—EDWARD FITZGERALD.
I heard the other day of the death of dear old John Loder, the Woodbridge bookseller, at the age of ninety-two. Though ill equipped to do justice to his memory, it seems to me a duty, and a duty that I take up gladly. It is not often that a young man has the good fortune to know as a friend one who has been a crony of his own grandfather and great-grandfather. Such was my privilege in the case of John Loder, a man whose life was all sturdy simplicity1 and generous friendship. He shines in no merely reflected light, but in his own native nobility. I think there are a few lovers of England and of books who will be glad not to forget his unobtrusive services to literature. If only John Loder had kept a journal it would be one of the minor2 treasures of the Victorian Age. He had a racy, original turn of speech, full of the Suffolk lingo3 that so delighted his friend FitzGerald; full, too, of the delicacies4 of rich thought and feeling. He used to lament5 in his later years that he had not kept a diary as a young man. Alas6 that his Boswell came too late to do more than snatch at a few of his memories.
There is a little Suffolk town on the salt tidewater of the Deben, some ten miles from the sea. Its roofs of warm red tile are clustered on the hill-slopes that run down toward the river; a massive, gray church tower and a great windmill are conspicuous7 landmarks8. Broad barges9 and shabby schooners10, with ruddy and amber11 sails, lie at anchor or drop down the river with the tide, bearing the simple sailormen of Mr. W.W. Jacobs's stories. In the old days before the railway it was a considerable port and a town of thriving commerce. But now—well, it is little heard of in the annals of the world.
Yet Woodbridge, unknown to the tourist, has had her pilgrims, too, and her nook in literature. It was there that George Crabbe of Aldeburgh was apprenticed12 to a local surgeon and wrote his first poem, unhappily entitled "Inebriety13." There lived Bernard Barton, "the Quaker poet," a versifier of a very mild sort, but immortal14 by reason of his friendships with greater men. Addressed to Bernard Barton, in a plain, neat hand, came scores of letters to Woodbridge in the eighteen-twenties, letters now famous, which found their way up Church Street to Alexander's Bank. They were from no less a man than Charles Lamb. Also I have always thought it very much to Woodbridge's credit that a certain Woodbridgian named Pulham was a fellow-clerk of Lamb's at the East India House. Perhaps Mr. Pulham introduced Lamb and Barton to each other. And as birthplace and home of Edward FitzGerald, Woodbridge drew such visitors as Carlyle and Tennyson, who came to seek out the immortal recluse15. In the years following FitzGerald's death many a student of books, some all the way from America, found his way into John Loder's shop to gossip about "Old Fitz." In 1893 a few devoted17 members of the Omar Khayyam Club of London pilgrimaged to Woodbridge to plant by the grave at Boulge (please pronounce "Bowidge") a rosetree that had been raised from seed brought from the bush that sheds its petals19 over the dust of the tent-maker at Naishapur. In 1909 Woodbridge and Ipswich celebrated20 the FitzGerald centennial. And Rupert Brooke's father was (I believe) a schoolboy at Woodbridge; alas that another of England's jewels just missed being a Woodbridgian!
