most of the letters hitherto published
were addressed) were cultured gentlemen, men of the first rank of the
time, of the first rank of all time, men who would necessarily be
swayed by the charm of his culture, by the delicacy of his wit, by the
refinement of his thoughts.
In the case of "Posh," however (that typical Lowestoft fisherman who
supplied "Fitz" with a period of exaltation which was as extraordinary
as it was self-revealing), there were no extraneous influences at work.
Posh knew the man as a good-hearted friend, a man of jealous affection,
as a free-handed business partner, as a lover of the sea. He neither knew
nor cared that his partner (he would not admit that "patron" would be
the better word!) was the author of undying verse. To this day it is
impossible to make him understand that reminiscences of FitzGerald
are of greater public interest than any recollection of him--Posh.
It was not easy to explain to him that it was his first meeting with
Edward FitzGerald that was the thing and not the theft of his (Posh's)
father's longshore lugger which led to that meeting. However, time and
patience have rendered it possible to separate the wheat from the tares
of his narrative; and what tares may be left may be swallowed down
with the more nutritious grain without any deleterious effect.
In the early summer of 1865 some daring longshore pirate made off
with Fletcher senior's "punt," or longshore lugger, without saying as

much as "by your leave." The piracy (as was proper to such a deed of
darkness) was effected by night, and on the following morning the
coastguard were warned of the act. These worthy fellows (and they are
too fine a lot of men to be disbanded by any twopenny Radical
Government) traced the boat to Harwich. Here the gallant rover had
sought local and expert aid to enable him to bring up, had then raised
an awning, as though he were to sleep aboard, and, after thus satisfying
the local talent to whom he was still indebted for their services, had
slunk ashore and disappeared. Old Mr. Fletcher, on hearing the news,
started off to Harwich in another craft of his, and (fateful fact!) took his
son Posh with him.
Both the Fletchers were known to Tom Newson, a pilot of Felixstowe
Ferry, and they naturally looked him up.
For years Edward FitzGerald had been accustomed to cruise about the
Deben and down the river to Harwich in a small craft captained by one
West. But in 1865 he was the owner of a smart fifteen-ton schooner,
which he had had built for him by Harvey, of Wyvenhoe, two years
previously, and of which Tom Newson was the skipper and his nephew
Jack the crew. According to Posh, the original name of this schooner
was the Shamrock, but she has become famous as the Scandal. It
happened that when the Fletchers were at Harwich in search of the
stolen punt, Edward FitzGerald had come down the river, and Newson
made his two Lowestoft friends known to his master.
There can be no doubt that at that time, when he was twenty-seven
years of age, Posh was an exceptionally comely and stalwart man. And
he was, doubtless, possessed of the dry humour and the spirit of simple
jollity which make his race such charming companions for a time. At
all events his personality magnetised the poet, then a man of fifty-six,
already a trifle weary of the inanities of life.
FitzGerald must have been tolerably conversant with the Harwich and
Felixstowe mariners--with the "salwagers" of the "Ship-wash"--and the
characters of the pilots