Transcribed from the [1920] J. M. Dent & Sons edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org

                         [Picture: George Borrow]

                          THE WAYFARER’S LIBRARY

                                * * * * *





                                   The
                                 LIFE OF
                              GEORGE BORROW


                            Clement K. Shorter

                      [Picture: Decorative graphic]

                                * * * * *

                LONDON & TORONTO: J. M. DENT & SONS, Ltd.
                       NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.

                                    TO
                            AUGUSTINE BIRRELL
                    A FRIEND OF LONG YEARS AND A TRUE
                          LOVER OF GEORGE BORROW
                                 C. K. S.




INTRODUCTION


THERE is a substantial biography of George Borrow in two large volumes by
the late Dr. Knapp, an American professor who gave many years of devotion
to the subject.  But I have had the singular advantage over Dr. Knapp in
that all the private letters and personal papers left by Borrow to his
step-daughter and heir, Henrietta MacOubrey, have come into my hands.
These include Borrow’s letters to his wife and step-daughter, many of
which will be found scattered through this biography.  This book was
first published under the title of _George Borrow and his Circle_, but I
am grateful to a publisher for sending it forth once more in a form which
makes it available to a larger public.  Certain new letters from Borrow
to his wife which have been found since the first appearance of this book
have been added, together with other hitherto unprinted documents, making
this issue of _The Life of George Borrow_ of much more value than its
predecessor.

                                                       CLEMENT K. SHORTER.

_Dec._ 9_th_, 1919.




CONTENTS

CHAP.                                                             PAGE
INTRODUCTION                                                         3
          I.  CAPTAIN BORROW OF THE WEST NORFOLK MILITIA             7
         II.  BORROW’S MOTHER                                       14
        III.  JOHN THOMAS BORROW                                    17
         IV.  A WANDERING CHILDHOOD                                 25
          V.  THE GURNEYS AND THE TAYLORS OF NORWICH                36
         VI.  AT THE NORWICH GRAMMAR SCHOOL                         44
        VII.  IN A LAWYER’S OFFICE                                  50
       VIII.  AN OLD-TIME PUBLISHER                                 55
         IX.  “FAUSTUS” AND “ROMANTIC BALLADS”                      60
          X.  “CELEBRATED TRIALS” AND JOHN THURTELL                 67
         XI.  BORROW AND THE FANCY                                  74
        XII.  EIGHT YEARS OF VAGABONDAGE                            78
       XIII.  SIR JOHN BOWRING                                      81
        XIV.  BORROW AND THE BIBLE SOCIETY                          90
         XV.  ST. PETERSBURG AND JOHN P. HASFELD                    97
        XVI.  THE MANCHU BIBLE—“TARGUM”—“THE TALISMAN”             102
       XVII.  THREE VISITS TO SPAIN                                110
      XVIII.  BORROW’S SPANISH CIRCLE                              130
        XIX.  MARY BORROW                                          140
         XX.  “THE CHILDREN OF THE OPEN AIR”                       147
        XXI.  “THE BIBLE IN SPAIN”                                 153
       XXII.  RICHARD FORD                                         160
      XXIII.  IN EASTERN EUROPE                                    168
       XXIV.  “LAVENGRO”                                           183
        XXV.  A VISIT TO CORNISH KINSMEN                           191
       XXVI.  IN THE ISLE OF MAN                                   195
      XXVII.  OULTON BROAD AND YARMOUTH                            199
     XXVIII.  IN SCOTLAND AND IRELAND                              207
       XXIX.  “THE ROMANY RYE”                                     222
        XXX.  EDWARD FITZGERALD                                    227
       XXXI.  “WILD WALES”                                         235
      XXXII.  LIFE IN LONDON                                       244
     XXXIII.  FRIENDS OF LATER YEARS                               250
      XXXIV.  HENRIETTA CLARKE                                     255
       XXXV.  THE AFTERMATH                                        268
INDEX                                                              273

CHAPTER I
CAPTAIN BORROW OF THE WEST NORFOLK MILITIA


GEORGE HENRY BORROW was born at Dumpling Green near East Dereham,
Norfolk, on the 5th of July, 1803.  It pleased him to state on many an
occasion that he was born at East Dereham.

    On an evening of July, in the year 18—, at East D—, a beautiful
    little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first saw the
    light,

he writes in the opening lines of _Lavengro_, using almost the identical
phraseology that we find in the opening lines of Goethe’s _Wahrheit und
Dichtung_.  Here is a later memory of Dereham from _Lavengro_:

    What it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have
    elapsed since I last trod its streets.  It will scarcely have
    improved, for how could it be better than it was?  I love to think on
    thee, pretty, quiet D—, thou pattern of an English country town, with
    thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest
    market-place, with their old-fashioned houses, with here and there a
    roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion,
    where resided the Lady Bountiful—she, the generous and kind, who
    loved to visit the sick, leaning on her golden-headed cane, while the
    sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind.  Pretty,
    quiet D—, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal
    remains of England’s sweetest and most pious bard.

Then follows an exquisite eulogy of the poet Cowper, which readers of
_Lavengro_ know full well.  Three years before Borrow was born William
Cowper died in this very town, leaving behind him so rich a legacy of
poetry and of prose, and moreover so fragrant a memory of a life in which
humour and pathos played an equal part.  It was no small thing for a
youth who aspired to any kind of renown to be born in the neighbourhood
of the last resting-place of the author of _The Task_.

Yet Borrow was not actually born at East Dereham, but a mile and a half
away, at the little hamlet of Dumpling Green, in what was then a glorious
wilderness of common and furze bush, but is now a quiet landscape of
fields and hedges.  You will find the home in which the author of
_Lavengro_ first saw the light without much difficulty.  It is a
fair-sized farmhouse, with a long low frontage separated from the road by
a considerable strip of garden.  It suggests a prosperous yeoman class,
and I have known farm-houses in East Anglia not one whit larger dignified
by the name of “hall.”  Nearly opposite is a pond.  The trim hedges are a
delight to us to-day, but you must cast your mind back to a century ago
when they were entirely absent.  The house belonged to George Borrow’s
maternal grandfather, Samuel Perfrement, who farmed the adjacent land at
this time.  Samuel and Mary Perfrement had eight children, the third of
whom, Ann, was born in 1772.

In February, 1793, Ann Perfrement, aged twenty-one, married Thomas
Borrow, aged thirty-five, in the Parish Church of East Dereham, and of
the two children that were born to them George Henry Borrow was the
younger.  Thomas Borrow was the son of one John Borrow of St. Cleer in
Cornwall, who died before this child was born, and is described by his
grandson as the scion “of an ancient but reduced Cornish family, tracing
descent from the de Burghs, and entitled to carry their arms.”

When Thomas Borrow was born the family were nothing more than small
farmers, and Thomas Borrow and his brothers were working on the land in
the intervals of attending the parish school.  At the age of eighteen
Thomas was apprenticed to a maltster at Liskeard, and about this time he
joined the local Militia.  Tradition has it that his career as a maltster
was cut short by his knocking his master down in a scrimmage.  The victor
fled from the scene of his prowess, and enlisted as a private soldier in
the Coldstream Guards.  This was in 1783, and in 1792 he was transferred
to the West Norfolk Militia; hence his appearance at East Dereham, where,
now a serjeant, his occupations for many a year were recruiting and
drilling.  It is recorded that at a theatrical performance at East
Dereham he first saw, presumably on the stage of the county-hall, his
future wife—Ann Perfrement.  She was, it seems, engaged in a minor part
in a travelling company, not, we may assume, altogether with the sanction
of her father, who, in spite of his inheritance of French blood,
doubtless shared the then very strong English prejudice against the
stage.  However, Ann was one of eight children, and had, as we shall find
in after years, no inconsiderable strength of character, and so may well
at twenty years of age have decided upon a career for herself.  In any
case we need not press too hard the Cornish and French origin of George
Borrow to explain his wandering tendencies, nor need we wonder at the
suggestion of Nathaniel Hawthorne, that he was “supposed to be of gypsy
descent by the mother’s side.”  You have only to think of the father,
whose work carried him from time to time to every corner of England,
Scotland, and Ireland, and of the mother with her reminiscence of life in
a travelling theatrical company, to explain in no small measure the
glorious vagabondage of George Borrow.

Behold then Thomas Borrow and Ann Perfrement as man and wife, he being
thirty-five years of age, she twenty-one.  A roving, restless life was in
front of the pair for many a day, the West Norfolk Militia being
stationed in some eight or nine separate towns within the interval of ten
years between Thomas Borrow’s marriage and his second son’s birth.  The
first child, John Thomas Borrow, was born on the 15th April, 1801.  The
second son, George Henry Borrow, the subject of this memoir, was born in
his grandfather’s house at Dumpling Green, East Dereham, his mother
having found a natural refuge with her father while her husband was
busily recruiting in Norfolk.  The two children passed with their parents
from place to place, and in 1809 we find them once again in East Dereham.
From his son’s two books, _Lavengro_ and _Wild Wales_, we can trace the
father’s later wanderings until his final retirement to Norwich on a
pension.  In 1810 the family were at Norman Cross in Huntingdonshire,
when Captain Borrow had to assist in guarding the French prisoners of
war; for it was the stirring epoch of the Napoleonic conflict, and within
the temporary prison “six thousand French and other foreigners, followers
of the Grand Corsican, were now immured.”

    What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their blank
    blind walls, without windows, or grating, and their slanting roofs,
    out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been removed,
    would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick
    eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height.
    Ah! there was much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs,
    doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely
    France.  Much had the poor inmates to endure, and much to complain
    of, to the disgrace of England be it said—of England, in general so
    kind and bountiful.  Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I
    have seen the very hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy
    entertainment even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a
    captive; and such, alas! was the fare in those casernes.

But here we have only to do with Thomas Borrow, of whom we get many a
quaint glimpse in _Lavengro_, our first and our last being concerned with
him in the one quality that his son seems to have inherited, as the
associate of a prize-fighter—Big Ben Brain.  Borrow records in his
opening chapter that Ben Brain and his father met in Hyde Park probably
in 1790, and that after an hour’s conflict “the champions shook hands and
retired, each having experienced quite enough of the other’s prowess.”
Borrow further relates that four months afterwards Brain “died in the
arms of my father, who read to him the Bible in his last moments.”  More
than once in his after years the old soldier seems to have had a shy
pride in that early conflict, although the piety which seems to have come
to him with the responsibilities of wife and children led him to count
any recalling of the episode as a “temptation.”  When Borrow was about
thirteen years of age, he overheard his father and mother discussing
their two boys, the elder being the father’s favourite and George the
mother’s:

    “I will hear nothing against my first-born,” said my father, “even in
    the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of
    myself in my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben, though
    perhaps not quite so tall or strong built.  As for the other, God
    bless the child!  I love him, I’m sure; but I must be blind not to
    see the difference between him and his brother.  Why, he has neither
    my hair nor my eyes; and then his countenance! why, ’tis absolutely
    swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but
    I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for
    the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his
    ways and manners!—I confess I do not like them, and that they give me
    no little uneasiness.” {11a}

Borrow throughout his narrative refers to his father as “a man of
excellent common sense,” and he quotes the opinion of William Taylor, who
had rather a bad reputation as a “freethinker” with all the church-going
citizens of Norwich, with no little pride.  Borrow is of course the
“young man” of the dialogue.  He was then eighteen years of age:

    “Not so, not so,” said the young man eagerly; “before I knew you I
    knew nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father’s
    health has been very much broken, and he requires attention; his
    spirits also have become low, which, to tell you the truth, he
    attributes to my misconduct.  He says that I have imbibed all kinds
    of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in all probability,
    prove my ruin, both here and hereafter; which—which—”

    “Ah!  I understand,” said the elder, with another calm whiff.  “I
    have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is
    something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would
    fain have cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not
    been reciprocated.  I met him the other day, up the road, with his
    cane and dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation.”

    “He has certain opinions of his own,” said the youth, “which are
    widely different from those which he has heard that you profess.”

    “I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,” said the
    elderly individual.  “I hold certain opinions; but I should not
    respect an individual the more for adopting them.  All I wish for is
    tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise.  I have always loved
    the truth, and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my
    misfortune.” {11b}

When Borrow is twenty years of age we have another glimpse of father and
son, the father in his last illness, the son eager as usual to draw out
his parent upon the one subject that appeals to his adventurous spirit,
“I should like to know something about Big Ben,” he says:

    “You are a strange lad,” said my father; “and though of late I have
    begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there
    is still much about you that I do not understand.  Why do you bring
    up that name?  Don’t you know that it is one of my temptations?  You
    wish to know something about him?  Well, I will oblige you this once,
    and then farewell to such vanities—something about him.  I will tell
    you—his—skin when he flung off his clothes—and he had a particular
    knack in doing so—his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back
    for combat; and when he fought he stood, so if I remember right—his
    skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad.  Oh me!  I wish
    my elder son was here!”

Concerning the career of Borrow’s father there seem to be no documents
other than one contained in _Lavengro_, yet no _Life of Borrow_ can
possibly be complete that does not draw boldly upon the son’s priceless
tributes.  And so we come now to the last scene in the career of the
elder Borrow—his death-bed—which is also the last page of the first
volume of _Lavengro_.  George Borrow’s brother has arrived from abroad.
The little house in Willow Lane, Norwich, contained the mother and her
two sons sorrowfully awaiting the end, which came on 28th February, 1824.

    At the dead hour of night—it might be about two—I was awakened from
    sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in
    which I slept.  I knew the cry—it was the cry of my mother; and I
    also knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the
    moment paralysed.  Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay
    motionless—the stupidity of horror was upon me.  A third time, and it
    was then that, by a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared
    to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs.  My mother
    was running wildly about the room; she had awoke and found my father
    senseless in the bed by her side.  I essayed to raise him, and after
    a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture.  My
    brother now rushed in, and, snatching up a light that was burning, he
    held it to my father’s face.  “The surgeon! the surgeon!” he cried;
    then, dropping the light, he ran out of the room, followed by my
    mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father;
    the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total
    darkness reigned in the room.  The form pressed heavily against my
    bosom; at last methought it moved.  Yes, I was right; there was a
    heaving of the breast, and then a gasping.  Were those words which I
    heard?  Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then
    audible.  The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes.
    I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before.
    It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to
    support my dying father.  There was a pause; again my father spoke: I
    heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden Serjeant,
    and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was
    much on his lips, the name of —; but this is a solemn moment!  There
    was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was
    mistaken—my father moved, and revived for a moment; he supported
    himself in bed without my assistance.  I make no doubt that for a
    moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his
    hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly—it was the name of
    Christ.  With that name upon his lips the brave old soldier sank back
    upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his
    soul.

Did Borrow’s father ever really fight Big Ben Brain or Bryan in Hyde
Park, or is it all a fantasy of the artist’s imagining?  We shall never
know.  Borrow called his _Lavengro_ “An Autobiography” at one stage of
its inception, although he wished to repudiate the autobiographical
nature of his story at another.  Dr. Knapp in his anxiety to prove that
Borrow wrote his own memoirs in _Lavengro_ and _Romany Rye_ tells us that
he had no creative faculty—an absurd proposition.  But I think we may
accept the contest between Ben Brain and Thomas Borrow, and what a
revelation of heredity that impressive death-bed scene may be counted.
Borrow on one occasion in later life declared that his favourite books
were the Bible and the Newgate Calendar.  We know that he specialised on
the Bible and Prize-Fighting in no ordinary fashion—and here we see his
father on his death-bed struggling between the religious sentiments of
his maturity and the one great worldly escapade of his early manhood.




CHAPTER II
BORROW’S MOTHER


THROUGHOUT his whole life George Borrow adored his mother, who seems to
have developed into a woman of great strength of character far remote
from the pretty play-actor who won the heart of a young soldier at East
Dereham in the last years of the eighteenth century.  We would gladly
know something of the early years of Ann Perfrement.  Her father was a
farmer, whose farm at Dumpling Green we have already described.  He did
not, however, “farm his own little estate” as Borrow declared.  The
grandfather—a French Protestant—came, if we are to believe Borrow, from
Caen in Normandy after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, but there
is no documentary evidence to support the contention.  However, the story
of the Huguenot immigration into England is clearly bound up with Norwich
and the adjacent district.  And so we may well take the name of
“Perfrement” as conclusive evidence of a French origin, and reject as
utterly untenable the not unnatural suggestion of Nathaniel Hawthorne,
that Borrow’s mother was “of gypsy descent.”  She was one of the eight
children of Samuel and Mary Perfrement, all of whom seem to have devoted
their lives to East Anglia.  We owe to Dr. Knapp’s edition of _Lavengro_
one exquisite glimpse of Ann’s girlhood that is not in any other issue of
the book.  Ann’s elder sister, curious to know if she was ever to be
married, falls in with the current superstition that she must wash her
linen and “watch” it drying before the fire between eleven and twelve at
night.  Ann Perfrement was ten years old at the time.  The two girls
walked over to East Dereham, purchased the necessary garment, washed it
in the pool near the house that may still be seen, and watched and
watched.  Suddenly when the clock struck twelve they heard, or thought
they heard, a footstep on the path, the wind howled, and the elder sister
sprang to the door, locked and bolted it, and then fell in convulsions on
the floor.  The superstition, which Borrow seems to have told his mother
had a Danish origin, is common enough in Ireland and in Celtic lands.  It
could scarcely have been thus rehearsed by two Norfolk children had they
not had the blood of a more imaginative race in their veins.  In addition
to this we find more than one effective glimpse of Borrow’s mother in
_Lavengro_.  We have already noted the episode in which she takes the
side of her younger boy against her husband, with whom John was the
favourite.  We meet her again when after his father’s death George had
shouldered his knapsack and made his way to London to seek his fortune by
literature.  His elder brother had remained at home, determined upon
being a painter, but joined George in London, leaving the widowed mother
momentarily alone in Norwich.

    “And how are things going on at home?” said I to my brother, after we
    had kissed and embraced.  “How is my mother, and how is the dog?”