Some day, if you are wise, you, too, will take a train at Liverpool Street, and drawn21 by one of those delightful22 blue locomotives of the Great Eastern Railway speed through Colchester and Ipswich and finally set foot on the yellow-pebbled platform at Woodbridge. As you step from the stuffy23 compartment24 the keen salt Deben air will tingle25 in your nostrils26; and you may discover in it a faint under-whiff of strong tobacco—the undying scent27 of pipes smoked on the river wall by old Fitz, and in recent years by John Loder himself. If you have your bicycle with you, or are content to hire one, you will find that rolling Suffolk country the most delightful in the world for quiet spinning. (But carry a repair kit28, for there are many flints!) Ipswich itself is full of memories—of Chaucer, and Wolsey, and Dickens (it is the "Eatanswill" of Pickwick), and it is much pleasure to one of Suffolk blood to recall that James Harper, the grandfather of the four brothers who founded the great publishing house of Harper and Brothers a century ago, was an Ipswich man, born there in 1740. You will bike to Bury St. Edmunds (where Fitz went to school and our beloved William McFee also!) and Aldeburgh, and Dunwich, to hear the chimes of the sea-drowned abbey ringing under the waves. If you are a Stevensonian, you will hunt out Cockfield Rectory, near Sudbury, where R.L.S. first met Sidney Colvin in 1872. (Colvin himself came from Bealings, only two miles from Woodbridge.) You may ride to Dunmow in Essex, to see the country of Mr. Britling; and to Wigborough, near Colchester, the haunt of Mr. McFee's painter-cousin in "Aliens." You will hire a sailboat at Lime Kiln29 Quay30 or the Jetty and bide31 a moving air and a going tide to drop down to Bawdsey ferry to hunt shark's teeth and amber among the shingle32. You will pace the river walk to Kyson—perhaps the tide will be out and sunset tints33 shimmer34 over those glossy35 stretches of mud. Brown seaweed, vivid green samphire, purple flats of slime where the river ran a few hours before, a steel-gray trickle36 of water in the scour37 of the channel and a group of stately swans ruffling38 there; and the huddled39 red roofs of the town with the stately church tower and the waving arms of the windmill looking down from the hill. It is a scene to ravish an artist. You may walk back by way of Martlesham Heath, stopping at the Red Lion for a quencher40 (the Red Lion figurehead is supposed to have come from one of the ships of the Armada). It is a different kind of Armada that Woodbridge has to reckon with nowadays. Zeppelins. One dropped a bomb—"dud" it was—in John Loder's garden; the old man had to be restrained from running out to seize it with his own hands.
John Loder was born in Woodbridge, August 3, 1825. His grandfather, Robert Loder, founded the family bookselling and printing business, which continues to-day at the old shop on the Thoroughfare under John Loder's son, Morton Loder. In the days before the railway came through, Woodbridge was the commercial centre for a large section of East Suffolk; it was a busy port, and the quays41 were crowded with shipping42. But when transportation by rail became swift and cheap and the provinces began to deal with London merchants, the little town's prosperity suffered a sad decline. Many of the old Woodbridge shops, of several generations' standing43, have had to yield to local branches of the great London "stores." In John Loder's boyhood the book business was at its best. Woodbridgians were great readers, and such prodigal44 customers as FitzGerald did much to keep the ledgers45 healthy. John left school at thirteen or so, to learn the trade, and became the traditional printer's devil. He remembered Bernard Barton, the quiet, genial46, brown-eyed poet, coming down the street from Alexander's Bank (where he was employed for forty years) with a large pile of banknotes to be renumbered. The poet sat perched on a high stool watching young Loder and his superior do the work. And at noon Mr. Barton sent out to the Royal Oak Tavern47 near by for a basket of buns and a jug48 of stout49 to refresh printer and devil at their work.
Bernard Barton died in 1849, and was kid to rest in the little Friends' burying ground in Turn Lane. That quiet acre will repay the visitor's half-hour tribute to old mortality. My grandmother was buried there, one snowy day in January, 1912, and I remember how old John Loder came forward to the grave, bareheaded and leaning on his stick, to drop a bunch of fresh violets on the coffin50.
Many a time I have sat in the quiet, walled-in garden of Burkitt House—that sweet plot of colour and fragrance51 so pleasantly commemorated52 by Mr. Mosher in his preface to "In Praise of Old Gardens"—and heard dear old John Loder tell stories of his youth. I remember the verse of Herrick he used to repeat, pointing round his little retreat with a well-stained pipestem:
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds:
For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
Loder's memory used to go back to times that seem almost fabulous53 now. He had known quite well an English soldier who was on guard over Boney at St. Helena—in fact, he once published in some newspaper this man's observations upon the fallen emperor, but I have not been able to trace the piece. He had been in Paris before the troubles of '48. I believe he served some sort of bookselling apprenticeship54 on Paternoster Row; at any rate, he used to be in touch with the London book trade as a young man, and made the acquaintance of Bernard Quaritch, one of the world's most famous booksellers. I remember his lamenting56 that FitzGerald had not dumped the two hundred unsold booklets of Omar upon his counter instead of Quaritch's in 1859. The story goes that they were offered by Quaritch for a penny apiece.
