FITZGERALD'S BIRTHPLACE.

Press, Volume L, Issue 14987, 6 June 1914, Page 9

FITZGERALD'S BIRTHPLACE.

A GREAT WRITER HONOURED IN HIS OWN COUNTRY.

(from a correspondent.) LONDON, April 22. , Not always, 1 have just discovered, is a prophet without honour in his own country. Perhaps you may say that this is nothing new, and instanco Shakespeare and Stratford-on-Avon, but'after all there is littlo merit in honouring, or exploiting, a memory that is a veritublo gold-mine, and doubt has frequently been raised if, apart from tbo fact that Shakespeare spells pounds to Stratford, there is any real enthusiasm over tho Bard, or the "drunken, illiterate clown," as tho late Sir Edwin Diirning Lawrence so prettily called him; in the town of his birth.'

But the attitude of Woodbridge towards Edward Fitzgerald is wholly different. In that little Suffolk town, where tho translator -of "Omar Khayyam" first saw tho light and spent the greater part of his days, his name is held in real affection, and there are few people there who cannot tell a visitor all about him. This district of East Anglia is rich in its association with the groat men of tho past. Only twelve miles to the south of "Woodbridge lies the Constable country, whero the painter chose the scenes that he immortalised—often exchanging the products of his art for a receipted tradesman's account! But Fitzgerald's pen is. far better known there thau Constable's brush, and many of the humble folk whose cottages dot tho pleasant countryside, cherish as their most precious possession a copy of "Omar," though, so far as their understanding of Fitzgerald's masterpiece is concerned, it might as -well bo printed in the original Persian.

_The recent discovery of four previously unpublished "Omar" quatrains led mc to take advantage of the recent Easter holiday to pay a first visit to Fitzgerald's birthplace. Woodbridgo, a "sleepy," typically rural and typically boautifuil town of some four thousand inhabitants, is .slightly over two hours' journey from London. Since his death many buildings in the village have become a Mecca for other literary pilgrims. A tablet on tho uninteresting looking stone house on the market hill records that the poet lodged there, while a winding lane will lead you past to Boulge Churchyard, where he lies under the shade ot a rose tree —grown from the very n,su that blossoms above Omar Khayyam's resting place in far away Naishapur. On your way you will pass Farlingaye Hall —that most beautiful of old Suffolk farmhouses, which was tenanted by Fitzgerald for seven years. Nearby is Bredfield House,

the poet's birthplace, and Little Grange, his last home.. Fortunately for the traveller whe loves his "Omar," thero remains alive;'. in Woodbridge a. life-long friend of Fitzgerald in tho person of John Loder, a local magistrate and man of substance, who is seldom weary of talking of tho poet. Incidontally Loder, who is S3, is one of tho most wonderful old, men living, and celebrated his 86th. birthday by going lor a swim in tho North Sea. "I was only fourteen when first I met Fitzgerald." ho said. "He used to walk over from" Boulgo Cottage with his friend, Mr Crablie —tho son of tho poet —and I would listen to him talking to my father. As I grow up wo becaiito moro and moro intimate, and latterly I visited him three times a week and moro. Fitzgerald never saw newspapers, and it was through mo that ho learned of tho doings of tho outsido world. One day I read in tho Press that Thackeray was dead. In the . evening I wont down to tho 'QuarterDeck,' near tho almshouses; which was his favourito walk. I told him that his friend had passed away, and then left _ him to his thoughts, for it was obvious-' that the sad tidings came as a great blow to him. Tall nnd dark, Fitzgerald resembled a Spanish grandee as ho paced along, wearing a red boating cloak. Perhaps he had Spanish blood in him—it was a fancy of mine that ho • was descended from someono who was wrecked in tho Armada. "Ho was comfortably situated. He wrote entirely for his own gratification, and ho did not want to be bothered by tbe outside world. His work was littlo appreciated whilo ho was alive. I think ho was disappointed with the reception of tho few copies ho had printed of. the 'Omar.' Indeed, he never breathed the word 'Omar' to mc. For all that ho was always writing, and used temporarily to blind himself with overwork. ' Ho was a most simple-living man, and ate practically nothing. Indeed, an occasional bun was enough to keep that brilliant brain active Every Christmas the master of Trinity Collego sent him somo Trinity al©.-and he would get- some oysters in that we might havo a littlo supper."