    “My mother, thank God, is tolerably well,” said my brother, “but very
    much given to fits of crying.  As for the dog, he is not so well; but
    we will talk more of these matters anon,” said my brother, again
    glancing at the breakfast things.  “I am very hungry, as you may
    suppose, after having travelled all night.”

    Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the
    duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome—I may say more
    than welcome; and when the rage of my brother’s hunger was somewhat
    abated, we recommenced talking about the matters of our little
    family, and my brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her
    fits of crying, but said that of late the said fits of crying had
    much diminished, and she appeared to be taking comfort; and, if I am
    not much mistaken, my brother told me that my mother had of late the
    prayer-book frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible. {15}

Ann Borrow lived in Willow Lane, Norwich, for thirty-three years.  That
Borrow was a devoted husband these pages will show.  He was also a
devoted son.  When he had made a prosperous marriage he tried hard to
persuade his mother to live with him at Oulton, but all in vain.  She had
the wisdom to see that such an arrangement is rarely conducive to a son’s
domestic happiness.  She continued to live in the little cottage made
sacred by many associations until almost the end of her days.  Here she
had lived in earlier years with her husband and her two ambitious boys,
and in Norwich, doubtless, she had made her own friendships, although of
these no record remains.  The cottage still stands in its modest court,
and now serves the worthy purpose of a museum for Borrow relics.  In
Borrow’s day it was the property of Thomas King, a carpenter.  You enter
from Willow Lane through a covered passage into what was then known as
King’s Court.  Here the little house faces you, and you meet it with a
peculiarly agreeable sensation, recalling more than one incident in
_Lavengro_ that transpired there.  Thomas King, the carpenter, was in
direct descent in the maternal line from the family of Parker, which gave
to Norwich one of its most distinguished sons in the famous Archbishop of
Queen Elizabeth’s day.  He extended his business as carpenter
sufficiently to die a prosperous builder.  Of his two sons one, also
named Thomas, became physician to Prince Talleyrand, and married a sister
of John Stuart Mill.  All this by the way, but there is little more to
record of Borrow’s mother apart from the letters addressed to her by her
son, which occur in their due place in these records.  Yet one little
memorandum among my papers which bears Mrs. Borrow’s signature may well
find place here:

    In the year 1797 I was at Canterbury.  One night at about one o’clock
    Sir Robert Laurie and Captain Treve came to our lodgings and tapped
    at our bedroom door, and told my husband to get up, and get the men
    under arms without beat of drum as soon as possible, for that there
    was a mutiny at the Nore.  My husband did so, and in less than two
    hours they had marched out of town towards Sheerness without making
    any noise.  They had to break open the store-house in order to get
    provender, because the Quartermaster, Serjeant Rowe, was out of the
    way.  The Dragoon Guards at that time at Canterbury were in a state
    of mutiny.  ANN BORROW.




CHAPTER III
JOHN THOMAS BORROW


JOHN THOMAS BORROW was born two years before his younger brother, that
is, on the 15th of April, 1801.  His father, then Serjeant Borrow, was
wandering from town to town, and it is not known where his elder son
first saw the light.  John Borrow’s nature was cast in a somewhat
different mould from that of his brother.  He was his father’s pride.
Serjeant Borrow could not understand George with his extraordinary taste
for the society of queer people—the wild Irish and the ragged Romanies.
John had far more of the normal in his being.  Borrow gives us in
_Lavengro_ our earliest glimpse of his brother:

    He was a beautiful child; one of those occasionally seen in England,
    and in England alone; a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light
    chestnut hair; it was not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in
    which, by the by, there is generally a cast of loutishness and
    stupidity; it partook, to a certain extent, of the Celtic character,
    particularly in the fire and vivacity which illumined it; his face
    was the mirror of his mind; perhaps no disposition more amiable was
    ever found amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no
    inconsiderable portion of high and dauntless spirit.  So great was
    his beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer
    classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order to
    look at and bless his lovely face.  At the age of three months an
    attempt was made to snatch him from his mother’s arms in the streets
    of London, at the moment she was about to enter a coach; indeed, his
    appearance seemed to operate so powerfully upon every person who
    beheld him, that my parents were under continual apprehension of
    losing him; his beauty, however, was perhaps surpassed by the
    quickness of his parts.  He mastered his letters in a few hours, and
    in a day or two could decipher the names of people on the doors of
    houses and over the shop-windows.

John received his early education at the Norwich Grammar School, while
the younger brother was kept under the paternal wing.  Father and mother,
with their younger boy George, were always on the move, passing from
county to county and from country to country, as Serjeant Borrow, soon to
be Captain, attended to his duties of drilling and recruiting, now in
England, now in Scotland, now in Ireland.  We are given a fascinating
glimpse of John Borrow in _Lavengro_ by way of a conversation between Mr.
and Mrs. Borrow over the education of their children.  It was agreed that
while the family were in Edinburgh the boys should be sent to the High
School, and so at the historic school that Sir Walter Scott had attended
a generation before the two boys were placed, John being removed from the
Norwich Grammar School for the purpose.  Among his many prejudices of
after years Borrow’s dislike of Scott was perhaps the most regrettable,
otherwise he would have gloried in the fact that their childhood had had
one remarkable point in common.  Each boy took part in the feuds between
the Old Town and the New Town.  Exactly as Scott records his prowess at
“the manning of the Cowgate Port,” and the combats maintained with great
vigour, “with stones, and sticks, and fisticuffs,” as set forth in the
first volume of Lockhart, so we have not dissimilar feats set down in
_Lavengro_.  Side by side also with the story of “Green-Breeks,” which
stands out in Scott’s narrative of his school combats, we have the more
lurid account by Borrow of David Haggart.  Literary biography is made
more interesting by such episodes of likeness and of contrast.

We next find John Borrow in Ireland with his father, mother, and brother.
George is still a child, but he is precocious enough to be learning the
language, and thus laying the foundation of his interest in little-known
tongues.  John is now an ensign in his father’s regiment.  “Ah! he was a
sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to
become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable.”  Ensign
John tells his little brother how pleased he is to find himself, although
not yet sixteen years old, “a person in authority with many Englishmen
under me.  Oh! these last six weeks have passed like hours in heaven.”
That was in 1816, and we do not meet John again until five years later,
when we hear of him rushing into the water to save a drowning man, while
twenty others were bathing who might have rendered assistance.  Borrow
records once again his father’s satisfaction:

    “My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself, the day I took
    off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben,” said my father, on meeting
    his son, wet and dripping, immediately after his bold feat.  And who
    cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man—the stout old man?

In the interval the war had ended, and Napoleon had departed for St.
Helena.  Peace had led to the pensioning of militia officers, or reducing
to half-pay of the juniors.  The elder Borrow had settled in Norwich.
George was set to study at the Grammar School there, while his brother
worked in Old Crome’s studio, for here was a moment when Norwich had its
interesting Renaissance, and John Borrow was bent on being an artist.  He
had worked with Crome once before—during the brief interval that Napoleon
was at Elba—but now he set to in real earnest, and we have evidence of a
score of pictures by him that were catalogued in the exhibitions of the
Norwich Society of Artists between the years 1817 and 1824.  They include
one portrait of the artist’s father, and two of his brother George.  Old
Crome died in 1821, and then John went to London to study under Haydon.
Borrow declares that his brother had real taste for painting, and that
“if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from the pursuit,
he would have attained excellence, and left behind him some enduring
monument of his powers.”  “He lacked, however,” he tells us, “one thing,
the want of which is but too often fatal to the sons of genius, and
without which genius is little more than a splendid toy in the hands of
the possessor—perseverance, dogged perseverance.”  It is when he is thus
commenting on his brother’s characteristics that Borrow gives his own
fine if narrow eulogy of Old Crome.  John Borrow seems to have continued
his studies in London under Haydon for a year, and then to have gone to
Paris to copy pictures at the Louvre.  He mentions a particular copy that
he made of a celebrated picture by one of the Italian masters, for which
a Hungarian nobleman paid him well.  His three years’ absence was brought
to an abrupt termination by news of his father’s illness.  He returned to
Norwich in time to stand by that father’s bedside when he died.  The
elder Borrow died, as we have seen, in February, 1824.  The little home
in King’s Court was kept on for the mother, and as John was making money
by his pictures it was understood that he should stay with her.  On the
1st April, however, George started for London, carrying the manuscript of
_Romantic Ballads from the Danish_ to Sir Richard Phillips, the
publisher.  On the 29th of the same month he was joined by his brother
John.  John had come to London at his own expense, but in the interests
of the Norwich Town Council.  The council wanted a portrait of one of its
mayors for St. Andrew’s Hall—that Valhalla of Norwich municipal worthies
which still strikes the stranger as well-nigh unique in the city life of
England.  The municipality would fain have encouraged a fellow-citizen,
and John Borrow had been invited to paint the portrait.  “Why,” it was
asked, “should the money go into a stranger’s pocket and be spent in
London?”  John, however, felt diffident of his ability and declined, and
this in spite of the fact that the £100 offered for the portrait must
have been very tempting.  “What a pity it was,” he said, “that Crome was
dead.”  “Crome,” said the orator of the deputation that had called on
John Borrow,

    “Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man, in his way; he
    was good at painting landscapes and farm-houses, but he would not do
    in the present instance, were he alive.  He had no conception of the
    heroic, sir.  We want some person capable of representing our mayor
    standing under the Norman arch of the cathedral.” {20}

At the mention of the heroic John bethought himself of Haydon, and
suggested his name; hence his visit to London, and his proposed interview
with Haydon.  The two brothers went together to call upon the “painter of
the heroic” at his studio in Connaught Terrace, Hyde Park.  There was
some difficulty about their admission, and it turned out afterwards that
Haydon thought they might be duns, as he was very hard up at the time.
His eyes glistened at the mention of the £100.  “I am not very fond of
painting portraits,” he said, “but a mayor is a mayor, and there is
something grand in that idea of the Norman arch.”  And thus Mayor Hawkes
came to be painted by Benjamin Haydon, and his portrait may be found, not
without diligent search, among the many municipal worthies that figure on
the walls of that most picturesque old Hall in Norwich.  Here is Borrow’s
description of the painting:

    The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull’s head,
    black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs
    corresponding; a man six foot high at the least.  To his bull’s head,
    black hair, and body the painter had done justice; there was one
    point, however, in which the portrait did not correspond with the
    original—the legs were disproportionably short, the painter having
    substituted his own legs for those of the mayor.

John Borrow described Robert Hawkes to his brother as a person of many
qualifications:

    —big and portly, with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the
    possessor of an immense pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him
    say that he would at any time go three miles to hear any one sing
    _God save the King_; moreover, a giver of excellent dinners.  Such is
    our present mayor, who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a
    little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite.

Haydon, who makes no mention of the Borrows in his _Correspondence_ or
_Autobiography_, although there is one letter of George Borrow’s to him
in the former work, had been in jail for debt three years prior to the
visit of the Borrows.  He was then at work on his greatest success in
“the heroic”—_The Raising of Lazarus_, a canvas nineteen feet long by
fifteen high.  The debt was one to house decorators, for the artist had
ever large ideas.  The bailiff, he tells us, {21} was so agitated at the
sight of the painting of Lazarus in the studio that he cried out, “Oh, my
God!  Sir, I won’t arrest you.  Give me your word to meet me at twelve at
the attorney’s, and I’ll take it.”  In 1821 Haydon married, and a little
later we find him again “without a single shilling in the world—with a
large picture before me not half done.”  In April, 1822, he is arrested
at the instance of his colourman, “with whom I had dealt for fifteen
years,” and in November of the same year he is arrested again at the
instance of “a miserable apothecary.”  In April, 1823, we find him in the
King’s Bench Prison, from which he was released in July.  _The Raising of
Lazarus_ meanwhile had gone to pay his upholsterer £300, and his
_Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem_ had been sold for £240, although it had
brought him £3000 in receipts at exhibitions.  Clearly heroic pictures
did not pay, and Haydon here took up “the torment of portrait-painting”
as he called it.

    “Can you wonder,” he wrote in July, 1825, “that I nauseate portraits,
    except portraits of clever people.  I feel quite convinced that every
    portrait-painter, if there be purgatory, will leap at once to heaven,
    without this previous purification.”

Perhaps it was Mayor Hawkes who helped to inspire this feeling.  Yet the
hundred pounds that John Borrow was able to procure must have been a
godsend, for shortly before this we find him writing in his diary of the
desperation that caused him to sell his books.  “Books that had cost me
£20 I got only £3 for.  But it was better than starvation.”  Indeed it
was in April of this year that the very baker was “insolent,” and so in
May, 1824, as we learn from Tom Taylor’s _Life_, he produced “a
full-length portrait of Mr. Hawkes, a late Mayor of Norwich, painted for
St. Andrew’s Hall in that city.”  But I must leave Haydon’s troubled
career, which closes so far as the two brothers are concerned with a
letter from George to Haydon written the following year from 26 Bryanston
Street, Portman Square:

    DEAR SIR,—I should feel extremely obliged if you would allow me to
    sit to you as soon as possible.  I am going to the south of France in
    little better than a fortnight, and I would sooner lose a thousand
    pounds than not have the honour of appearing in the picture.—Yours
    sincerely,

                                                       GEORGE BORROW. {22}

As Borrow was at the time in a most impoverished condition, it is not
easy to believe that he would have wished to be taken at his word.  He
certainly had not a thousand pounds to lose.  But he did undoubtedly, as
we shall see, take that journey on foot through the south of France,
after the manner of an earlier vagabond of literature—Oliver Goldsmith.
Haydon was to be far too much taken up with his own troubles during the
coming months to think any more about the Borrows when he had once
completed the portrait of the mayor, which he had done by July of this
year.  Borrow’s letter to him is, however, an obvious outcome of a remark
dropped by the painter on the occasion of his one visit to his studio
when the following conversation took place:

    “I’ll stick to the heroic,” said the painter; “I now and then dabble
    in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so
    low; there is nothing like the heroic.  I am engaged here on a heroic
    picture,” said he, pointing to the canvas; “the subject is ‘Pharaoh
    dismissing Moses from Egypt,’ after the last plague—the death of the
    first-born,—it is not far advanced—that finished figure is Moses”:
    they both looked at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest
    peep.  The picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the
    Pharaoh was merely in outline; my eye was, of course, attracted by
    the finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the
    finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that
    there was something defective—something unsatisfactory in the figure.
    I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding what he had
    said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch.  “I intend this to
    be my best picture,” said the painter; “what I want now is a face for
    Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for Pharaoh.”  Here,
    chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he had scarcely
    taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open for some
    time.  “Who is this?” said he at last.  “Oh, this is my brother, I
    forgot to introduce him—.”

We wish that the acquaintance had extended further, but this was not to
be.  Borrow was soon to commence the wanderings which were to give him
much unsatisfactory fame, and the pair never met again.  Let us, however,
return to John Borrow, who accompanied Haydon to Norwich, leaving his
brother for some time longer to the tender mercies of Sir Richard
Phillips.  John, we judge, seems to have had plenty of shrewdness, and
was not without a sense of his own limitations.  A chance came to him of
commercial success in a distant land, and he seized that chance.  A
Norwich friend, Allday Kerrison, had gone out to Mexico, and writing from
Zacatecas in 1825 asked John to join him.  John accepted.  His salary in
the service of the Real del Monte Company was to be £300 per annum.  He
sailed for Mexico in 1826, having obtained from his Colonel, Lord Orford,
leave of absence for a year, it being understood that renewals of that
leave of absence might be granted.  He was entitled to half-pay as a
Lieutenant of the West Norfolk Militia, and this he settled upon his
mother during his absence.  His career in Mexico was a failure.  There
are many of his letters to his mother and brother extant which tell of
the difficulties of his situation.  He was in three Mexican companies in
succession, and was about to be sent to Columbia to take charge of a mine
when he was stricken with a fever, and died at Guanajuato on 22nd
November, 1833.  He had far exceeded any leave that his Colonel could in
fairness grant, and before his death his name had been taken off the army
rolls.

I have said that there are letters of John Borrow’s extant.  These show a
keen intelligence, great practicality, and common sense.  George—in
1829—had asked his brother as to joining him in Mexico.  “If the country
is soon settled I shall say ‘yes,’” John answers.  With equal wisdom he
says to his brother, “Do not enter the army; it is a bad spec.”  In this
same year, 1829, John writes to ask whether his mother and brother are
“still living in that windy house of old King’s; it gives me the
rheumatism to think of it.”  In 1830 he writes to his mother that he
wishes his brother were making money.  “Neither he nor I have any luck,
he works hard and remains poor.”  In February of 1831 John writes to
George suggesting that he should endeavour to procure a commission in the
regiment, and in July of the same year to try the law again:

    I am convinced that your want of success in life is more owing to
    your being unlike other people than to any other cause.

John, as we have seen, died in Mexico of fever.  George was at St.
Petersburg working for the Bible Society when his mother writes from
Norwich to tell him the news.  John had died on 22nd November, 1833.
“You are now my only hope,” she writes, “. . . do not grieve, my dear
George.  I trust we shall all meet in heaven.  Put a crape on your hat
for some time.”  Had George Borrow’s brother lived it might have meant
very much in his life.  There might have been nephews and nieces to
soften the asperity of his later years.  Who can say?  Meanwhile,
_Lavengro_ contains no happier pages than those concerned with this
dearly loved brother.




