THE ideal biographer of Edward FitzGerald has not yet arisen.
He ought to have, we think, a good many special qualifica- tions, one or two of which may be suggested here. First, and before all, he would require the supreme faculty of choice— le choiz fait l'artiste—and it needs an artist, and a clever one, to write one of the most difficult of biographies. For there is a great deal in FitzGerald's life, told in detail and from day to day, with all its eccentricities, noblenesses, weaknesses, which really does not matter to anybody, except to those who rejoice in the cutting up that Tennyson dreaded for himself and his friends. Then, FitzGerald's biographer should efface himself, and should not attempt to point any morals, or in any way to bring his hero's opinions into line with his own. FitzGerald's religious views, such as they were, should be left in the shadow where he himself kept them. The comparison with Cowper seems rather futile. Also, it seems a little exaggerated to place FitzGerald's intellect on a line with Tennyson's. He does not gain by appreciation such as this, which he would have been the first to dislike and disclaim. He was among the few who dared freely to criticise Tennyson, but he con- fessed "a sense of depression at times from the overshadowing of a so much more lofty intellect than my own." No one knew his own limitations better than FitzGerald, whose instinct was faultless in those matters. Neither, we fancy, would he like it to be asked : "Where would Crabbe now be but for Fitz- Gerald ? "
From dreams of the ideal biographer we have been naturally led on to a certain criticising of the present biography. Nobody can deny that it has great merits. It is wonderfully painstaking, and no doubt correct in most of its superabundant detail. In its two large volumes we find all the material, and a great deal more, that any future student of Fitz- Gerald, his small amount of work, his great achievement and undying influence, is ever likely to want. Every house and neighbourhood he ever lived in is minutely described, and the same may be said of all his relations, friends, and acquaintances, from his brother John—equally eccentric with himself, though without his genius—to that hero of his fancy, "Posh," the Viking fisherman. The fifty-six illustrations give us the outward appearance of all these places and people. There is a good deal of new material—for those who care for it—justifying FitzGerald in the matter of the rash marriage which turned out such a failure, and also
• The Life of Edward FitzG.raid. By Thomas Wright. With 56 Plates. 2 Tole. London : Grant Richards. f24e. not.j
giving the whole history of his greatest friendship, that with Kenworthy Browne. But it seems to us that the figure of Fitz- Gerald himself, with its strange distinction and singularity, is almost lost in a crowd of ill-digested surroundings. The book is all about him ; but somehow, if we want to know FitzGerald at his truest and finest, with his poetical genius, his unerring taste, his perfect critical faculty, it is still to the well-read volumes of his letters that we shall turn, and not to any biography that has yet been written of him. For, as we have said, the faculty of choice is the great necessity, and Mr. Wright has not shown here that he possesses it. FitzGerald's own love was for the essence of things. To his "fastidious selection and pitiless condensation," as Mr. Wright himself remarks, we owe the Omar quatrains. Imagination pictures the expression with which he would turn over the
leaves of these two handsome volumes ! We suspect, too, that his ever-ready scissors would be used with sufficient free- dom. Yet, with all this, lovers of FitzGerald owe some grati- tude to Mr. Wright. His industry has brought to light a good many curious and interesting figures who had more or less influence on FitzGerald, especially in his younger days.
One of these is Matthews, the evangelist, who in 1844, in a chapel at Bedford, preached to a crowded congregation in a style which to-day would be called ritualistic. "Matthews, a Saul of a man, with prominent eyebrows, aquiline, high- bridged nose, and hair curling up at the neck, in black Genevan gown with white bands, ascended the pulpit steps, a wooden cross in his bands A grand sermon with a flavour of the old monkish days, though even Peter the Hermit, with all his eloquence and with his wooden cross, was less powerful to move the masses." Mr. Wright gives a good deal more about Matthews, his sermons and his history, than is to be found in the Letters. He impressed FitzGerald won- derfully—" my noble preacher "—but we do not think Fitz-
Gerald is responsible for the comparison with Peter the Hermit, which certainly shows a lack of proportion.
Mr. Wright has been fortunate in the number of unpub- lished letters, both from and to FitzGerald, from which he is able to quote in his biography. Letters to Mrs. Kenworthy Browne and to Joseph Fletcher (" Posh ") have been made great use of by him, and on the other side he has had the ad- vantage of discovering letters from Thackeray, Kenworthy Browne, Spedding, the Rev. George Crabbe, and others. Another manuscript which now sees the light for the first time, and is really curious and interesting, is that of Fitz- Gerald's portraits of his friends. Among these Tennyson and Thackeray must especially be quoted, if only because of the omissions, which illustrate so vividly the different point of view of a great man's friends and his public. The same thing, by the way, is to be noticed on Jane Austen's grave- stone in Winchester Cathedral :—
" Tennyson : Very well informed—just and upright—a rectifier or setter to rights of people—diligent, constant, sincere—has great discernment—industrious, decided, and possesses great strength of mind—a very valuable friend—generous, but not extravagant—punctual—cool and clear in judgment."
" Thackeray : A great deal of talent, but no perseverance or steadiness of purpose—very indifferent, almost cold in his feelings —a very despairing mind—quick in most things, impatient, exclu- sive in his attachments—very unaffected, and has great want of confidence in his own powers."
Without the names, who would lay his finger on these as the portraits of a great poet and a great novelist?
It seems possible that we owe the Omar, and FitzGerald's love and true feeling for the East, its languages and imagery, to his early friendship with Major Moor, who possessed a whole
pantheon of Hindoo gods, and cared to talk of little besides Oriental subjects. The fascination, caught by FitzGerald as a boy, ended by being the supreme passion of his life, a solitary life in spite of all his friendships. Omar, after all, was the expression of the hermit's deepest self, as he sat wrapped in smoke and surrounded by piles of books in one or other of his small Suffolk rooms. And this is true, though, according to Professor Cowell, FitzGerald could never quite make up his mind as to what Omar really meant. One thing we feel sure of, he never thought of him by Mr. Wright's epithet, "a roistering old sinner." All the dignity of the East is outraged there. In fact, we could do very well without Mr. Wright's remarks on the Rubaiyat, though the public may be obliged
to him for giving Professor Cowell's interpretation, curious if not convincing, as well as those of rival commentators. After all, and in spite of the varying theories, which do not seem to signify much, the present writer is inclined to confess him- self among those unintelligent persons who "care but for one Omar, and his real name is FitzGerald."
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