Letters of Edward FitzGerald | Page 6

could
come out with such a costive Thing after so long waiting! Think of the
Acres of Canvas Titian or Reynolds would have covered with grand
Outlines and deep Colours in the Time it has taken to niggle this
Miniature! The Christ seemed to me only a wayward Boy: the Jews,
Jews no doubt: the Temple I dare say very correct in its Detail: but
think of even Rembrandt's Woman in Adultery at the National Gallery;
a much smaller Picture, but how much vaster in Space and Feeling!
Hunt's Picture stifled me with its Littleness. I think Ruskin must see
what his System has led to.
I have just got Lady Waterford's 'Babes in the Wood,' which are well
enough, pretty in Colour: only, why has she made so bad a Portrait of
one of her chief Performers, whose Likeness is so easily got at, the
Robin Redbreast? This Lady Waterford was at Gillingham this Summer:
and my Sister Eleanor said (as Thackeray had done) she was something
almost to worship for unaffected Dignity.
MARKET-HILL, WOODBRIDGE. Whit-Monday [May 20, 1861].
MY DEAR GEORGE,
. . . I take pleasure in my new little Boat: and last week went with her to
Aldbro'; and she 'behaved' very well both going and returning; though,

to be sure, there was not much to try her Temper. I am so glad of this
fine Whit-Monday, when so many Holiday-makers will enjoy
theirselves, and so many others make a little money by their Enjoyment.
Our 'Rifles' are going to march to Grundisburgh, manuring and
skrimmaging as they go, and also (as the Captain {18} hopes)
recruiting. He is a right good little Fellow, I do believe. It is a shame
the Gentry hereabout are so indifferent in the Matter: they subscribe
next to nothing: and give absolutely nothing in the way of
Entertainment or Attention to the Corps. But we are split up into the
pettiest possible Squirarchy, who want to make the utmost of their little
territory: cut down all the Trees, level all the old Violet Banks, and stop
up all the Footways they can. The old pleasant way from Hasketon to
Bredfield is now a Desert. I was walking it yesterday and had the
pleasure of breaking down and through some Bushes and Hurdles put
to block up a fallen Stile. I thought what your Father would have said
of it all. And really it is the sad ugliness of our once pleasant Fields that
half drives me to the Water where the Power of the Squirarchy stops!
To E. B. Cowell.
MARKET HILL: WOODBRIDGE: May 22/61.
MY DEAR COWELL,
I receive two Books, via Geldestone, from you: Khold-i-barin
(including a Lecture of your own) and 'Promises of Christianity': I think
directed in your Wife's hand. The Lecture was, I doubt not, very well
adapted to its purpose: the other two Publications I must look at by and
bye. I can't tell you how indolent I have become about Books: some
Travels and Biographies from Mudie are nearly all I read now. Then, I
have only been in London some dozen hours these two years past: my
last Expedition was this winter for five hours: when I ran home here
like a beaten Dog. So I have little to tell you of Friends as of Books.
Spedding hammers away at his Bacon (impudently forestalled by H.
Dixon's Book). Carlyle is not so up to work as of old (I hear). Indeed,
he wrote me he was ill last Summer, and obliged to cut Frederick and
be off to Scotland and Idleness: the Doctors warned him of Congestion
of Brain: a warning he scorned. But what more likely? The last account

I had of Alfred Tennyson from Mrs. A. was a good one. Frederic T. is
settled at Jersey. I cannot make up my mind to go to see any of these
good, noble men: I only hope they believe I do not forget, or cease to
regard them.
My chief Amusement in Life is Boating, on River and Sea. The
Country about here is the Cemetery of so many of my oldest Friends:
and the petty race of Squires who have succeeded only use the Earth for
an Investment: cut down every old Tree: level every Violet Bank: and
make the old Country of my Youth hideous to me in my Decline. There
are fewer Birds to be heard, as fewer Trees for them to resort to. So I
get to the Water: where Friends are not buried nor Pathways stopt up:
but all is, as the Poets say, as Creation's Dawn beheld. I am happiest
going in my little Boat round the Coast to Aldbro', with some Bottled
Porter and some Bread and Cheese, and some good rough Soul who
works the Boat