CHAPTER IV
A WANDERING CHILDHOOD


WE do not need to inquire too deeply as to Borrow’s possible gypsy origin
in order to account for his vagabond propensities.  The lives of his
parents before his birth, and the story of his own boyhood, sufficiently
account for the dominant tendency in Borrow.  His father and mother were
married in 1793.  Almost every year they changed their domicile.  In 1801
a son was born to them,—they still continued to change their domicile.
Captain Borrow followed his regiment from place to place, and his family
accompanied him on these journeys.  Dover, Colchester, Sandgate,
Canterbury, Chelmsford—these are some of the towns where the Borrows
sojourned.  It was the merest accident—the Peace of Amiens, to be
explicit—that led them back to East Dereham in 1803, so that the second
son was born in his grandfather’s house.  George was only a month old
when he was carried off to Colchester; in 1804 he was in the barracks of
Kent, in 1805 of Sussex, in 1806 at Hastings, in 1807 at Canterbury, and
so on.  The whole of the first thirteen years of Borrow’s life is filled
up in this way, until in 1816 he and his parents found a home of some
permanence in Norwich.  In 1809–10 they were at East Dereham, in 1810–11
at Norman Cross, in 1812 wandering from Harwich to Sheffield, and in 1813
wandering from Sheffield to Edinburgh; in 1814 they were in Norwich, and
in 1815–16 in Ireland.  In this last year they returned to Norwich, the
father to retire on full pay, and to live in Willow Lane until his death.
How could a boy, whose first twelve years of life had been made up of
such continual wandering, have been other than a restless, nomad-loving
man, envious of the free life of the gypsies, for whom alone in later
life he seemed to have kindliness?  Those twelve years are to most boys
merely the making of a moral foundation for good or ill; to Borrow they
were everything, and at least four personalities captured his imagination
during that short span, as we see if we follow his juvenile wanderings
more in detail to Dereham, Norman Cross, Edinburgh, and Clonmel, and the
personalities are Lady Fenn, Ambrose Smith, David Haggart, and Murtagh.
Let us deal with each in turn:

In our opening chapter we referred to the lines in _Lavengro_, where
Borrow recalls his early impressions of his native town, or at least the
town in the neighbourhood of the hamlet in which he was born.  Borrow, we
may be sure, would have repudiated “Dumpling Green” if he could.  The
name had a humorous suggestion.  To this day they call boys from Norfolk
“Norfolk Dumplings” in the neighbouring shires.  But East Dereham was
something to be proud of.  In it had died the writer who, through the
greater part of Borrow’s life, remained the favourite poet of that half
of England which professed the Evangelical creed in which Borrow was
brought up.  Cowper was buried here by the side of Mary Unwin, and every
Sunday little George would see his tomb just as Henry Kingsley was wont
to see the tombs in Chelsea Old Church.  The fervour of devotion to
Cowper’s memory that obtained in those early days must have been a
stimulus to the boy, who from the first had ambitions far beyond anything
that he was to achieve.  Here was his first lesson.  The second came from
Lady Fenn—a more vivid impression for the child.  Twenty years before
Borrow was born Cowper had sung her merits in his verse.  She and her
golden-headed cane are commemorated in _Lavengro_.  Dame Eleanor Fenn had
made a reputation in her time.  As “Mrs. Teachwell” and “Mrs. Lovechild”
she had published books for the young of a most improving character, _The
Child’s Grammar_, _The Mother’s Grammar_, _A Short History of Insects_,
and _Cobwebs to Catch Flies_ being of the number.  The forty-fourth
edition of _The Child’s Grammar_ by Mrs. Lovechild appeared in 1851, and
the twenty-second edition of _The Mother’s Grammar_ in 1849.  But it is
her husband that her name most recalls to us.  Sir John Fenn gave us the
delightful Paston Letters—of which Horace Walpole said that “they make
all other letters not worth reading.”  Walpole described “Mr. Fenn of
East Dereham in Norfolk” as “a smatterer in antiquity, but a very good
sort of man.”  Fenn, who held the original documents of the Letters, sent
his first two volumes, when published, to Buckingham Palace, and the King
acknowledged the gifts by knighting the editor, who, however, died in
1794, before George Borrow was born.  His widow survived until 1813, and
Borrow was in his seventh or eighth year when he caught these notable
glimpses of his “Lady Bountiful,” who lived in “the half-aristocratic
mansion” of the town.  But we know next to nothing of Borrow in East
Dereham, from which indeed he departed in his eighth year.  There are,
however, interesting references to his memories of the place in
_Lavengro_, the best of which is when he goes to church with the gypsies
and dreams of an incident in his childhood:

    It appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of
    pretty Dereham.  I had occasionally done so when a child, and had
    suddenly woke up.  Yes, surely, I had been asleep and had woke up;
    but no! if I had been asleep I had been waking in my sleep,
    struggling, striving, learning and unlearning in my sleep.  Years had
    rolled away whilst I had been asleep—ripe fruit had fallen, green
    fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep—how circumstances had
    altered, and above all myself whilst I had been asleep.  No, I had
    not been asleep in the old church!  I was in a pew, it is true, but
    not the pew of black leather in which I sometimes fell asleep in days
    of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no
    longer those of days of yore.  I was no longer with my respectable
    father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and
    his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people.
    And what was I myself?  No longer an innocent child but a moody man,
    bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and
    strugglings; of what I had learnt and unlearnt.

But Borrow left Dereham in his eighth year, only to revisit it when
famous.

In _Lavengro_ Borrow recalls childish memories of Canterbury and of
Hythe, at which latter place he saw the church vault filled with ancient
skulls as we may see it there to-day.  And after that the book which
impressed itself most vividly upon his memory was _Robinson Crusoe_.  How
much he came to revere Defoe the pages of _Lavengro_ most eloquently
reveal to us.  “Hail to thee, spirit of Defoe!  What does not my own poor
self owe to thee?”  In 1810–11 his father was in the barracks at Norman
Cross in Huntingdonshire.  Here the Government had bought a large tract
of land, and built upon it a huge wooden prison, and overlooking this a
substantial barrack also of wood, the only brick building on the land
being the house of the Commandant.  The great building was destined for
the soldiers taken prisoners in the French wars.  The place was
constructed to hold 5000 prisoners, and 500 men were employed by the War
Office in 1808 upon its construction.  The first batch of prisoners were
the victims of the battle of Vimeiro in that year.  Borrow’s description
of the hardships of the prisoners has been called in question by a later
writer, Arthur Brown, who denies the story of bad food and “straw-plait
hunts,” and charges Borrow with recklessness of statement.  “What could
have been the matter with the man to write such stuff as this?” asks
Brown in reference to Borrow’s story of bad meat and bad bread: which was
not treating a great author with quite sufficient reverence.  Borrow was
but recalling memories of childhood, a period when one swallow does make
a summer.  He had doubtless seen examples of what he described, although
it may not have been the normal condition of things.  Brown’s own
description of the Norman Cross prison was interwoven with a love
romance, in which a French officer fell in love with a girl of the
neighbouring village of Yaxley, and after Waterloo returned to England
and married her.  When he wrote his story a very old man was still living
at Yaxley, who remembered, as a boy, having often seen the prisoners on
the road, some very well dressed, some in tatters, a few in uniform.  The
milestone is still pointed out which marked the limit beyond which the
officer-prisoners might not walk.  The buildings were destroyed in 1814,
when all the prisoners were sent home, and the house of the Commandant,
now a private residence, alone remains to recall this episode in our
history.  But Borrow’s most vivid memory of Norman Cross was connected
with the viper given to him by an old man, who had rendered it harmless
by removing the fangs.  It was the possession of this tame viper that
enabled the child of eight—this was Borrow’s age at the time—to impress
the gypsies that he met soon afterwards, and particularly the boy Ambrose
Smith, whom Borrow introduced to the world in _Lavengro_ as Jasper
Petulengro.  Borrow’s frequent meetings with Petulengro are no doubt many
of them mythical.  He was an imaginative writer, but Petulengro was a
very real person, who lived the usual roving gypsy life.  There is no
reason to assume otherwise than that Borrow did actually meet him at
Norman Cross when he was eight years old, and Ambrose a year younger, and
not thirteen as Borrow states.  In the original manuscript of _Lavengro_
in my possession, “Ambrose” is given instead of “Jasper,” and the name
was altered as an afterthought.  It is of course possible that Borrow did
not actually meet Jasper until his arrival in Norwich, for in the first
half of the nineteenth century various gypsy families were in the habit
of assembling their carts and staking their tents on the heights above
Norwich, known as Mousehold Heath, that glorious tract of country that
has been rendered memorable in history by the tragic life of Kett the
tanner, and has been immortalised in painting by Turner and Crome.  Here
were assembled the Smiths and Hernes and Boswells, names familiar to
every student of gypsy lore.  Jasper Petulengro, as Borrow calls him, or
Ambrose Smith, to give him his real name, was the son of Fāden Smith, and
his name of Ambrose was derived from his uncle, Ambrose Smith, who was
transported for stealing harness.  Ambrose was twice married, and it was
his second wife, Sanspirella Herne, who comes into the Borrow story.  He
had families by both his wives.  Ambrose had an extraordinary varied
career.  It will be remembered by readers of the _Zincali_ that when he
visited Borrow at Oulton in 1842 he complained that “There is no living
for the poor people, brother, the chokengres (police) pursue us from
place to place, and the gorgios are become either so poor or miserly that
they grudge our cattle a bite of grass by the wayside, and ourselves a
yard of ground to light a fire upon.”  After a time Ambrose left the
eastern counties and crossed to Ireland.  In 1868 he went to Scotland,
and there seems to have revived his fortunes.  In 1878 he and his family
were encamped at Knockenhair Park, about a mile from Dunbar.  Here Queen
Victoria, who was staying at Broxmouth Park near by with the Dowager
Duchess of Roxburghe, became interested in the gypsies, and paid them a
visit.  This was in the summer of 1878.  Ambrose was then a very old man.
He died in the following October.  His wife, Sanspi or Sanspirella,
received a message of sympathy from the Queen.  Very shortly after
Ambrose’s death, however, most of the family went off to America, where
doubtless they are now scattered, many of them, it may be, leading
successful lives, utterly oblivious of the associations of one of their
ancestors with Borrow and his great book.  Ambrose Smith was buried in
Dunbar cemetery, the Christian service being read over his grave, and his
friends erected a stone to him which bears the following inscription:—

                                 In Memory of
                         AMBROSE SMITH, who died 22nd
                         October 1878, aged 74 years.

                                     Also

                               THOMAS, his son,
                    who died 28th May 1879, aged 48 years.

Three years separated the sojourn of the Borrow family at Norman Cross
from their sojourn in Edinburgh—three years of continuous wandering.  The
West Norfolk Militia were watching the French prisoners at Norman Cross
for fifteen months.  After that we have glimpses of them at Colchester,
at East Dereham again, at Harwich, at Leicester, at Huddersfield,
concerning which place Borrow incidentally in _Wild Wales_ writes of
having been at school, in Sheffield, in Berwick-on-Tweed, and finally the
family are in Edinburgh, where they arrive on 6th April, 1813.  We have
already referred to Borrow’s presence at the High School of Edinburgh,
the school sanctified by association with Walter Scott and so many of his
illustrious fellow-countrymen.  He and his brother were at the High
School for a single session, that is, for the winter session of 1813–14,
although with the licence of a maker of fiction he claimed, in
_Lavengro_, to have been there for two years.  But it is not in this
brief period of schooling of a boy of ten that we find the strongest
influence that Edinburgh gave to Borrow.  Rather may we seek it in the
acquaintanceship with the once too notorious David Haggart.  Seven years
later than this all the peoples of the three kingdoms were discussing
David Haggart, the Scots Jack Sheppard, the clever young prison-breaker,
who was hanged at Edinburgh in 1821 for killing his gaoler in Dumfries
prison.  How much David Haggart filled the imagination of every one who
could read in the early years of last century is demonstrated by a
reference to the Library Catalogue of the British Museum, where we find
pamphlet after pamphlet, broadsheet after broadsheet, treating of the
adventures, trial, and execution of this youthful gaolbird.  But by far
the most valuable publication with regard to Haggart is one that Borrow
must have read in his youth.  This was a life of Haggart written by
himself, a little book that had a wide circulation.  From this little
biography we learn that Haggart was born in Golden Acre, near
Canon-Mills, in the county of Edinburgh in 1801, his father, John
Haggart, being a gamekeeper, and in later years a dog-trainer.  The boy
was at school under Mr. Robin Gibson at Canon-Mills for two years.  He
left school at ten years of age, and from that time until his execution
seems to have had a continuous career of thieving.  He tells us that
before he was eleven years old he had stolen a bantam cock from a woman
belonging to the New Town of Edinburgh.  He went with another boy to
Currie, six miles from Edinburgh, and there stole a pony, but this was
afterwards returned.  When but twelve years of age he attended Leith
races, and it was here that he enlisted in the Norfolk Militia, then
stationed in Edinburgh Castle.  This may very well have brought him into
contact with Borrow in the way described in _Lavengro_.  He was only,
however, in the regiment for a year, for when it was sent back to England
the Colonel in command of it obtained young Haggart’s discharge.  These
dates coincide with Borrow’s presence in Edinburgh.  Haggart’s history
for the next five or six years was in truth merely that of a wandering
pickpocket, sometimes in Scotland, sometimes in England, and finally he
became a notorious burglar.  Incidentally he refers to a girl with whom
he was in love.  Her name was Mary Hill.  She belonged to Ecclefechan,
which Haggart more than once visited.  He must therefore have known
Carlyle, who had not then left his native village.  In 1820 we find him
in Edinburgh, carrying on the same sort of depredations both there and at
Leith—now he steals a silk plaid, now a greatcoat, and now a silver
teapot.  These thefts, of course, landed him in gaol, out of which he
breaks rather dramatically, fleeing with a companion to Kelso.  He had,
indeed, more than one experience of gaol.  Finally, we find him in the
prison of Dumfries destined to stand his trial for “one act of
house-breaking, eleven cases of theft, and one of prison-breaking.”
While in prison at Dumfries he planned another escape, and in the attempt
to hit a gaoler named Morrin on the head with a stone he unexpectedly
killed him.  His escape from Dumfries gaol after this murder, and his
later wanderings, are the most dramatic part of his book.  He fled
through Carlisle to Newcastle, and then thought that he would be safer if
he returned to Scotland, where he found the rewards that were offered for
his arrest faced him wherever he went.  He turned up again in Edinburgh,
where he seems to have gone about freely, although reading everywhere the
notices that a reward of seventy guineas was offered for his
apprehension.  Then he fled to Ireland, where he thought that his safety
was assured.  At Dromore he was arrested and brought before the
magistrate, but he spoke with an Irish brogue, and declared that his name
was John M‘Colgan, and that he came from Armagh.  He escaped from Dromore
gaol by jumping through a window, and actually went so far as to pay
three pound ten shillings for his passage to America, but he was afraid
of the sea, and changed his mind, and lost his passage money at the last
moment.  After this he made a tour right through Ireland, in spite of the
fact that the Dublin _Hue and Cry_ had a description of his person which
he read more than once.  His assurance was such that in Tullamore he made
a pig-driver apologise before the magistrate for charging him with theft,
although he had been living on nothing else all the time he was in
Ireland.  Finally, he was captured, being recognised by a policeman from
Edinburgh.  He was brought from Ireland to Dumfries, landed in Calton
gaol, Edinburgh, and was tried and executed.

We may pass over the brief sojourn in Norwich that was Borrow’s lot in
1814, when the West Norfolk Militia left Scotland.  When Napoleon escaped
from Elba the West Norfolk Regiment was despatched to Ireland, and
Captain Borrow again took his family with him.  We find the boy with his
family at Clonmel from May to December of 1815.  Here Borrow’s elder
brother, now a boy of fifteen, was promoted from Ensign to Lieutenant.
In January, 1816, the Borrows moved to Templemore, returning to England
in May of that year.  Borrow, we see, was less than a year in Ireland,
and he was only thirteen years of age when he left the country.  But it
seems to have been the greatest influence that guided his career.  Three
of the most fascinating chapters in _Lavengro_ were one outcome of that
brief sojourn, a thirst for the acquirement of languages was another, and
perhaps a taste for romancing a third.  Borrow never came to have the
least sympathy with the Irish race, or its national aspirations.  As the
son of a half-educated soldier he did not come in contact with any but
the vagabond element of Ireland, exactly as his father had done before
him.  Captain Borrow was asked on one occasion what language is being
spoken:

    “Irish,” said my father with a loud voice, “and a bad language it is.
    . . .  There’s one part of London where all the Irish live—at least
    the worst of them—and there they hatch their villainies to speak this
    tongue.”

And Borrow followed his father’s prejudices throughout his life, although
in the one happy year in which he wrote _The Bible in Spain_ he was able
to do justice to the country that had inspired so much of his work:

    Honour to Ireland and her “hundred thousand welcomes”!  Her fields
    have long been the greenest in the world; her daughters the fairest;
    her sons the bravest and most eloquent.  May they never cease to be
    so. {33a}

In later years Orangemen were to him the only attractive element in the
life of Ireland, and we may be sure that he was not displeased when his
stepdaughter married one of them.  Yet the creator of literature works
more wisely than he knows, and Borrow’s books have won the wise and
benign appreciation of many an Irish and Roman Catholic reader, whose
nationality and religion Borrow would have anathematised.  Irishmen may
forgive Borrow much, because he was one of the first of modern English
writers to take their language seriously. {33b}  It is true that he had
but the most superficial knowledge of it.  He admits—in _Wild Wales_—that
he only knew it “by ear.”  The abundant Irish literature that has been so
diligently studied during the last quarter of a century was a closed book
to Borrow, whose few translations from the Irish have but little value.
Yet the very appreciation of Irish as a language to be seriously studied
in days before Dr. George Sigerson and Dr. Douglas Hyde had waxed
enthusiastic and practical kindles our gratitude.  Then what a character
is Murtagh.  We are sure there was a Murtagh, although, unlike Borrow’s
other boyish and vagabond friend Haggart, we know nothing about him but
what Borrow has to tell.  Yet what a picture is this where Murtagh wants
a pack of cards:

    “I say, Murtagh!”

    “Yes, Shorsha dear!”

    “I have a pack of cards.”

    “You don’t say so, Shorsha ma vourneen?—you don’t say that you have
    cards fifty-two?”

    “I do, though; and they are quite new—never been once used.”

    “And you’ll be lending them to me, I warrant?”

    “Don’t think it!—But I’ll sell them to you, joy, if you like.”

    “Hanam mon Dioul! am I not after telling you that I have no money at
    all?”

    “But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I’ll take it in
    exchange.”

    “What’s that, Shorsha dear?”

    “Irish!”

    “Irish?”

    “Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the
    cripple.  You shall teach me Irish.”

    “And is it a language-master you’d be making of me?”

    “To be sure!—what better can you do?—it would help you to pass your
    time at school.  You can’t learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!”

    Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother
    Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish.
    {34}

With what distrust as we learn again and again in _Lavengro_ did Captain
Borrow follow his son’s inclination towards languages, and especially the
Irish language, in his early years, although anxious that he should be
well grounded in Latin.  Little did the worthy Captain dream that this,
and this alone, was to carry down his name through the ages:

    Ah, that Irish!  How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the
    most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent
    influence on our habits and pursuits!—how frequently is a stream
    turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll,
    causing it to make an abrupt turn!  On a wild road in Ireland I had
    heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire
    to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the
    stepping-stone to other languages.  I had previously learnt Latin, or
    rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist.

Borrow was never a philologist, but this first inclination for Irish was
to lead him later to Spanish, to Welsh, and above all to Romany, and to
make of him the most beloved traveller and the strangest vagabond in all
English literature.




CHAPTER V
THE GURNEYS AND THE TAYLORS OF NORWICH


NORWICH may claim to be one of the most fascinating cities in the
kingdom.  To-day it is known to the wide world by its canaries and its
mustard, although its most important industry is the boot trade, in which
it employs some eight thousand persons.  To the visitor it has many
attractions.  The lovely cathedral with its fine Norman arches, the
Erpingham Gate so splendidly Gothic, the noble Castle Keep so imposingly
placed with the cattle-market below—these are all as Borrow saw them
nearly a century ago.  So also is the church of St. Peter Mancroft, where
Sir Thomas Browne lies buried.  And to the picturesque Mousehold Heath
you may still climb and recall one of the first struggles for liberty and
progress that past ages have seen, the Norfolk rising under Robert Kett
which has only not been glorified in song and in picture, because—

    Treason doth never prosper—what’s the reason?
    Why if it prosper none dare call it treason.

And Kett’s so-called rebellion was destined to failure, and its leader to
cruel martyrdom.  Mousehold Heath has been made the subject of paintings
by Turner and Crome, and of fine word pictures by George Borrow.  When
Borrow and his parents lighted upon Norwich in 1814 and 1816 the city had
inspiring literary associations.  Before the invention of railways it
seemed not uncommon for a fine intellectual life to emanate from this or
that cathedral city.  Such an intellectual life was associated with
Lichfield when the Darwins and the Edgeworths gathered at the Bishop’s
Palace around Dr. Seward and his accomplished daughters.  Norwich has
more than once been such a centre.  The first occasion was in the period
of which we write, when the Taylors and the Gurneys flourished in a
region of ideas; the second was during the years from 1837 to 1849, when
Edward Stanley held the bishopric.  This later period does not come into
our story, as by that time Borrow had all but left Norwich.  But of the
earlier period, the period of Borrow’s more or less fitful residence in
Norwich—1814 to 1833—we are tempted to write at some length.  There were
three separate literary and social forces in Norwich in the first decades
of the nineteenth century—the Gurneys of Earlham, the Taylor-Austin
group, and William Taylor, who was in no way related to Mrs. John Taylor
and her daughter, Sarah Austin.  The Gurneys were truly a remarkable
family, destined to leave their impress upon Norwich and upon a wider
world.  At the time of his marriage in 1773 to Catherine Bell, John
Gurney, wool-stapler of Norwich, took his young wife, whose face has been
preserved in a canvas by Gainsborough, to live in the old Court House in
Magdalen Street, which had been the home of two generations of the Gurney
family.  In 1786 John Gurney went with his continually growing family to
live at Earlham Hall, some two or three miles out of Norwich on the
Earlham Road.  Here that family of eleven children—one boy had died in
infancy—grew up.  Not one but has an interesting history, which is
recorded by Mr. Augustus Hare and other writers.  Elizabeth, the fourth
daughter, married Joseph Fry, and as Elizabeth Fry attained to a
world-wide fame as a prison reformer.  Hannah married Sir Thomas Fowell
Buxton of Slave Trade Abolition; Richenda, the Rev. Francis Cunningham,
who sent George Borrow upon his career; while Louisa married Samuel Hoare
of Hampstead.  Of her Joseph John Gurney said at her death in 1836 that
she was “superior in point of talent to any other of my father’s eleven
children.”  It is with the eleventh child, however, that we have mainly
to do, for this son, Joseph John Gurney, alone appears in Borrow’s pages.
The picture of these eleven Quaker children growing up to their various
destinies under the roof of Earlham Hall is an attractive one.  Men and
women of all creeds accepted the catholic Quaker’s hospitality.  Mrs.
Opie and a long list of worthies of the past come before us, and when Mr.
Gurney, in 1802, took his six unmarried daughters to the Lakes Old Crome
accompanied them as drawing-master.

In 1803—the year of Borrow’s birth—John Gurney became a partner in the
great London Bank of Overend and Gurney, and his son, Joseph John, in
that same year went up to Oxford.  In 1809 Joseph returned to take his
place in the bank, and to preside over the family of unmarried sisters at
Earlham, father and mother being dead, and many members of the family
distributed.  Incidentally, we are told by Mr. Hare that the Gurneys of
Earlham at this time drove out with four black horses, and that when
Bishop Bathurst, Stanley’s predecessor, required horses for State
occasions to drive him to the cathedral, he borrowed these, and the more
modest episcopal horses took the Quaker family to their meeting-house.
It does not come within the scope of this book to trace the fortunes of
these eleven remarkable Gurney children, or even of Borrow’s momentary
acquaintance, Joseph John Gurney.  His residence at Earlham, and his life
of philanthropy, are a romance in a way, although one wonders whether if
the name of Gurney had not been associated with so much of virtue and
goodness the crash that came long after Joseph John Gurney’s death would
have been quite so full of affliction for a vast multitude.  Joseph John
Gurney died in 1847, in his fifty-ninth year; his sister, Mrs. Fry, had
died two years earlier.  The younger brother and twelfth child—Joseph
John being the eleventh—Daniel Gurney, the last of the twelve children,
lived till 1880, aged eighty-nine.  He had outlived by many years the
catastrophe to the great banking firm with which the name of Gurney is
associated.  This great firm of Overend and Gurney, of which yet another
brother, Samuel, was the moving spirit, was organised nine years after
his death—in 1865—into a joint-stock company, which failed to the amount
of eleven millions in 1866.  At the time of the failure, which affected
all England, much as did the Liberator smash a generation later, the only
Gurney in the directorate was Daniel Gurney, to whom his sister, Lady
Buxton, allowed a pension of £2000 a year.  This is a long story to tell
by way of introduction to one episode in _Lavengro_.  This episode had
place in the year 1817, when Borrow was but fourteen years of age and
Gurney was twenty-nine.  It is doubtful if Borrow met Joseph John Gurney
more than on the one occasion.  At the commencement of his engagement
with the Bible Society he writes to its secretary, Mr. Jowett (18th
March, 1833), to say that he must procure from Mr. Cunningham “a letter
of introduction from him to John Gurney,” and this second and last
interview must have taken place at Earlham before his departure for
Russia.

But if Borrow was to come very little under the influence of Joseph John
Gurney, his destiny was to be considerably moulded by the action of
Gurney’s brother-in-law, Cunningham, who first put him in touch with the
Bible Society.  Joseph John Gurney and his sisters were the very life of
the Bible Society in those years.

With the famous “Taylors of Norwich” Borrow seems to have had no
acquaintance, although he went to school with a connection of that
family, James Martineau.  These socially important Taylors were in no way
related to William Taylor of that city, who knew German literature, and
scandalised the more virtuous citizens by that, and perhaps more by his
fondness for wine and also for good English beer—a drink over which his
friend Borrow was to become lyrical.  When people speak of the Norwich
Taylors they refer to the family of Dr. John Taylor, who in 1733 was
elected to the charge of the Presbyterian congregation in Norwich.  His
eldest son, Richard, married Margaret, the daughter of a mayor of Norwich
of the name of Meadows; and Sarah, another daughter of that same
worshipful mayor, married David Martineau, grandson of Gaston Martineau,
who fled from France at the time of the Revocation of the Edict of
Nantes. {39}  Harriet and James Martineau were grandchildren of this
David.  The second son of Richard and Margaret Taylor was John, who
married Susannah Cook.  Susannah is the clever Mrs. John Taylor of this
story, and her daughter of even greater ability was Sarah Austin, the
wife of the famous jurist.  Here we are only concerned with Mrs. John
Taylor, called by her friends the “Madame Roland of Norwich.”  Lucy Aikin
describes how she “darned her boy’s grey worsted stockings while holding
her own with Southey, Brougham, or Mackintosh.”  One of her daughters
married Henry Reeve, and, as I have said, another married John Austin.
Borrow was twenty years of age and living in Norwich when Mrs. Taylor
died.  It is to be regretted that in the early impressionable years his
position as a lawyer’s clerk did not allow of his coming into a circle in
which he might have gained certain qualities of _savoir faire_ and _joie
de vivre_, which he was all his days to lack.  Of the Taylor family the
Duke of Sussex said that they reversed the ordinary saying that it takes
nine tailors to make a man.  The witticism has been attributed to Sydney
Smith, but Mrs. Ross gives evidence that it was the Duke’s—the youngest
son of George III.  In his _Life of Sir James Mackintosh_ Basil Montagu,
referring to Mrs. John Taylor, says:

    Norwich was always a haven of rest to us, from the literary society
    with which that city abounded.  Dr. Sayers we used to visit, and the
    high-minded and intelligent William Taylor; but our chief delight was
    in the society of Mrs. John Taylor, a most intelligent and excellent
    woman, mild and unassuming, quiet and meek, sitting amidst her large
    family, occupied with her needle and domestic occupations, but always
    assisting, by her great knowledge, the advancement of kind and
    dignified sentiment and conduct.

We note here the reference to “the high-minded and intelligent William
Taylor,” because William Taylor, whose influence upon Borrow’s destiny
was so pronounced, has been revealed to many by the slanders of Harriet
Martineau, that extraordinary compound of meanness and generosity, of
poverty-stricken intelligence and rich endowment.  In her
_Autobiography_, published in 1877, thirty-four years after Robberds’s
_Memoir of William Taylor_, she dwells upon the drinking propensities of
William Taylor, who was a schoolfellow of her father’s.  She admits,
indeed, that Taylor was an ideal son, whose “exemplary filial duty was a
fine spectacle to the whole city.”

William Taylor’s life is pleasantly interlinked with Scott and Southey.
Lucy Aikin records that she heard Sir Walter Scott declare to Mrs.
Barbauld that Taylor had laid the foundations of his literary career—had
started him upon the path of glory through romantic verse to romantic
prose, from _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ to _Waverley_.  It was the
reading of Taylor’s translation of Bürger’s _Lenore_ that did all this.
“This, madam,” said Scott, “was what made me a poet.  I had several times
attempted the more regular kinds of poetry without success, but here was
something that I thought I could do.”  Southey assuredly loved Taylor,
and each threw at the feet of the other the abundant literary learning
that both possessed.  This we find in a correspondence which, reading
more than a century after it was written, still has its charm.  The son
of a wealthy manufacturer of Norwich, Taylor was born in that city in
1765.  He was in early years a pupil of Mrs. Barbauld.  At fourteen he
was placed in his father’s counting-house, and soon afterwards was sent
abroad, in the company of one of the partners, to acquire languages.  He
learnt German thoroughly at a time when few Englishmen had acquaintance
with its literature.  To Goethe’s genius he never did justice, having
been offended by that great man’s failure to acknowledge a book that
Taylor sent to him, exactly as Carlyle and Borrow alike were afterwards
offended by similar delinquencies on the part of Walter Scott.  When he
settled again in Norwich he commenced to write for the magazines, among
others for Sir Richard Phillips’s _Monthly Magazine_, and to correspond
with Southey.  At the time Southey was a poor man, thinking of abandoning
literature for the law, and hopeful of practising in Calcutta.  The
Norwich Liberals, however, aspired to a newspaper to be called _The
Iris_.  Taylor asked Southey to come to Norwich and to become its editor.
Southey declined and Taylor took up the task, The _Norwich Iris_ lasted
for two years.  Southey never threw over his friendship for Taylor,
although their views ultimately came to be far apart.  Writing to Taylor
in 1803 he says:

    Your theology does nothing but mischief; it serves only to thin the
    miserable ranks of Unitarianism.  The regular troops of infidelity do
    little harm; and their trumpeters, such as Voltaire and Paine, not
    much more.  But it is such pioneers as Middleton, and you and your
    German friends, that work underground and sap the very citadel.  That
    _Monthly Magazine_ is read by all the Dissenters—I call it the
    Dissenters’ Obituary—and here are you eternally mining, mining, under
    the shallow faith of their half-learned, half-witted, half-paid,
    half-starved pastors.

But the correspondence went on apace, indeed it occupies the larger part
of Robberds’s two substantial volumes.  It is in the very last letter
from Taylor to Southey that we find an oft-quoted reference to Borrow.
The letter is dated 12th March, 1821:

    A Norwich young man is construing with me Schiller’s _Wilhelm Tell_
    with the view of translating it for the Press.  His name is George
    Henry Borrow, and he has learnt German with extraordinary rapidity;
    indeed, he has the gift of tongues, and, though not yet eighteen,
    understands twelve languages—English, Welsh, Erse, Latin, Greek,
    Hebrew, German, Danish, French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese; he
    would like to get into the Office for Foreign Affairs, but does not
    know how.

Although this was the last letter to Southey that is published in the
memoir, Taylor visited Southey at Keswick in 1826.  Taylor’s three
volumes of the _Historic Survey of German Poetry_ appeared in 1828, 1829,
and 1830.  Sir Walter Scott, in the last year of his life, wrote from
Abbotsford on 23rd April, 1832, to Taylor to protest against an allusion
to “William Scott of Edinburgh” being the author of a translation of
_Goetz von Berlichingen_.  Scott explained that he (Walter Scott) was
that author, and also made allusion to the fact that he had borrowed with
acknowledgment two lines from Taylor’s _Lenore_ for his own—

    Tramp, tramp along the land,
    Splash, splash across the sea,

adding that his recollection of the obligation was infinitely stronger
than of the mistake.  It would seem, however, that the name “William” was
actually on the title-page of the London edition of 1799 of _Goetz von
Berlichingen_.  When Southey heard of the death of Taylor in 1836 he
wrote:

    I was not aware of my old friend’s illness, or I should certainly
    have written to him, to express that unabated regard which I have
    felt for him eight-and-thirty years, and that hope which I shall ever
    feel, that we may meet in the higher state of existence.  I have
    known very few who equalled him in talents—none who had a kinder
    heart; and there never lived a more dutiful son, or a sincerer
    friend.

Taylor’s many books are now all forgotten.  His translation of Bürger’s
_Lenore_ one now only recalls by its effect upon Scott; his translation
of Lessing’s _Nathan the Wise_ has been superseded.  His voluminous
_Historic Survey of German Poetry_ only lives through Carlyle’s severe
review in the _Edinburgh Review_ {42} against the many strictures in
which Taylor’s biographer attempts to defend him.  Taylor had none of
Carlyle’s inspiration.  Not a line of his work survives in print in our
day, but it was no small thing to have been the friend and correspondent
of Southey, whose figure in literary history looms larger now than it did
when Emerson asked contemptuously, “Who’s Southey?”; and to have been the
wise mentor of George Borrow is in itself to be no small thing in the
record of letters.  There is a considerable correspondence between Taylor
and Sir Richard Phillips in Robberds’s _Memoir_, and Phillips seemed
always anxious to secure articles from Taylor for the _Monthly_, and even
books for his publishing-house.  Hence the introduction from Taylor that
Borrow carried to London might have been most effective if Phillips had
had any use for poor and impracticable would-be authors.




CHAPTER VI
AT THE NORWICH GRAMMAR SCHOOL


WHEN George Borrow first entered Norwich after the long journey from
Edinburgh, Joseph John Gurney, born 1788, was twenty-six years of age,
and William Taylor, born 1765, was forty-nine.  Borrow was eleven years
of age.  Captain Borrow took temporary lodgings at the Crown and Angel
Inn in St. Stephen’s Street, George was sent to the Grammar School, and
his elder brother started to learn drawing and painting with John Crome
(“Old Crome”) of many a fine landscape.  But the wanderings of the family
were not yet over.  Napoleon escaped from Elba, and the West Norfolk
Militia were again put on the march.  This time it was Ireland to which
they were destined, and we have already shadowed forth, with the help of
_Lavengro_, that momentous episode.  The victory of Waterloo gave Europe
peace, and in 1816 the Borrow family returned to Norwich, there to pass
many quiet years.  In 1819 Captain Borrow was pensioned—eight shillings a
day.  From 1816 till his father’s death in 1824 Borrow lived in Norwich
with his family.  Their home was in King’s Court, Willow Lane, a modest
one-storey house in a _cul-de-sac_, which we have already described.  In
King’s Court, Willow Lane, Borrow lived at intervals until his marriage
in 1840, and his mother continued to live in the house until, in 1849,
she agreed to join her son and daughter-in-law at Oulton.  Yet the house
comes little into the story of Borrow’s life, as do the early houses of
many great men of letters, nor do subsequent houses come into his story;
the house at Oulton and the house at Hereford Square are equally barren
of association; the broad highway and the windy heath were Borrow’s
natural home.  He was never a “civilised” being; he never shone in
drawing-rooms.  Let us, however, return to Borrow’s school-days, of which
the records are all too scanty, and not in the least invigorating.  The
Norwich Grammar School has an interesting tradition.  We pass to the
cathedral through the beautiful Erpingham Gate built about 1420 by Sir
Thomas Erpingham, and we find the school on the left.  It was originally
a chapel, and the porch is at least five hundred years old.  The
schoolroom is sufficiently old-world-looking for us to imagine the
schoolboys of past generations sitting at the various desks.  The school
was founded in 1547, but the registers have been lost, and so we know
little of its famous pupils of earlier days.  Lord Nelson and Rajah
Brooke are the two names of men of action that stand out most honourably
in modern times among the scholars.  In literature Borrow had but one
schoolfellow, who afterwards came to distinction—James Martineau.
Borrow’s headmaster was the Reverend Edward Valpy, who held the office
from 1810 to 1829, and to whom is credited the destruction of the school
archives.  Borrow’s two years of the Grammar School were not happy ones.
Borrow, as we have shown, was not of the stuff of which happy schoolboys
are made.  He had been a wanderer—Scotland, Ireland, and many parts of
England had assisted in a fragmentary education; he was now thirteen
years of age, and already a vagabond at heart.  But let us hear Dr.
Augustus Jessopp, who was headmaster of the same Grammar School from 1859
to 1879.  Writing of a meeting of old Norvicensians to greet the Rajah,
Sir James Brooke, in 1858, when there was a great “whip” of the “old
boys,” Dr. Jessopp tells us that Borrow, then living at Yarmouth, did not
put in an appearance among his schoolfellows:

    My belief is that he never was popular among them, that he never
    attained a high place in the school, and he was a “free boy.”  In
    those days there were a certain number of day boys at Norwich school,
    who were nominated by members of the Corporation, and who paid no
    tuition fees; they had to submit to a certain amount of snubbing at
    the hands of the boarders, who for the most part were the sons of the
    county gentry.  Of course, such a proud boy as George Borrow would
    resent this, and it seems to have rankled with him all through his
    life. . . .  To talk of Borrow as a “scholar” is absurd.  “A
    picker-up of learning’s crumbs” he was, but he was absolutely without
    any of the training or the instincts of a scholar.  He had had little
    education till he came to Norwich, and was at the Grammar School
    little more than two years.  It is pretty certain that he knew no
    Greek when he entered there, and he never seems to have acquired more
    than the elements of that language.