I always used to steer57 him onto the subject of FitzGerald sooner or later, and it was interesting to hear him tell how many princes of the literary world had come to his shop or had corresponded with him owing to his knowledge of E.F.G. Arme Thackeray gave him a beautiful portrait of herself in return for some courtesy he showed her. Robert H. Groome, the archdeacon of Suffolk, and his brilliant son, Francis Hindes Groome, the "Tarno Rye" (who wrote "Two Suffolk Friends" and was said by Watts59 Dunton to have known far more about the gipsies than Borrow) were among his correspondents.[D] John Hay, Elihu Vedder, Aldis Wright, Canon Ainger, Thomas B. Mosher, Clement60 Shorter, Dewitt Miller61, Edward Clodd, Leon Vincent—such men as these wrote or came to John Loder when they wanted special news about FitzGerald. FitzGerald had given him a great many curios and personal treasures: Mr. Loder never offered these for sale at any price (anything connected with FitzGerald was sacred to him) but if any one happened along who seemed able to appreciate them he would give them away with delight. He gave to me FitzGerald's old musical scrapbook, which he had treasured for over thirty years. This scrapbook, in perfect condition, contains very beautiful engravings, prints, and drawings of the famous composers, musicians, and operatic stars of whom Fitz was enivré as a young man. Among them are a great many drawings of Handel; FitzGerald, like Samuel Butler, was an enthusiastic Handelian. The pictures are annotated62 by E.F.G. and there are also two drawings of Beethoven traced by Thackeray. This scrapbook was compiled by FitzGerald when he and Thackeray were living together in London, visiting the Cave of Harmony and revelling63 in the dear delights of young intellectual companionship. Under a drawing of the famous Braham, dated 1831, Fitz has written: "As I saw and heard him many nights in the Pit of Covent Garden, in company with W.M. Thackeray, whom I was staying with at the Bedford Coffee House."
[D]
No lover of FitzGerald can afford not to own that exquisite64 tributary65 volume "Edward FitzGerald: An Aftermath," by Francis Hindes Groome, which Mr. Mosher published in 1902. It tells a great deal about Woodbridge, and is annotated by John Loder. Mr. Mosher was eager to include Loder's portrait in it, but the old man's modesty66 was always as great as his generosity67: he would not consent.
When I tried, haltingly, to express my thanks for such a gift, the old man said "That's nothing! That's nothing! It'll help to keep you out of mischief68. Much better to give 'em away before it's too late!" And he followed it with Canon Ainger's two volumes of Lamb's letters, which Ainger had given him.
Through his long life John Loder lived quietly in Woodbridge, eager and merry in his shop, a great reader, always delighted when any one came in who was qualified69 to discuss the literature which interested him. He and FitzGerald had long cracks together and perhaps Loder may have accompanied the Woodbridge Omar on some of those trips down the Deben on the Scandal or the Meum and Tuum (the Mum and Tum as Posh, Fitz's sailing master, called her). He played a prominent part in the life of the town, became a Justice of the Peace, and sat regularly on the bench until he was nearly ninety. As he entered upon the years of old age, came a delightful surprise. An old friend of his in the publishing business, whom he had known long before in London, died and left him a handsome legacy70 by will. Thus his last years were spared from anxiety and he was able to continue his unobtrusive and quiet generosities71 which had always been his secret delight.
