Letters of Edward FitzGerald, in Two Volumes. Vol. 2

In Short

This collection of letters serves as a profound, intimate portrait of a man who chose the margins over the center. Writing from his home in Woodbridge, the author reflects on the passage of time, the joys of literary companionship, and the inevitable departures of those he held dear. Though he was a translator of renown, the narrative here is less about public achievement and more about the simple rhythms of a solitary existence: boating on the river, nursing his ailing eyes, and revisiting the works of Thackeray, Crabbe, and the Persian poets who first captured his imagination.

The Story

The correspondence opens in 1859, a period marked by both quiet study and the encroachment of loss. The author, having retreated from the bustle of London to the coastal tranquility of Suffolk, finds himself preoccupied with his translation of Omar Khayyám. He writes to E. B. Cowell—his mentor in Persian studies—with a characteristic blend of intellectual humility and sharp insight, testing his own interpretations against Cowell’s more exact scholarship. These early letters reveal a man deeply at home in his own mind, even as the world around him begins to fray.

As the years progress into the 1860s, the tone shifts toward a poignant meditation on mortality. The death of his old friend William Makepeace Thackeray hits him with unexpected force. The author describes himself “moping” about the house, finding solace in rereading Thackeray’s novels, which serve as a ghostly surrogate for the friend he hasn't seen in years. He speaks of the "Wall" of death rising before him as he watches his circle of contemporaries fade, yet he remains remarkably tethered to the living through his correspondence. He maintains a steady, affectionate dialogue with old scholars and friends, discussing everything from the nuances of Greek tragedy to the proper way to translate a sentiment.

By the 1870s and early 1880s, the author has settled into the role of a seasoned observer. His health is increasingly precarious—bronchitis and failing eyesight are frequent antagonists—yet his curiosity remains undimmed. He reads and rereads the classics, critiques the modern historians like Carlyle with a mixture of fondness and skepticism, and delights in the simple beauty of a Suffolk spring. He refuses to chase the fame that his translation of Omar might have brought him, preferring the "holiday recreation" of his literary life.

The arc of the collection concludes with the author in his seventies, nearing the end of his own journey. He writes of the loss of brothers and peers with a calm, almost stoic acceptance, balancing his grief with the continued comfort of books. He remains in his "Little Grange," surrounded by the artifacts of a life well-read, still finding the world vibrant enough to keep him engaged. The final letters are a testament to a man who lived with his eyes wide open, finding that even in the stillness of a country village, the company of great minds—past and present—is enough to sustain a spirit until the very end.

How It Unfolds

The scholar’s workshop The author sets the stage from London and Woodbridge, balancing his Persian translations with a persistent, nagging self-doubt. He constantly defers to his friends, seeking validation for his work while simultaneously downplaying his own contributions as mere "bubbles" on the surface of literature.

The shadow of loss The narrative turns inward following the death of Thackeray, as the author measures his own life against the ghosts of those he once knew. He begins to view his library not just as a source of knowledge, but as a place where the dead remain present, whispering their wisdom through the pages.

The quiet twilight In the final stages, the author retreats further into his private world of books and local walks. He grapples with the decline of his health and the loss of his remaining friends, yet he retains a gentle wit that softens the reality of his isolation.

The People

The author, an introspective and deeply loyal figure, serves as the anchor. He is a man of "small" ambitions, valuing the comfort of an old boat and a familiar book over the acclaim of the London literary scene. He is defined by his deep, abiding friendships, which he maintains through letter-writing even when distance and time make face-to-face meetings impossible.

E. B. Cowell acts as the intellectual north star, the man who introduced the author to Persian literature and whose scholarship is the benchmark against which the author measures his own efforts. Their relationship is one of mutual respect, defined by an exchange of ideas that spans decades.

W. H. Thompson, often addressed as "Master," represents the link to the author’s academic past. Their letters are marked by a scholarly rigor and a shared love for the classics, grounding the author in a world of intellectual permanence even as his own physical world grows smaller.

Thackeray, though a ghost for much of the later volume, remains a central, living presence in the author’s emotional life. The author’s relationship with him—a mixture of critical distance and profound, nostalgic love—illuminates the author's capacity for deep, enduring affection.

In Its Own Voice

I am almost ashamed to write to you, so much have I forsaken Persian, and even all good Books of late.

The author confesses his lack of industry to his mentor, E. B. Cowell, during a period of restless inactivity.

I am surprized almost to find how much I am thinking of him: so little as I had seen him for the last ten years; not once for the last five.

Writing to a portrait painter, the author reflects on the sudden, heavy absence of his friend Thackeray following his death.

Death seems to rise like a Wall against one now whichever way one looks.

The author notes the encroaching reality of mortality with the calm, observant eye he applies to every other aspect of his life.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the cultivation of a life of the mind in the face of inevitable decline. It is an argument for the quiet, deliberate pace of living—a rejection of "vaulting ambition" in favor of the deeper rewards of sustained focus and friendship. Beneath the plot lies a question: how does one remain connected to the world when the body slows and the companions of one's youth depart? The author suggests that the answer is found in the endurance of memory, the steady rhythm of daily habit, and the transformative power of literature to keep the past alive and present.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the slow, deliberate unfolding of a life will find a rare companion here. The writing possesses a warmth that bridges the century between the author’s time and our own, making his struggles with loneliness, eyesight, and the "mortal winter" feel startlingly immediate. It is not a book for those seeking a fast-paced narrative or the polish of modern memoir; it is, rather, an exercise in slowing down. There are, admittedly, difficulties for the modern reader: the frequent references to 19th-century scholars and period-specific literary debates can be dense, and the author’s Victorian-era perspectives occasionally require a degree of patience. However, the reward is a rare, unvarnished look at a soul that chose to live modestly, honestly, and with immense heart. It stays with you because it captures the specific beauty of a life that was lived, quite literally, between the lines of the books that defined it. If you have ever felt that a good book is a better companion than a crowded room, you will find a kindred spirit in these pages.