Yet the only real influence that Borrow carried away from the Grammar
School was concerned with foreign languages.  He did take to the French
master and exiled priest, Thomas d’Eterville, a native of Caen, who had
emigrated to Norwich in 1793.  D’Eterville taught French, Italian, and
apparently, to Borrow, a little Spanish; and Borrow, with his wonderful
memory, must have been his favourite pupil.  In the fourteenth and
fifteenth chapters of _Lavengro_ he is pleasantly described by his pupil,
who adds, with characteristic “bluff,” that d’Eterville said “on our
arrival at the conclusion of Dante’s _Hell_, ‘vous serez un jour un grand
philologue, mon cher.’”

Borrow’s biographers have dwelt at length upon one episode of his
schooldays—the flogging he received from Valpy for playing truant with
three other boys.  One, by name John Dalrymple, faltered on the way, the
two faithful followers of George in his escapade being two brothers named
Theodosius and Francis Purland, whose father kept a chemist’s shop in
Norwich.  The three boys wandered away as far as Acle, eleven miles from
Norwich, whence they were ignominiously brought back and birched.  John
Dalrymple’s brother Arthur, son of a distinguished Norwich surgeon, who
became Clerk of the Peace at Norwich in 1854, and died in 1868, has left
a memorandum concerning Borrow, from which I take the following extract:

    I was at school with Borrow at the Free School, Norwich, under the
    Rev. E. Valpy.  He was an odd, wild boy, and always wanting to turn
    Robinson Crusoe or Buccaneer.  My brother John was about Borrow’s
    age, and on one occasion Borrow, John, and another, whose name I
    forget, determined to run away and turn pirates.  John carried an old
    horse pistol and some potatoes as his contribution to the general
    stock, but his zeal was soon exhausted, he turned back at Thorpe
    Lunatic Asylum; but Borrow went off to Yarmouth, and lived on the
    Caister Denes for a few days.  I don’t remember hearing of any
    exploits.  He had a wonderful facility for learning languages, which,
    however, he never appears to have turned to account.

James Martineau, afterwards a popular preacher and a distinguished
theologian of the Unitarian creed, here comes into the story.  He was a
contemporary with Borrow at the Norwich Grammar School as already stated,
but the two boys had little in common.  There was nothing of the vagabond
about James Martineau, and concerning Borrow—if on no other subject—he
would probably have agreed with his sister Harriet, whose views we shall
quote in a later chapter.  In Martineau’s _Memoirs_, voluminous and dull,
there is only one reference to Borrow; {47} but a correspondent once
ventured to approach the eminent divine concerning the rumour as to
Martineau’s part in the birching of the author of _The Bible in Spain_,
and received the following letter:

                       35 GORDON SQUARE, LONDON, W.C., _December_ 6, 1895.

    DEAR SIR,—Two or three years ago Mr. Egmont Hake (author, I think, of
    a life of Gordon) sought an interview with me, as reputed to be
    Borrow’s sole surviving schoolfellow, in order to gather information
    or test traditions about his schooldays.  This was with a view to a
    memoir which he was compiling, he said, out of the literary remains
    which had been committed to him by his executors.  I communicated to
    him such recollections as I could clearly depend upon and leave at
    his disposal for publication or for suppression as he might think
    fit.  Under these circumstances I feel that they are rightfully his,
    and that I am restrained from placing them at disposal elsewhere
    unless and until he renounces his claim upon them.  But though I
    cannot repeat them at length for public use, I am not precluded from
    correcting inaccuracies in stories already in circulation, and may
    therefore say that Mr. Arthur Dalrymple’s version of the Yarmouth
    escapade is wrong in making his brother John a partner in the
    transaction.  John had quite too much sense for that; the only
    victims of Borrow’s romance were two or three silly boys—mere lackeys
    of Borrow’s commanding will—who helped him to make up a kit for the
    common knapsack by pilferings out of their fathers’ shops.

    The Norwich gentleman who fell in with the boys lying in the hedgerow
    near the half-way inn knew one of them, and wormed out of him the
    drift of their enterprise, and engaging a postchaise packed them all
    into it, and in his gig saw them safe home.

    It is true that I had to _hoist_ (not “horse”) Borrow for his
    flogging, but not that there was anything exceptional or capable of
    leaving permanent scars in the infliction.  Mr. Valpy was not given
    to excess of that kind.

    I have never read _Lavengro_, and cannot give any opinion about the
    correct spelling of the “Exul sacerdos” name.

    Borrow’s romance and William Taylor’s love of paradox would doubtless
    often run together, like a pair of well-matched steeds, and carry
    them away in the same direction.  But there was a strong—almost
    wild—_religious_ sentiment in Borrow, of which only faint traces
    appear in W. T.  In Borrow it had always a tendency to pass from a
    sympathetic to an antipathetic form.  He used to gather about him
    three or four favourite schoolfellows, after they had learned their
    class lesson and before the class was called up, and with a sheet of
    paper and book on his knee, invent and tell a story, making rapid
    little pictures of each _dramatis persona_ that came upon the stage.
    The plot was woven and spread out with much ingenuity, and the
    characters were various and well discriminated.  But two of them were
    sure to turn up in every tale, the Devil and the Pope, and the
    working of the drama invariably had the same issue—the utter ruin and
    disgrace of these two potentates.  I had often thought that there was
    a presage here of the mission which produced _The Bible in Spain._—I
    am, dear sir, very truly yours,

                                                          JAMES MARTINEAU.

Yet it is amusing to trace the story through various phases.  Dr.
Martineau’s letter was the outcome of his attention being called to a
statement made in a letter written by a lady in Hampstead to a friend in
Norwich, which runs as follows:

                                                         11_th_ Nov. 1893.

    Dr. Martineau, to amuse some boys at a school treat, told us about
    George Borrow, his schoolfellow: he was always reading adventures of
    smugglers and pirates, etc., and at last, to carry out his ideas, got
    a set of his schoolfellows to promise to join him in an expedition to
    Yarmouth, where he had heard of a ship that he thought would take
    them.  The boys saved all the food they could from their meals, and
    what money they had, and one morning started very early to walk to
    Yarmouth.  They got halfway—to Blofield, I think—when they were so
    tired they had to rest by the roadside, and eat their lunch.  While
    they were resting a gentleman, whose son was at the Free School,
    passed in his gig.  He thought it was very odd so many boys, some of
    whom he had seen, should be waiting about, so he drove back and asked
    them if they would come to dine with him at the inn.  Of course they
    were only too glad, poor boys: but as soon as he had got them all in
    he sent his servant with a letter to Mr. Valpy, who sent a coach and
    brought them all back.  You know what a cruel man that Dr. V. was.
    He made Dr. Martineau take poor Borrow on his back, “horse him,” I
    think he called it, and flogged him so that Dr. M. said he would
    carry the marks for the rest of his life, and he had to keep his bed
    for a fortnight.  The other boys got off with lighter punishment, but
    Borrow was the ringleader.  Those were the “good old times”!  I have
    heard Dr. M. say that not for another life would he go through the
    misery he suffered as “town boy” at that school.

Miss Frances Power Cobbe, who lived next door to Borrow in Hereford
Square, Brompton, in the ’sixties, as we shall see later, has a word to
say on the point:

    Dr. Martineau once told me that he and Borrow had been schoolfellows
    at Norwich some sixty years before.  Borrow had persuaded several of
    his other companions to rob their fathers’ tills, and then the party
    set forth to join some smugglers on the coast.  By degrees the
    truants all fell out of line and were picked up, tired and hungry,
    along the road, and brought back to Norwich School, where condign
    chastisement awaited them.  George Borrow, it seems, received his
    large share _horsed_ on James Martineau’s back!  The early connection
    between the two old men, as I knew them, was irresistibly comic to my
    mind.  Somehow when I asked Mr. Borrow once to come and meet some
    friends at our house he accepted our invitation as usual, but, on
    finding that Dr. Martineau was to be of the party, hastily withdrew
    his acceptance on a transparent excuse; nor did he ever after attend
    our little assemblies without first ascertaining that Dr. Martineau
    was not to be present. {49}

Mr. Valpy of the Norwich Grammar School is scarcely to be blamed that he
was not able to make separate rules for a quite abnormal boy.  Yet, if he
could have known, Borrow was better employed playing truant and living up
to his life-work as a glorified vagabond than in studying in the ordinary
school routine.  George Borrow belonged to a type of boy—there are many
such—who learn much more out of school than in its bounds; and the boy
Borrow, picking up brother vagabonds in Tombland Fair, and already
beginning, in his own peculiar way, his language craze, was laying the
foundations that made _Lavengro_ possible.




CHAPTER VII
IN A LAWYER’S OFFICE


DOUBTS were very frequently expressed in Borrow’s lifetime as to his
having really been articled to a solicitor, but that point has been set
at rest by reference to the Record Office.  Borrow was articled to
Simpson and Rackham of Tuck’s Court, St. Giles’s, Norwich, “for the term
of five years”—from March, 1819, to March, 1824,—and these five years
were spent in and about Norwich, and were full of adventure of a kind
with which the law had nothing to do.  If Borrow had had the makings of a
lawyer he could not have entered the profession under happier auspices.
The firm was an old established one even in his day.  It had been
established in Tuck’s Court as Simpson and Rackham, then it became
Rackham and Morse, Rackham, Cooke and Rackham, and Rackham and Cooke;
finally, Tom Rackham, a famous Norwich man in his day, moved to another
office, and the firm of lawyers who at present occupy the original
offices is called Leathes Prior and Sons.  Borrow has told us frankly
what a poor lawyer’s clerk he made—he was always thinking of things
remote from that profession, of gypsies, of prize-fighters, and of
word-makers.  Yet he loved the head of the firm, William Simpson, who
must have been a kind and tolerant guide to the curious youth.  Simpson
was for a time Town Clerk of Norwich, and his portrait hangs in the
Blackfriars Hall.  Borrow went to live with Mr. Simpson in the Upper
Close near the Grammar School.  Archdeacon Groome recalled having seen
Borrow “reserved and solitary” haunting the precincts of the playground;
another schoolboy, William Drake, remembered him as “tall, spare,
dark-complexioned.” {50}

Borrow tells us how at this time he studied the Welsh language and later
the Danish; his master said that his inattention would assuredly make him
a bankrupt, and his father sighed over his eccentric and impracticable
son.  The passion for languages had indeed caught hold of Borrow.  Among
my Borrow papers I find a memorandum in the handwriting of his
stepdaughter, in which she says:

    I have often heard his mother say, that when a mere child of eight or
    nine years, all his pocket-money was spent in purchasing foreign
    Dictionaries and Grammars; he formed an acquaintance with an old
    woman who kept a bookstall in the market-place of Norwich, whose son
    went voyages to Holland with cattle, and brought home Dutch books,
    which were eagerly bought by little George.  One day the old woman
    was crying, and told him that her son was in prison.  “For doing
    what?” asked the child.  “For taking a silk handkerchief out of a
    gentleman’s pocket.”  “Then,” said the boy, “your son stole the
    pocket handkerchief?”  “No dear, no, my son did not steal,—he only
    glyfaked.”

We have no difficulty in recognising here the heroine of the Moll
Flanders episode in _Lavengro_.  But it was not from casual meetings with
Welsh grooms and Danes and Dutchmen that Borrow acquired even such
command of various languages as was undoubtedly his.  We have it on the
authority of an old fellow-pupil at the Grammar School, Burcham,
afterwards a London police-magistrate, that William Taylor gave him
lessons in German, {51} but he acquired most of his varied knowledge in
these impressionable years in the Corporation Library of Norwich.  Dr.
Knapp found, in his very laudable examination of some of the books,
Borrow’s neat pencil notes, the making of which was not laudable on the
part of his hero.  One book here marked was on ancient Danish literature,
the author of which, Olaus Wormius, gave him the hint for calling himself
Olaus Borrow for a time—a signature that we find in some of Borrow’s
published translations.  Borrow at this time had aspirations of a
literary kind, and Thomas Campbell accepted a translation of Schiller’s
_Diver_, which was sighed “O. B.”  There were also translations from the
German, Dutch, Swedish, and Danish, in the _Monthly Magazine_.  Clearly
Borrow was becoming a formidable linguist, if not a very exact master of
words.  Still he remained a vagabond, and loved to wander over Mousehold
Heath, to the gypsy encampment, and to make friends with the Romany folk;
he loved also to haunt the horse fairs for which Norwich was so
celebrated; and he was not averse from the companionship of wilder
spirits who loved pugilism, if we may trust _Lavengro_, and if we may
assume, as we justly may, that he many times cast youthful, sympathetic
eyes on John Thurtell in these years, the to-be murderer of Weare, then
actually living with his father in a house on the Ipswich Road, Thurtell,
the father, being in no mean position in the city—an alderman, and a
sheriff in 1815.  Yes, there was plenty to do and to see in Norwich, and
Borrow’s memories of it were nearly always kindly.

At the very centre of Borrow’s Norwich life was William Taylor,
concerning whom we have already written much.  It was a Jew named Mousha,
a quack it appears, who pretended to know German and Hebrew, and had but
a smattering of either language, who first introduced Borrow to Taylor,
and there is a fine dialogue between the two in _Lavengro_, of which this
is the closing fragment:

    “Are you happy?” said the young man.

    “Why, no!  And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to
    doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions.  My life, upon the whole, I
    consider a failure; on which account, I would not counsel you, or
    anyone, to follow my example too closely.  It is getting late, and
    you had better be going, especially as your father, you say, is
    anxious about you.  But, as we may never meet again, I think there
    are three things which I may safely venture to press upon you.  The
    first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should never be lost
    sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentlenesses is at all
    times compatible with independence of thought and action.  The second
    thing which I would wish to impress upon you is, that there is always
    some eye upon us; and that it is impossible to keep anything we do
    from the world, as it will assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon
    as it is his interest to do so.  The third thing which I would wish
    to press upon you—”

    “Yes,” said the youth, eagerly bending forward.

    “Is”—and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe upon the
    table—“that it will be as well to go on improving yourself in
    German!”

Taylor it was who, when Borrow determined to try his fortunes in London
with those bundles of unsaleable manuscripts, gave him introductions to
Sir Richard Phillips and to Thomas Campbell.  It was in the agnostic
spirit that he had learned from Taylor that he wrote during this period
to his one friend in London, Roger Kerrison.  Kerrison was grandson of
Sir Roger Kerrison, Mayor of Norwich in 1778, as his son Thomas was after
him in 1806.  Roger was articled, as was Borrow, to the firm of Simpson
and Rackham, while his brother Allday was in a drapery store in Norwich,
but with mind bent on commercial life in Mexico.  George was teaching him
Spanish in these years as a preparation for his great adventure.  Roger
had gone to London to continue his professional experience.  He finally
became a Norwich solicitor and died in 1882.  Allday went to Zacatecas,
Mexico, and acquired riches.  John Borrow followed him there and met with
an early death, as we have seen.  Borrow and Roger Kerrison were great
friends at this time; but when _Lavengro_ was written they had ceased to
be this, and Roger is described merely as an “acquaintance” who had found
lodgings for him on his first visit to London.  As a matter of fact that
trip to London was made easy for Borrow by the opportunity given to him
of sharing lodgings with Roger Kerrison at Milman Street, Bedford Row,
where Borrow put in an appearance on 1st April, 1824, some two months
after the following letter was written:

            TO MR. ROGER KERRISON, 18 MILMAN STREET, BEDFORD ROW.

                                                NORWICH, _Jany._ 20, 1824.

    DEAREST ROGER,—I did not imagine when we separated in the street, on
    the day of your departure from Norwich, that we should not have met
    again: I had intended to have come and seen you off, but happening to
    dine at W. Barron’s I got into discourse, and the hour slipt past me
    unawares.

    I have been again for the last fortnight laid up with that detestable
    complaint which destroys my strength, impairs my understanding, and
    will in all probability send me to the grave, for I am now much worse
    than when you saw me last.  But _nil desperandum est_, if ever my
    health mends, and possibly it may by the time my clerkship is
    expired, I intend to live in London, write plays, poetry, etc., abuse
    religion and get myself prosecuted, for I would not for an ocean of
    gold remain any longer than I am forced in this dull and gloomy town.