Looking over the preceding paragraphs I am ashamed to see how pale and mumbling72 a tribute they are to this fine spirit. Could I but put him before you as he was in those last days! I used to go up to Burkitt House to see him: in summer we would sit in the little arbour in the garden, or in winter by the fire in his dining room. He would talk and I would ask him questions; now and then he would get up to pull down a book, or to lead me into his bedroom to see some special treasure. He used to sit in his shirtsleeves, very close to the fire, with his shoe laces untied73. In summer he would toddle74 about in his shaggy blue suit, with a tweed cap over one ear, his grizzled beard and moustache well stained by much smoking, his eyes as bright and his tongue as brisk as ever. Every warm morning would see him down on the river wall; stumping75 over Market Hill and down Church Street with his stout oak stick, hailing every child he met on the pavement. His pocket was generally full of peppermints76, and the youngsters knew well which pocket it was. His long life was a series of original and graceful77 kindnesses, always to those who needed them most and had no reason to expect them. No recluse he, no fine scholar, no polished litterateur, but a hard-headed, soft-hearted human man of the sturdy old Suffolk breed. Sometimes I think he was, in his own way, just as great a man as the "Old Fitz," whom he loved and reverenced78.
He died on November 7, 1917, aged18 ninety-two years three months and four days. He was extraordinarily79 sturdy until nearly ninety—he went in bathing in the surf at Felixstowe on his eighty-sixth birthday. Perhaps the sincerest tribute I can pay him is these lines which I copy from my journal, dated July 16, 1913:
"Went up to have tea with old John Loder, and said a cunningly veiled Good-bye to him. I doubt if I shall see him again, the dear old man. I think he felt so, too, for when he came to the door with me, instead of his usual remark about 'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest,' he said, 'Farewell to thee' in a more sober manner than his wont—and I left with an armful of books which he had given me 'to keep me out of mischief.' We had a good talk after tea—he told me about the adventures of his brothers, one of whom went out to New Zealand. He uses the most delightful brisk phrases in his talk, smiling away to himself and wrinkling up his forehead, which can only be distinguished80 from his smooth bald pate55 by its charming corrugation of parallel furrows81. He took me into his den16 while he rummaged82 through his books to find some which would be acceptable to me—'May as well give 'em away before it's too late, ye know'—and then he settled back in his easy chair to puff83 at a pipe. I must note down one of his phrases which tickled84 me—he has such a knack85 for the proverbial and the epigrammatic. 'He's cut his cloth, he can wear his breeches,' he said of a certain scapegrace. He chuckled86 over the Suffolk phrase 'a chance child,' for a bastard87 (alluding to one such of his acquaintance in old days). He constantly speaks of things he wants to do 'before I tarn58 my toes up to the daisies.' He told me old tales of Woodbridge in the time of the Napoleonic wars when there was a garrison88 of 5,000 soldiers quartered here—this was one of the regions in which an attack by Boney was greatly feared. He says that the Suffolk phrase 'rafty weather' (meaning mist or fog) originates from that time, as being weather suitable for the French to make a surprise attack by rafts or flat-boats.
"He chuckled over the reminiscence that he was once a great hand at writing obituary89 notices for the local paper. 'Weep, weep for him who cried for us,' was the first line of his epitaph upon a former Woodbridge town crier! I was thinking that it would be hard to do him justice when the time comes to write his. May he have a swift and painless end such as his genial spirit deserves, and not linger on into a twilight90 life with failing senses. When his memory and his pipe and his books begin to fail him, when those keen old eyes grow dim and he can no longer go to sniff91 the salt air on the river-wall—then may the quick and quiet ferryman take dear old John Loder to the shadow land."
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1
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inebriety
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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nostrils
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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quencher
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| 淬火，骤冷； 猝灭 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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51
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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52
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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annotated
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| v.注解，注释( annotate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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65
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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66
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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67
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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68
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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69
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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70
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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71
generosities
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| n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 )；大方；宽容；慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
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72
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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73
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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74
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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75
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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76
peppermints
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| n.薄荷( peppermint的名词复数 )；薄荷糖 | |
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77
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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78
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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79
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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80
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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81
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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83
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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84
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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85
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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86
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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88
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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89
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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90
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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91
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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