    I have no news to regale you with, for there is none abroad, but I
    live in the expectation of shortly hearing from you, and being
    informed of your plans and projects; fear not to be prolix, for the
    slightest particular cannot fail of being interesting to one who
    loves you far better than parent or relation, or even than the God
    whom bigots would teach him to adore, and who subscribes himself,
    Yours unalterably,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

Borrow might improve his German—not sufficiently, as we shall see in our
next chapter—but he would certainly never make a lawyer.  Long years
afterwards, when, as an old man, he was frequently in Norwich, he not
seldom called at that office in Tuck’s Court, where five strange years of
his life had been spent.  A clerk in Rackham’s office in these later
years recalls him waiting for the principal as he in his youth had
watched others waiting. {54}




CHAPTER VIII
AN OLD-TIME PUBLISHER


    “_That’s a strange man_!” _said I to myself_, _after I had left the
    house_, “_he is evidently very clever_; _but I cannot say that I like
    him much with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman’s
    Daughters_.”—LAVENGRO.

BORROW lost his father on the 28th February, 1824.  He reached London on
the 2nd April of the same year, and this was the beginning of his many
wanderings.  He was armed with introductions from William Taylor, and
with some translations in manuscript from Danish and Welsh poetry.  The
principal introduction was to Sir Richard Phillips, a person of some
importance in his day, who has so far received but inadequate treatment
in our own.  Phillips was active in the cause of reform at a certain
period in his life, and would seem to have had many sterling qualities
before he was spoiled by success.  He was born in the neighbourhood of
Leicester, and his father was “in the farming line,” and wanted him to
work on the farm, but he determined to seek his fortune in London.  After
a short absence, during which he clearly proved to himself that he was
not at present qualified to capture London, young Phillips returned to
the farm.  Borrow refers to his patron’s vegetarianism, and on this point
we have an amusing story from his own pen!  He had been, when previously
on the farm, in the habit of attending to a favourite heifer:

    During his sojournment in London this animal had been killed; and on
    the very day of his return to his father’s house, he partook of part
    of his favourite at dinner, without his being made acquainted with
    the circumstance of its having been slaughtered during his absence.
    On learning this, however, he experienced a sudden indisposition; and
    declared that so great an effect had the idea of his having eaten
    part of his slaughtered favourite upon him, that he would never again
    taste animal food; a vow to which he has hitherto firmly adhered.

Farming not being congenial, Phillips hired a small room in Leicester,
and opened a school for instruction in the three R’s, a large blue flag
on a pole being his “sign” or signal to the inhabitants of Leicester, who
seem to have sent their children in considerable numbers to the young
schoolmaster.  But little money was to be made out of schooling, and a
year later Phillips was, by the kindness of friends, started in a small
hosiery shop in Leicester.  Throwing himself into politics on the side of
reform, Phillips now founded the _Leicester Herald_, to which Dr.
Priestley became a contributor.  The first number was issued gratis in
May, 1792.  His _Memoir_ informs us that it was an article in this
newspaper that secured for its proprietor and editor eighteen months’
imprisonment in Leicester gaol, but he was really charged with selling
Paine’s _Rights of Man_.  The worthy knight had probably grown ashamed of
_The Rights of Man_ in the intervening years, and hence the reticence of
the memoir.  Phillips’s gaoler was the once famous Daniel Lambert, the
notorious “fat man” of his day.  In gaol Phillips was visited by Lord
Moira and the Duke of Norfolk.  It was this Lord Moira who said in the
House of Lords in 1797 that “he had seen in Ireland the most absurd, as
well as the most disgusting tyranny that any nation ever groaned under.”
Moira became Governor-General of Bengal and Commander-in-Chief of the
Army in India.  The Duke of Norfolk, a stanch Whig, distinguished himself
in 1798 by a famous toast at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, Arundel Street,
Strand:—“Our sovereign’s health—the majesty of the people!” which greatly
offended George III., who removed Norfolk from his lord-lieutenancy.
Phillips seems to have had a very lax imprisonment, as he conducted the
_Herald_ from gaol, contributing in particular a weekly letter.  Soon
after his release he disposed of the _Herald_, or permitted it to die.
It was revived a few years later as an organ of Toryism.  He had started
in gaol another journal, _The Museum_, and he combined this with his
hosiery business for some time longer, when an opportune fire relieved
him of an apparently uncongenial burden, and with the insurance money in
his pocket he set out for London once more.  Here he started as a hosier
in St. Paul’s Churchyard, lodging meantime in the house of a milliner,
where he fell in love with one of the apprentices, Miss Griffiths, “a
native of Wales.”  His affections were won, we are naïvely informed in
the _Memoir_, by the young woman’s talent in the preparation of a
vegetable pie.  This is our first glimpse of Lady Phillips—“a quiet,
respectable woman,” whom Borrow was to meet at dinner long years
afterwards.  Inspired, it would seem, by the kindly exhortation of Dr.
Priestley, he now transformed his hosiery business in St. Paul’s
Churchyard into a “literary repository,” and started a singularly
successful career as a publisher.  There he produced his long-lived
periodical, _The Monthly Magazine_, which attained to so considerable a
fame.

This, then, was the man to whom George Borrow presented himself in 1824.
Phillips was fifty-seven years of age.  He had made a moderate fortune
and lost it, and was now enjoying another perhaps less satisfying; it
included the profits of _The Monthly Magazine_, repurchased after his
bankruptcy, and some rights in many school-books.  But the great
publishing establishment in Bridge Street had long been broken up.
Borrow would have found Taylor’s introduction to Phillips quite useless
had the worthy knight not at the moment been keen on a new magazine and
seen the importance of a fresh “hack” to help to run it.  Moreover, had
he not written a great book which only the Germans could appreciate,
_Twelve Essays on the Phenomena of Nature_?  Here, he thought, was the
very man to produce this book in a German dress.  Taylor was a thorough
German scholar, and he had vouched for the excellent German of his pupil
and friend.  Hence a certain cordiality which did not win Borrow’s
regard, but was probably greater than many a young man would receive
to-day from a publisher-prince upon whom he might call laden only with a
bundle of translations from the Danish and the Welsh.  Here—in
_Lavengro_—is the interview between publisher and poet, with the editor’s
factotum Bartlett, whom Borrow calls Taggart, as witness:

    “Well, sir, what is your pleasure?” said the big man, in a rough
    tone, as I stood there, looking at him wistfully—as well I might—for
    upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, my principal, I
    may say my only hopes, rested.

    “Sir,” said I, “my name is So-and-so, and I am the bearer of a letter
    to you from Mr. So-and-so, an old friend and correspondent of yours.”

    The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious and
    lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited; he strode
    forward and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze.

    “My dear sir,” said he, “I am rejoiced to see you in London.  I have
    been long anxious for the pleasure—we are old friends, though we have
    never before met.  Taggart,” said he to the man who sat at the desk,
    “this is our excellent correspondent, the friend and pupil of our
    excellent correspondent.”

Phillips explains that he has given up publishing, except “under the
rose,” had only _The Monthly Magazine_, here {58} called _The Magazine_,
but contemplated yet another monthly, _The Universal Review_, here called
_The Oxford_.  He gave Borrow much the same sound advice that a publisher
would have given him to-day—that poetry is not a marketable commodity,
and that if you want to succeed in prose you must, as a rule, write
trash—the most acceptable trash of that day being _The Dairyman’s
Daughter_, which has sold in hundreds of thousands, and is still much
prized by the Evangelical folk who buy the publications of the Religious
Tract Society.  Phillips, moreover, asked him to dine to meet his wife,
his son, and his son’s wife, and we know what an amusing account of that
dinner Borrow gives in _Lavengro_.  Moreover, he set Borrow upon his
first piece of hack-work, the _Celebrated Trials_, and gave him something
to do upon _The Universal Review_ and also upon _The Monthly_.  _The
Universal_ lasted only for six numbers, dying in January, 1825.  In that
year appeared the six volumes of the _Celebrated Trials_, of which we
have something to say in our next chapter.  Borrow found Phillips most
exacting, always suggesting the names of new criminals, and leaving it to
the much sweated author to find the books from which to extract the
necessary material.  Then came the final catastrophe.  Borrow could not
translate Phillips’s great masterpiece, _Twelve Essays on the Proximate
Causes_, into German with any real effectiveness although the testimonial
of the enthusiastic Taylor had led Phillips to assume that he could.
Borrow, as we shall see, knew many languages, and knew them well
colloquially, but he was not a grammarian, and he could not write
accurately in any one of the numerous tongues.  His wonderful memory gave
him the words, but not always any thoroughness of construction.  He could
make a good translation of a poem by Schiller, because he brought his own
poetic fancy to the venture, but he had no interest in Phillips’s
philosophy, and so he doubtless made a very bad translation, as German
friends were soon able to assure Phillips, who had at last to go to a
German for a translation, and the book appeared at Stuttgart in 1826.
Meanwhile, Phillips’s new magazine, _The Universal Review_, went on its
course.  It lasted only for a few numbers, as we have said—from March,
1824, to January, 1825—and it was entirely devoted to reviews, many of
them written by Borrow, but without any distinction calling for comment
to-day.  Dr. Knapp thought that Gifford was the editor, with Phillips’s
son and George Borrow assisting.  Gifford translated _Juvenal_, and it
was for a long time assumed that Borrow wished merely to disguise
Gifford’s identity when he referred to his editor as the translator of
_Quintilian_.  But Sir Leslie Stephen has pointed out in _Literature_
that John Carey (1756–1826), who actually edited _Quintilian_ in 1822,
was Phillips’s editor.  “All the poetry which I reviewed,” Borrow tells
us, “appeared to be published at the expense of the authors.  All the
publications which fell under my notice I treated in a gentlemanly . . .
manner—no personalities, no vituperation, no shabby insinuations;
decorum, decorum was the order of the day.”  And one feels that Borrow
was not very much at home.  But he went on with his _Newgate Lives and
Trials_, which, however, were to be published with another imprint,
although at the instance of Phillips.  By that time he and that worthy
publisher had parted company.  Probably Phillips had set out for
Brighton, which was to be his home for the remainder of his life.




CHAPTER IX
“FAUSTUS” AND “ROMANTIC BALLADS”


IN the early pages of _Lavengro_ Borrow tells us nearly all we are ever
likely to know of his sojourn in London in the years 1824 and 1825,
during which time he had those interviews with Sir Richard Phillips which
are recorded in our last chapter.  Dr. Knapp, indeed, prints a little
note from him to his friend Kerrison, in which he begs his friend to come
to him as he believes he is dying.  Roger Kerrison, it would seem, had
been so frightened by Borrow’s depression and threats of suicide that he
had left the lodgings at 16 Milman Street, Bedford Row, and removed
himself elsewhere, and so Borrow was left friendless to fight what he
called his “horrors” alone.  The depression was not unnatural.  From his
own vivid narrative we learn of Borrow’s bitter failure as an author.  No
one wanted his translations from the Welsh and the Danish, and Phillips
clearly had no further use for him after he had compiled his _Newgate
Lives and Trials_ (Borrow’s name in _Lavengro_ for _Celebrated Trials_),
and was doubtless inclined to look upon him as an impostor for
professing, with William Taylor’s sanction, a mastery of the German
language which had been demonstrated to be false with regard to his own
book.  No “spirited publisher” had come forward to give reality to his
dream thus set down:

    I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited
    publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire
    both considerable fame and profit; not, perhaps, a world-embracing
    fame such as Byron’s; but a fame not to be sneered at, which would
    last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from
    breaking;—profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his
    wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and enable
    me to achieve some other literary enterprise.  I read and re-read my
    ballads, and the more I read them the more I was convinced that the
    public, in the event of their being published, would freely purchase,
    and hail them with the merited applause.

He has a tale to tell us in _Lavengro_ of a certain _Life and Adventures
of Joseph Sell_, _the Great Traveller_, the purchase of which from him by
a publisher at the last moment saved him from starvation and enabled him
to take to the road, there to meet the many adventures that have become
immortal in the pages of _Lavengro_.  Dr. Knapp has encouraged the idea
that _Joseph Sell_ was a real book, ignoring the fact that the very title
suggests doubts, and was probably meant to suggest them.  In Norfolk, as
elsewhere, a “sell” is a word in current slang used for an imposture or a
cheat, and doubtless Borrow meant to make merry with the credulous.
There was, we may be perfectly sure, no _Joseph Sell_, and it is more
reasonable to suppose that it was the sale of his translation of
Klinger’s _Faustus_ that gave him the much needed money at this crisis.
Dr. Knapp pictures Borrow as carrying the manuscript of his translation
of _Faustus_ with him to London.  There is not the slightest evidence of
this.  It may be reasonably assumed that Borrow made the translation from
Klinger’s novel during his sojourn in London.  It is true the preface is
dated “Norwich, April 1825,” but Borrow did not leave London until the
end of May, 1825, that is to say, until after he had negotiated with “W.
Simpkin and R. Marshall,” now the well-known firm of Simpkin and
Marshall, for the publication of the little volume.  That firm,
unfortunately, has no record of the transaction.  My impression is that
Borrow in his wandering after old volumes on crime for his great
compilation, _Celebrated Trials_, came across the French translation of
Klinger’s novel published at Amsterdam.  From that translation he
acknowledges that he borrowed the plate which serves as frontispiece—a
plate entitled “The Corporation Feast.”  It represents the corporation of
Frankfort at a banquet turned by the devil into various animals.  It has
been erroneously assumed that Borrow had had something to do with the
designing of this plate, and that he had introduced the corporation of
Norwich in vivid portraiture into the picture.  Borrow does, indeed,
interpolate a reference to Norwich into his translation of a not too
complimentary character, for at that time he had no very amiable feelings
towards his native city.  Of the inhabitants of Frankfort he says:

    They found the people of the place modelled after so unsightly a
    pattern, with such ugly figures and flat features, that the devil
    owned he had never seen them equalled, except by the inhabitants of
    an English town called Norwich, when dressed in their Sunday’s best.
    {62}

In the original German version of 1791 we have the town of Nuremberg thus
satirised.  But Borrow was not the first translator to seize the
opportunity of adapting the reference for personal ends.  In the French
translation of 1798, published at Amsterdam, and entitled _Les Aventures
du Docteur Faust_, the translator has substituted Auxerre for Nuremberg.
What makes me think that Borrow used only the French version in his
translation is the fact that in his preface he refers to the engravings
of that version, one of which he reproduced; whereas the engravings are
in the German version as well.

Friedrich Maximilian von Klinger (1752–1831), who was responsible for
Borrow’s “first book,” was responsible for much else of an epoch-making
character.  It was he who by one of his many plays, _Sturm und Drang_,
gave a name to an important period of German literature.  In 1780 von
Klinger entered the service of Russia, and in 1790 married a natural
daughter of the Empress Catherine.  Thus his novel, _Faust’s Leben_,
_Thaten und Höllenfahrt_, was actually first published at St. Petersburg
in 1791.  This was seventeen years before Goethe published his first part
of _Faust_, a book which by its exquisite poetry was to extinguish for
all self-respecting Germans Klinger’s turgid prose.  Borrow, like the
translator of Rousseau’s _Confessions_ and of many another classic, takes
refuge more than once in the asterisk.  Klinger’s _Faustus_, with much
that was bad and even bestial, has merits.  The devil throughout shows
his victim a succession of examples of “man’s inhumanity to man.”  Borrow
nowhere mentions Klinger’s name in his book, of which the title-page
runs:

    Faustus: His Life, Death, and Descent into Hell.  Translated from the
    German.  London: W. Simpkin and R. Marshall, 1825.

I doubt very much if he really knew who was the author, as the book in
both the German editions I have seen as well as in the French version
bears no author’s name on its title-page.  A letter of Borrow’s in the
possession of an American collector indicates that he was back in Norwich
in September, 1825, after, we may assume, three months’ wandering among
gypsies and tinkers.  It is written from Willow Lane, and is apparently
to the publishers of _Faustus_:

    As your bill will become payable in a few days, I am willing to take
    thirty copies of _Faustus_ instead of the money.  The book has been
    _burnt_ in both the libraries here, and, as it has been talked about,
    I may perhaps be able to dispose of some in the course of a year or
    so.

This letter clearly demonstrates that the guileless Simpkin and the
equally guileless Marshall had paid Borrow for the right to publish
_Faustus_, and even though part of the payment was met by a bill, I think
we may safely find in the transaction whatever verity there may be in the
_Joseph Sell_ episode.  “Let me know how you sold your manuscript,”
writes Borrow’s brother to him so late as the year 1829.  And this was
doubtless _Faustus_.  The action of the Norwich libraries in burning the
book would clearly have had the sympathy of one of its few reviewers had
he been informed of the circumstance.  It is thus that the _Literary
Gazette_ for 16th July, 1825, refers to Borrow’s little book:

    This is another work to which no respectable publisher ought to have
    allowed his name to be put.  The political allusions and metaphysics,
    which may have made it popular among a low class in Germany, do not
    sufficiently season its lewd scenes and coarse descriptions for
    British palates.  We have occasionally publications for the
    fireside—these are only fit for the fire.

Borrow returned then to Norwich in the autumn of 1825 a disappointed man
so far as concerned the giving of his poetical translations to the world,
from which he had hoped so much.  No “spirited publisher” had been
forthcoming, although Dr. Knapp’s researches have unearthed a “note” in
_The Monthly Magazine_, which, after the fashion of the anticipatory
literary gossip of our day, announced that Olaus Borrow was about to
issue _Legends and Popular Superstitions of the North_, “in two elegant
volumes.”  But this never appeared.  Quite a number of Borrow’s
translations from divers languages had appeared from time to time,
beginning with a version of Schiller’s “Diver” in _The New Monthly
Magazine_ for 1823, continuing with Stolberg’s “Ode to a Mountain
Torrent” in _The Monthly Magazine_, and including the “Deceived Merman.”
These he collected into book form and, not to be deterred by the coldness
of heartless London publishers, issued them by subscription.  Three
copies of the slim octavo book lie before me, with separate title-pages:

(1) Romantic Ballads, Translated from the Danish; and Miscellaneous
Pieces by George Borrow.  Norwich: Printed and Published by S. Wilkin,
Upper Haymarket, 1826.

(2) Romantic Ballads, Translated from the Danish; and Miscellaneous
Pieces by George Borrow.  London: Published by John Taylor, Waterloo
Place, Pall Mall, 1826.

(3) Romantic Ballads, Translated from the Danish; and Miscellaneous
Pieces, by George Borrow.  London: Published by Wightman and Cramp, 24
Paternoster Row, 1826.

The book contains an introduction in verse by Allan Cunningham, whose
acquaintance Borrow seems to have made in London.  It commences:

    Sing, sing, my friend, breathe life again
    Through Norway’s song and Denmark’s strain:
    On flowing Thames and Forth, in flood,
    Pour Haco’s war-song, fierce and rude.

Cunningham had not himself climbed very far up the literary ladder in
1825, although he was forty-one years of age.  At one time a stonemason
in a Scots village, he had entered Chantrey’s studio, and was
“superintendent of the works” to that eminent sculptor at the time when
Borrow called upon him in London, and made an acquaintance which never
seems to have extended beyond this courtesy to the younger man’s _Danish
Ballads_.  The point of sympathy of course was that in the year 1825
Cunningham had published _The Songs of Scotland_, _Ancient and Modern_.

Five hundred copies of the _Romantic Ballads_ were printed in Norwich by
S. Wilkin, about two hundred being subscribed for, mainly in that city,
the other three hundred being dispatched to London—to Taylor, whose name
appears on the London title-page, although he seems to have passed on the
book very quickly to Wightman and Cramp, for what reason we are not
informed.  Borrow tells us that the two hundred subscriptions of half a
guinea “amply paid expenses,” but he must have been cruelly disappointed,
as he was doomed to be more than once in his career, by the lack of
public appreciation outside of Norwich.  Yet there were many reasons for
this.  If Scott had made the ballad popular, he had also destroyed it for
a century—perhaps for ever—by substituting the novel as the favourite
medium for the storyteller.  Great ballads we were to have in every
decade from that day to this, but never another “best seller” like
_Marmion_ or _The Lady of the Lake_.  Our _popular_ poets had to express
themselves in other ways.  Then Borrow, although his verse has been
underrated by those who have not seen it at its best, or who are
incompetent to appraise poetry, was not very effective here,
notwithstanding that the stories in verse in _Romantic Ballads_ are all
entirely interesting.  This fact is most in evidence in a case where a
real poet, not of the greatest, has told the same story.  We owe a
rendering of “The Deceived Merman” to both George Borrow and Matthew
Arnold, but how widely different the treatment!  The story is of a merman
who rose out of the water and enticed a mortal—fair Agnes or
Margaret—under the waves; she becomes his wife, bears him children, and
then asks to return to earth.  Arriving there she refuses to go back when
the merman comes disconsolately to the church-door for her.  Here are a
few lines from the two versions, which demonstrate that here at least
Borrow was no poet and that Arnold was a very fine one:

          GEORGE BORROW                       MATTHEW ARNOLD
   “Now, Agnes, Agnes list to me,      We climbed on the graves, on
   Thy babes are longing so after      the stones worn with rains,
   thee.”                              And we gazed up the aisles
   “I cannot come yet, here must       through the small leaded
   I stay                              panes.
   Until the priest shall have         She sate by the pillar; we saw
   said his say.”                      her clear:
   And when the priest had said        “Margaret, hist! come quick,
   his say,                            we are here!
   She thought with her mother at      Dear heart,” I said, “we are
   home she’d stay.                    long alone;
   “O Agnes, Agnes, list to me,        The sea grows stormy, the
   Thy babes are sorrowing after       little ones moan.”
   thee.”                              But, ah, she gave me never a
   “Let them sorrow and sorrow         look,
   their fill,                         For her eyes were sealed on
   But back to them never return       the holy book!
   I will.”                            Loud prays the priest; shut
                                       stands the door.
                                       Come away, children, call no
                                       more!
                                       Come away, come down, call no
                                       more!

It says much for the literary proclivities of Norwich at this period that
Borrow should have had so kindly a reception for his book as the
subscription list implies.  At the end of each of Wilkin’s two hundred
copies a “list of subscribers” is given.  It opens with the name of the
Bishop of Norwich, Dr. Bathurst; it includes the equally familiar names
of the Gurdons, Gurneys, Harveys, Rackhams, Hares (then as now of Stow
Hall), Woodhouses—all good Norfolk or Norwich names that have come down
to our time.  Mayor Hawkes, who is made famous in _Lavengro_ by Haydon’s
portrait, is there also.  Among London names we find John Bowring,
Borrow’s new friend, and later to be counted an enemy, Thomas Campbell,
Benjamin Haydon and John Timbs.  But the name that most strikes the eye
is that of “Thurtell.”  Three of the family are among the subscribers
including Mr. George Thurtell of Eaton, near Norwich, brother of the
murderer; there also is the name of John Thurtell, executed for murder
exactly a year before.  This would seem to imply that Borrow had been a
long time collecting these names and subscriptions, and doubtless before
the all-too-famous crime of the previous year he had made Thurtell
promise to become a subscriber, and, let us hope, had secured his
half-guinea.  That may account, with so sensitive and impressionable a
man as our author, for the kindly place that Weare’s unhappy murderer
always had in his memory.  Borrow, in any case, was now, for a few years,
to become more than ever a vagabond.  Not a single further appeal did he
make to an unsympathetic literary public for a period of five years at
least.




CHAPTER X
“CELEBRATED TRIALS” AND JOHN THURTELL


BORROW’S first book was _Faustus_, and his second was _Romantic Ballads_,
the one being published, as we have seen, in 1825, the other in 1826.
This chronology has the appearance of ignoring the _Celebrated Trials_,
but then it is scarcely possible to count _Celebrated Trials_ {67a} as
one of Borrow’s books at all.  It is largely a compilation, exactly as
the _Newgate Calendar_ and Howell’s _State Trials_ are compilations.  In
his preface to the work Borrow tells us that he has differentiated the
book from the _Newgate Calendar_ {67b} and the _State Trials_ {67c} by
the fact that he had made considerable compression.  This was so, and in
fact in many cases he has used the blue pencil rather than the pen—at
least in the earlier volumes.  But Borrow attempted something much more
comprehensive than the _Newgate Calendar_ and the _State Trials_ in his
book.  In the former work the trials range from 1700 to 1802; in the
latter from the trial of Becket in 1163 to the trial of Thistlewood in
1820.  Both works are concerned solely with this country.  Borrow went
all over Europe, and the trials of Joan of Arc, Count Struensee, Major
André, Count Cagliostro, Queen Marie Antoinette, the Duc d’Enghien, and
Marshal Ney, are included in his volumes.  Moreover, while what may be
called state trials are numerous, including many of the cases in
_Howell_, the greater number are of a domestic nature, including nearly
all that are given in the _Newgate Calendar_.  In the first two volumes
he has naturally mainly state trials to record; the later volumes record
sordid everyday crimes, and here Borrow is more at home.  His style when
he rewrites the trials is more vigorous, and his narrative more
interesting.  It is to be hoped that the exigent publisher, who he
assures us made him buy the books for his compilation out of the £50 that
he paid for it, was able to present him with a set of the _State Trials_,
if only in one of the earlier and cheaper issues of the work than the one
that now has a place in every lawyer’s library.

The third volume of _Celebrated Trials_, although it opens with the trial
of Algernon Sidney, is made up largely of crime of the more ordinary
type, and this sordid note continues through the three final volumes.  I
have said that _Faustus_ is an allegory of “man’s inhumanity to man.”
That is emphatically, in more realistic form, the distinguishing feature
of _Celebrated Trials_.  Amid these records of savagery, it is a positive
relief to come across such a trial as that of poor Joseph Baretti.
Baretti, it will be remembered, was brought to trial because, when some
roughs set upon him in the street, he drew a dagger, which he usually
carried “to carve fruit and sweetmeats,” and killed his assailant.  In
that age, when our law courts were a veritable shambles, how cheerful it
is to find that the jury returned a verdict of “self-defence.”  But then
Sir Joshua Reynolds, Edmund Burke, Dr. Johnson, and David Garrick gave
evidence to character, representing Baretti as “a man of benevolence,
sobriety, modesty, and learning.”  This trial is an oasis of mercy in a
desert of drastic punishment.  Borrow carries on his “trials” to the very
year before the date of publication, and the last trial in the book is
that of “Henry Fauntleroy, Esquire,” for forgery.  Fauntleroy was a quite
respectable banker of unimpeachable character, to whom had fallen at a
very early age the charge of a banking business that was fundamentally
unsound.  It is clear that he had honestly endeavoured to put things on a
better footing, that he lived simply, and had no gambling or other vices.
At a crisis, however, he forged a document, in other words signed a
transfer of stock which he had no right to do, the “subscribing witness”
to his power of attorney being Robert Browning, a clerk in the Bank of
England, and father of the distinguished poet.  Well, Fauntleroy was
sentenced to be hanged—and he was duly hanged at Newgate on 30th October,
1824, only thirteen years before Queen Victoria came to the throne!

Borrow has affirmed that from a study of the _Newgate Calendar_ and the
compilation of his _Celebrated Trials_ he first learned to write genuine
English, and it is a fact that there are some remarkably dramatic effects
in these volumes, although one here withholds from Borrow the title of
“author” because so much is “scissors and paste,” and the purple passages
are only occasional.  All the same I am astonished that no one has
thought it worth while to make a volume of these dramatic episodes, which
are clearly the work of Borrow, and owe nothing to the innumerable
pamphlets and chap-books that he brought into use.  Take such an episode
as that of Schening and Harlin, two young German women, one of whom
pretended to have murdered her infant in the presence of the other
because she madly supposed that this would secure them bread—and they
were starving.  The trial, the scene at the execution, the confession on
the scaffold of the misguided but innocent girl, the respite, and then
the execution—these make up as thrilling a narrative as is contained in
the pages of fiction.  Assuredly Borrow did not spare himself in that
race round the bookstalls of London to find the material which the
grasping Sir Richard Phillips required from him.  He found, for example,
Sir Herbert Croft’s volume, _Love and Madness_, the supposed
correspondence of Parson Hackman and Martha Reay, whom he murdered.  That
correspondence is now known to be an invention of Croft’s.  Borrow
accepted it as genuine, and incorporated the whole of it in his story of
the Hackman trial.

But after all, the trial which we read with greatest interest in these
volumes is that of John Thurtell, because Borrow had known Thurtell in
his youth, and gives us more than one glimpse of him in _Lavengro_ and
_The Romany Rye_.

Rarely in our criminal jurisprudence has a murder trial excited more
interest than that of John Thurtell for the murder of Weare—the Gill’s
Hill Murder, as it was called.  Certainly no murder of modern times has
had so many indirect literary associations.  Borrow, Carlyle, Hazlitt,
Walter Scott, and Thackeray are among those who have given it lasting
fame by comment of one kind or another; and the lines ascribed to
Theodore Hook are perhaps as well known as any other memory of the
tragedy:

    They cut his throat from ear to ear,
       His brain they battered in,
    His name was Mr. William Weare,
       He dwelt in Lyon’s Inn.

Carlyle’s division of human beings of the upper classes into “noblemen,
gentlemen, and gigmen,” which occurs in his essay on Richter, and a later
reference to gigmanhood which occurs in his essay on Goethe’s Works, had
their inspiration in an episode in the trial of Thurtell, when the
question being asked, “What sort of a person was Mr. Weare?” brought the
answer, “He was always a respectable person.”  “What do you mean by
respectable?” the witness was asked.  “He kept a gig,” was the reply,
which brought the word “gigmanity” into our language. {70}

I have said that John Thurtell and two members of his family became
subscribers for Borrow’s _Romantic Ballads_, and it is certain that
Borrow must often have met Thurtell, that is to say looked at him from a
distance, in some of the scenes of prize-fighting which both affected,
Borrow merely as a youthful spectator, Thurtell as a reckless backer of
one or other combatant.  Thurtell’s father was an alderman of Norwich
living in a good house on the Ipswich Road when the son’s name rang
through England as that of a murderer.  The father was born in 1765 and
died in 1846.  Four years after his son John was hanged he was elected
Mayor of Norwich, in recognition of his violent ultra-Whig or blue and
white political opinions.  He had been nominated as mayor both in 1818
and 1820, but it was perhaps the extraordinary “advertisement” of his
son’s shameful death that gave the citizens of Norwich the necessary
enthusiasm to elect Alderman Thurtell as mayor in 1828.  It was in those
oligarchical days a not unnatural fashion to be against the Government.
The feast at the Guildhall on this occasion was attended by four hundred
and sixty guests.  A year before John Thurtell was hanged, in 1823, his
father moved a violent political resolution in Norwich, but was
out-Heroded by Cobbett, who moved a much more extreme one over his head
and carried it by an immense majority.  It was a brutal time, and there
cannot be a doubt that Alderman Thurtell, while busy setting the world
straight, failed to bring up his family very well.  John, as we shall
see, was hanged; Thomas, another brother, was associated with him in many
disgraceful transactions; while a third brother, George, also a
subscriber, by the way, to Borrow’s _Romantic Ballads_, who was a
landscape gardener at Eaton, died in prison in 1848 under sentence for
theft.  Apart from a rather riotous and bad bringing up, which may be
pleaded in extenuation, it is not possible to waste much sympathy over
John Thurtell.  He had thoroughly disgraced himself in Norwich before he
removed to London.  There he got further and further into difficulties,
and one of the many publications which arose out of his trial and
execution was devoted to pointing the moral of the evils of gambling.  It
was bad luck at cards, and the loss of much money to William Weare, who
seems to have been an exceedingly vile person, that led to the murder.
Thurtell had a friend named Probert who lived in a quiet cottage in a
byway of Hertfordshire—Gill’s Hill, near Elstree.  He suggested to Weare
in a friendly way that they should go for a day’s shooting at Gill’s
Hill, and that Probert would put them up for the night.  Weare went home,
collected a few things in a bag, and took a hackney coach to a given
spot, where Thurtell met him with a gig.  The two men drove out of London
together.  The date was 24th October, 1823.  On the high-road they met
and passed Probert and a companion named Joseph Hunt, who had even been
instructed by Thurtell to bring a sack with him—this was actually used to
carry away the body—and must therefore have been privy to the intended
murder.  By the time the second gig containing Probert and Hunt arrived
near Probert’s cottage, Thurtell met it in the roadway, according to
their accounts, and told the two men that he had done the deed; that he
had killed Weare first by ineffectively shooting him, then by dashing out
his brains with his pistol, and finally by cutting his throat.  Thurtell
further told his friends, if their evidence was to be trusted, that he
had left the body behind a hedge.  In the night the three men placed the
body in a sack and carried it to a pond near Probert’s house and threw it
in.  The next night they fished it out and threw it into another pond
some distance away.  Thurtell meanwhile had divided the spoil—some £20,
which he said was all that he had obtained from Weare’s body—with his
companions.  Hunt, it may be mentioned, afterwards declared his
conviction that Thurtell, when he first committed the murder, had removed
his victim’s principal treasure, notes to the value of three or four
hundred pounds.  Suspicion was aroused, and the hue and cry raised
through the finding by a labourer of the pistol in the hedge, and the
discovery of a pool of blood on the roadway.  Probert promptly turned
informer; Hunt also tried to save himself by a rambling confession, and
it was he who revealed where the body was concealed, accompanying the
officers to the pond and pointing out the exact spot where the corpse
would be found.  When recovered the body was taken to the Artichoke inn
at Elstree, and here the coroner’s inquest was held.  Meanwhile Thurtell
had been arrested in London and taken down to Elstree to be present at
the inquest.  A verdict of murder against all three miscreants was given
by the coroner’s jury, and Weare’s body was buried in Elstree Churchyard.

In January, 1824, John Thurtell was brought to trial at Hertford Assizes,
and Hunt also.  But first of all there were some interesting proceedings
in the Court of King’s Bench, before the Chief Justice and two other
judges, complaining that Thurtell had not been allowed to see his
counsel.  And there were other points at issue.  Thurtell’s counsel moved
for a criminal injunction against the proprietor of the Surrey Theatre in
that a performance had been held there, and was being held, which assumed
Thurtell’s guilt, the identical horse and gig being exhibited in which
Weare was supposed to have ridden to the scene of his death.  Finally
this was arranged, and a _mandamus_ was granted “commanding the admission
of legal advisers to the prisoner.”  At last the trial came on at
Hertford before Mr. Justice Park.  It lasted two days, although the judge
wished to go on all night in order to finish in one.  But the protest of
Thurtell, supported by the jury, led to an adjournment.  Probert had been
set free and appeared as a witness.  The jury gave a verdict of guilty,
and Thurtell and Hunt were sentenced to be hanged, but Hunt escaped with
transportation.  Thurtell made his own speech for the defence, which had
a great effect upon the jury, until the judge swept most of its
sophistries away.  It was, however, a very able performance.  Thurtell’s
line of defence was to declare that Hunt and Probert were the murderers,
and that he was a victim of their perjuries.  If hanged, he would be
hanged on circumstantial evidence only, and he gave, with great
elaboration, the details of a number of cases where men had been
wrongfully hanged upon circumstantial evidence.  His lawyers had
apparently provided him with books containing these examples from the
past, and his month in prison was devoted to this defence, which showed
great ability.  The trial took place on 6th January, 1824, and Thurtell
was hanged on the 9th, in front of Hertford Gaol: his body was given to
the Anatomical Museum in London.  A contemporary report says that
Thurtell, on the scaffold,

    fixed his eyes on a young gentleman in the crowd, whom he had
    frequently seen as a spectator at the commencement of the proceedings
    against him.  Seeing that the individual was affected by the
    circumstances, he removed them to another quarter, and in so doing
    recognised an individual well known in the sporting circles, to whom
    he made a slight bow.

The reader of _Lavengro_ might speculate whether that “young gentleman”
was Borrow, but Borrow was in Norwich in January, 1824, his father dying
in the following month.  In his _Celebrated Trials_ Borrow tells the
story of the execution with wonderful vividness, and supplies effective
quotations from “an eyewitness.”  Borrow no doubt exaggerated his
acquaintance with Thurtell, as in his _Robinson Crusoe_ romance he was
fully entitled to do for effect.  He was too young at the time to have
been much noticed by a man so much his senior.  The writer who accepts
Borrow’s own statement that he really gave him “some lessons in the noble
art” is too credulous, and the statement that Thurtell’s house “on the
Ipswich Road was a favourite rendezvous for the Fancy” is unsupported by
evidence.  Old Alderman Thurtell owned the house in question, and we find
no evidence that he encouraged his son’s predilection for prize-fighting.




CHAPTER XI
BORROW AND THE FANCY


GEORGE BORROW had no sympathy with Thurtell the gambler.  I find no
evidence in his career of any taste for games of hazard or indeed for
games of any kind, although we recall that as a mere child he was able to
barter a pack of cards for the Irish language.  But he had certainly very
considerable sympathy with the notorious criminal as a friend and patron
of prize-fighting.  This now discredited pastime Borrow ever counted a
virtue.  Was not his God-fearing father a champion in his way, or, at
least, had he not in open fight beaten the champion of the moment, Big
Ben Brain?  Moreover, who was there in those days with blood in his veins
who did not count the cultivation of the Fancy as the noblest and most
manly of pursuits!  Why, William Hazlitt, a prince among English
essayists, whose writings are a beloved classic in our day, wrote in _The
New Monthly Magazine_ in these very years his own eloquent impression,
and even introduces John Thurtell more than once as “Tom Turtle,” little
thinking then of the fate that was so soon to overtake him.  What could
be more lyrical than this:

    Reader, have you ever seen a fight?  If not, you have a pleasure to
    come, at least if it is a fight like that between the Gas-man and
    Bill Neate.

And then the best historian of prize-fighting, Henry Downes Miles, the
author of _Pugilistica_, has his own statement of the case.  You will
find it in his monograph on John Jackson, the pugilist who taught Lord
Byron to box, and received the immortality of an eulogistic footnote in
_Don Juan_.  Here is Miles’s defence:

    No small portion of the public has taken it for granted that pugilism
    and blackguardism are synonymous.  It is as an antidote to these
    slanderers that we pen a candid history of the boxers; and taking the
    general habits of men of humble origin (elevated by their courage and
    bodily gifts to be the associates of those more fortunate in worldly
    position), we fearlessly maintain that the best of our boxers present
    as good samples of honesty, generosity of spirit, goodness of heart
    and humanity, as an equal number of men of any class of society.

From Samuel Johnson onwards literary England has had a kindness for the
pugilist, although the magistrate has long, and rightly, ruled him out as
impossible.  Borrow carried his enthusiasm further than any, and no
account of him that concentrates attention upon his accomplishment as a
distributor of Bibles and ignores his delight in fisticuffs, has any
grasp of the real George Borrow.  Indeed it may be said, and will be
shown in the course of our story, that Borrow entered upon Bible
distribution in the spirit of a pugilist rather than that of an
evangelist.  But to return to Borrow’s pugilistic experiences.  He
claims, as we have seen, occasionally to have put on the gloves with John
Thurtell.  He describes vividly enough his own conflicts with the Flaming
Tinman and with Petulengro.  His one heroine, Isopel Berners, had “Fair
Play and Long Melford” as her ideal, “Long Melford” being the good
right-handed blow with which Lavengro conquered the Tinman.  Isopel, we
remember, had learned in Long Melford Union to “Fear God and take your
own part!”

George Borrow, indeed, was at home with the whole army of prize-fighters,
who came down to us like the Roman Caesars or the Kings of England in a
noteworthy procession, their dynasty commencing with James Fig of Thame,
who began to reign in 1719, and closing with Tom King, who beat Heenan in
1863, or with Jem Mace, who flourished in a measure until 1872.  With
what zest must Borrow have followed the account of the greatest battle of
all, that between Heenan and Tom Sayers at Farnborough in 1860, when it
was said that Parliament had been emptied to patronise a prize-fight; and
this although Heenan complained that he had been chased out of eight
counties.  For by this time, in spite of lordly patronage, pugilism was
doomed, and the more harmless boxing had taken its place.  “Pity that
corruption should have crept in amongst them,” sighed Lavengro in a
memorable passage, in which he also has his paean of praise for the
bruisers of England:

    Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England—what were the gladiators
    of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days,
    compared to England’s bruisers?

Yes: Borrow was never hard on the bruisers of England, and followed their
achievements, it may be said, from his cradle to his grave.  His beloved
father had brought him up, so to speak, upon memories of one who was
champion before George was born—Big Ben Brain of Bristol.  Brain,
although always called “Big Ben,” was only 5 feet 10 in. high.  He was
for years a coal porter at a wharf off the Strand.  It was in 1791 that
Ben Brain won the championship which placed him upon a pinnacle in the
minds of all robust people.  The Duke of Hamilton once backed him against
the then champion, Tom Johnson, for five hundred guineas.  “Public
expectation,” says _The Oracle_, a contemporary newspaper, “never was
raised so high by any pugilistic contest; great bets were laid, and it is
estimated £20,000 was wagered on this occasion.”  Ben Brain was the
undisputed conqueror, we are told, in eighteen rounds, occupying no more
than twenty-one minutes.  Brain died in 1794, and all the biographers
tell of the piety of his end, so that Borrow’s father may have read the
Bible to him in his last moments, as Borrow avers, but I very much doubt
the accuracy of the following:

    Honour to Brain, who four months after the event which I have now
    narrated was champion of England, having conquered the heroic
    Johnson.  Honour to Brain, who, at the end of other four months, worn
    out by the dreadful blows which he had received in his manly combats,
    expired in the arms of my father, who read the Bible to him in his
    latter moments—Big Ben Brain.

Brain actually lived for four years after his fight with Johnson, but
perhaps the fight in Hyde Park between Borrow’s father and Ben, as
narrated in _Lavengro_, is all romancing.  It makes good reading in any
case, as does Borrow’s eulogy of some of his own contemporaries of the
prize-ring.

It is all very accurate history.  We know that there really was this
wonderful gathering of the bruisers of England assembled in the
neighbourhood of Norwich in July, 1820, that is to say, sixteen miles
away at North Walsham.  More than 25,000 men, it is estimated, gathered
to see Edward Painter of Norwich fight Tom Oliver of London for a purse
of a hundred guineas.  There were three Belchers, heroes of the
prize-ring, but Borrow here refers to Tom, whose younger brother, Jem,
had died in 1811 at the age of thirty.  Tom Belcher died in 1854 at the
age of seventy-one.  Thomas Cribb was champion of England from 1805 to
1820.  One of Cribb’s greatest fights was with Jem Belcher in 1807, when,
in the forty-first and last round, as we are told by the chroniclers,
“Cribb proving the stronger man put in two weak blows, when Belcher,
quite exhausted, fell upon the ropes and gave up the combat.”  Cribb had
a prolonged career of glory, but he died in poverty in 1848.  Happier was
an earlier champion, John Gully, who held the glorious honour for three
years—from 1805 to 1808.  Gully turned tavern-keeper, and making a
fortune out of sundry speculations, entered Parliament as member for
Pontefract, and lived to be eighty years of age.

It is necessary to dwell upon Borrow as the friend of prize-fighters,
because no one understands Borrow who does not realise that his real
interests were not in literature but in action.  He would have liked to
join the army but could not obtain a commission.  And so he had to be
content with such fighting as was possible.  He cared more for the men
who could use their fists than for those who could but wield the pen.  He
would, we may be sure, have rejoiced to know that many more have visited
the tomb of Tom Sayers in Highgate Cemetery than have visited the tomb of
George Eliot in the same burial-ground.  A curious moral obliquity this,
you may say.  But to recognise it is to understand one side of Borrow,
and an interesting side withal.




CHAPTER XII
EIGHT YEARS OF VAGABONDAGE


THERE has been much nonsense written concerning what has been called the
“veiled period” of George Borrow’s life.  This has arisen from a letter
which Richard Ford of the _Handbook for Travellers in Spain_ wrote to
Borrow after a visit to him at Oulton in 1844.  Borrow was full of his
projected _Lavengro_, the idea of which he outlined to his friends.  He
was a genial man in those days, on the wave of a popular success.  Was
not _The Bible in Spain_ passing merrily from edition to edition!
Borrow, it is clear, told Ford that he was writing his “Autobiography”—he
had no misgiving then as to what he should call it—and he evidently
proposed to end it in 1825 and not in 1833, when the Bible Society gave
him his real chance in life.  His friend Ford indeed begged him not to
“drop a curtain” over the eight years succeeding 1825.  “No doubt,” says
Ford, “it will excite a mysterious interest,” but then he adds in effect
it will lead to a wrong construction being put upon the omission.  Well,
there can be but one interpretation, and that not an unnatural one.
Borrow had a very rough time during these years.  His vanity was hurt,
and no wonder.  It seems a strange matter to us now that Charles Dickens
should have been ashamed of the blacking-bottle episode of his boyhood.
Genius has a right to a poverty-stricken—even to a sordid, boyhood.  But
genius has no right to a sordid manhood, and here was George “Olaus”
Borrow, who was able to claim the friendship of William Taylor, the
German scholar; who was able to boast of his association with sound
scholastic foundations, with the High School at Edinburgh and the Grammar
School at Norwich; who was a great linguist and had made rare
translations from the poetry of many nations, starving in the byways of
England and of France.  What a fate for such a man that he should have
been so unhappy for eight years; should have led the most penurious of
roving lives, and almost certainly have been in prison as a common tramp.
{79}  It was all very well to romance about a poverty-stricken youth.
But when youth had fled there ceased to be romance, and only sordidness
was forthcoming.  From his twenty-third to his thirty-first year George
Borrow was engaged in a hopeless quest for the means of making a living.
There is, however, very little mystery.  Many incidents of each of these
years are revealed at one or other point.  His home, to which he returned
from time to time, was with his mother at the cottage in Willow Lane,
Norwich.  Whether he made sufficient profit out of a horse, as in _The
Romany Rye_, to enable him to travel upon the proceeds, as Dr. Knapp
thinks, we cannot say.  Dr. Knapp is doubtless right in assuming that
during this period he led “a life of roving adventure,” his own
authorised version of his career at the time, as we may learn from the
biography in his handwriting from _Men of the Time_.  But how far this
roving was confined to England, how far it extended to other lands, we do
not know.  We are, however, satisfied that he starved through it all,
that he rarely had a penny in his pocket.  At a later date he gave it to
be understood at times that he had visited the East, and that India had
revealed her glories to him.  We do not believe it.  Defoe was Borrow’s
master in literature, and he shared Defoe’s right to lie magnificently on
occasion.  Borrow certainly did some travel in these years, but it was
sordid, lacking in all dignity—never afterwards to be recalled.  For the
most part, however, he was in England.  We know that Borrow was in
Norwich in 1826, for we have seen him superintending the publication of
the _Romantic Ballads_ by subscription in that year.  In that year also
he wrote the letter to Haydon, the painter, to say that he was ready to
sit for him, but that he was “going to the south of France in a little
better than a fortnight.”  We know also that he was in Norwich in 1827,
because it was then, and not in 1818 as described in _Lavengro_, that he
“doffed his hat” to the famous trotting stallion Marshland Shales, when
that famous old horse was exhibited at Tombland Fair on the Castle Hill.
We meet him next as the friend of Dr. Bowring.  The letters to Bowring we
must leave to another chapter, but they commence in 1829 and continue
through 1830 and 1831.  Through them all Borrow shows himself alive to
the necessity of obtaining an appointment of some kind, and meanwhile he
is hard at work upon his translations from various languages, which, in
conjunction with Dr. Bowring, he is to issue as _Songs of Scandinavia_.
It has been said that in 1829 he made the translation of the _Memoirs of
Vidocq_, which appeared in that year with a short preface by the
translator. {80a}  But these little volumes bear no internal evidence of
Borrow’s style, and there is no external evidence to support the
assumption that he had a hand in their publication.  His occasional
references to Vidocq are probably due to the fact that he had read this
little book.

I have before me one very lengthy manuscript of Borrow’s of this period.
It is dated December, 1829, and is addressed, “To the Committee of the
Honourable and Praiseworthy Association, known by the name of the
Highland Society.” {80b}  It is a proposal that they should publish in
two thick octavo volumes a series of translations of the best and most
approved poetry of the ancient and modern Scots-Gaelic bards.  Borrow was
willing to give two years to the project, for which he pleads “with no
sordid motive.”  It is a dignified letter, which will be found in one of
Dr. Knapp’s appendices—so presumably Borrow made two copies of it.  The
offer was in any case declined, and so Borrow passed from disappointment
to disappointment during these eight years, which no wonder he desired,
in the coming years of fame and prosperity, to veil as much as possible.
The lean years in the lives of any of us are not those upon which we
delight to dwell, or upon which we most cheerfully look back. {80c}




CHAPTER XIII
SIR JOHN BOWRING


“POOR George. . . . I wish he were making money.  He works hard and
remains poor”—thus wrote John Borrow to his mother in 1830 from Mexico,
and it disposes in a measure of any suggestion of mystery with regard to
five of those years that he wished to veil.  They were not spent, it is
clear, in rambling in the East, as he tried to persuade Colonel Napier
many years later.  They were spent for the most part in diligent attempt
at the capture of words, in reading the poetry and the prose of many
lands, and in making translations of unequal merit from these diverse
tongues.  This is indisputably brought home to me by the manuscripts in
my possession.  These manuscripts represent years of work.  Borrow has
been counted a considerable linguist, and he had assuredly a reading and
speaking acquaintance with a great many languages.  But this knowledge
was acquired, as all knowledge is, with infinite trouble and patience.  I
have before me hundreds of small sheets of paper upon which are written
English words and their equivalents in some twenty or thirty languages.
These serve to show that Borrow learnt a language as a small boy in an
old-fashioned system of education learns his Latin or French—by writing
down simple words—“father,” “mother,” “horse,” “dog,” and so on with the
same word in Latin or French in front of them.  Of course Borrow had a
superb memory and abundant enthusiasm, and so was enabled to add one
language to another and to make his translations from such books as he
could obtain with varied success.  I believe that nearly all the books
that he handled came from the Norwich library, and when Mrs. Borrow wrote
to her elder son to say that George was working hard, as we may fairly
assume, from the reply quoted, that she did, she was recalling this
laborious work at translation that must have gone on for years.  We have
seen the first fruit in the translation from the German—or possibly from
the French—of Klinger’s _Faustus_; we have seen it in _Romantic Ballads_
from the Danish, the Irish, and the Swedish.  Now there really seemed a
chance of a more prosperous utilisation of his gift, for Borrow had found
a zealous friend who was prepared to go forward with him in his work of
giving to the English public translations from the literatures of the
northern nations.  This friend was Dr. John Bowring, who made a very
substantial reputation in his day.

Bowring has told his own story in a volume of _Autobiographical
Recollections_, a singularly dull book for a man whose career was at once
so varied and so full of interest.  He was born at Exeter in 1792 of an
old Devonshire family, and entered a merchant’s office in his native city
on leaving school.  He early acquired a taste for the study of languages,
and learnt French from a refugee priest precisely in the way in which
Borrow had done.  He also acquired Italian, Spanish, German and Dutch,
continuing with a great variety of other languages.  Indeed, only the
very year after Borrow had published _Faustus_, he published his _Ancient
Poetry and Romances of Spain_, and the year after Borrow’s _Romantic
Ballads_ came Bowring’s _Servian Popular Poetry_.  With such interest in
common it was natural that the two men should be brought together, but
Bowring had the qualities which enabled him to make a career for himself,
and Borrow had not.  In 1811, as a clerk in a London mercantile house, he
was sent to Spain, and after this his travels were varied.  He was in
Russia in 1820, and in 1822 was arrested at Calais and thrown into
prison, being suspected by the Bourbon Government of abetting the French
Liberals.  Canning as Foreign Minister took up his cause, and he was
speedily released.  He assisted Jeremy Bentham in founding _The
Westminster Review_ in 1824.  Meanwhile he was seeking official
employment, and in conjunction with Mr. Villiers, afterwards Earl of
Clarendon, and that ambassador to Spain who befriended Borrow when he was
in the Peninsula, became a commissioner to investigate the commercial
relations between England and France.  After the Reform Bill of 1832
Bowring was frequently a candidate for Parliament, and was finally
elected for Bolton in 1841.  In the meantime he assisted Cobden in the
formation of the Anti-Corn Law League in 1838.  Having suffered great
monetary losses in the interval he applied for the appointment of Consul
at Canton, of which place he afterwards became Governor, being knighted
in 1854.  At one period of his career at Hong Kong his conduct was made
the subject of a vote of censure in Parliament, Lord Palmerston, however,
warmly defending him.  Finally returning to England in 1862, he continued
his literary work with unfailing zest.  He died at Exeter, in a house
very near that in which he was born, in 1872.  His extraordinary energies
cannot be too much praised, and there is no doubt but that in addition to
being the possessor of great learning he was a man of high character.
His literary efforts were surprisingly varied.  There are at least
thirty-six volumes with his name on the title-page, most of them
unreadable to-day; even such works, for example, as his _Visit to the
Philippine Isles_ and _Siam and the Siamese_, which involved travel into
then little-known lands.  Perhaps the only book by him that to-day
commands attention is his translation of Chamisso’s _Peter Schlemihl_.
The most readable of many books by him into which I have dipped is his
_Servian Popular Poetry_ of 1827, in which we find interesting stories in
verse that remind us of similar stories from the Danish in Borrow’s
_Romantic Ballads_ published only the year before.  The extraordinary
thing, indeed, is the many points of likeness between Borrow and Bowring.
Both were remarkable linguists; both had spent some time in Spain and
Russia; both had found themselves in foreign prisons.  They were alike
associated in some measure with Norwich—Bowring through friendship with
Taylor—and I might go on to many other points of likeness or of contrast.
It is natural, therefore, that the penniless Borrow should have welcomed
acquaintance with the more prosperous scholar.  Thus it is that, some
thirty years later, Borrow described the introduction by Taylor:

    The writer had just entered into his eighteenth year, when he met at
    the table of a certain Anglo-Germanist an individual, apparently
    somewhat under thirty, of middle stature, a thin and weaselly figure,
    a sallow complexion, a certain obliquity of vision, and a large pair
    of spectacles.  This person, who had lately come from abroad, and had
    published a volume of translations, had attracted some slight notice
    in the literary world, and was looked upon as a kind of lion in a
    small provincial capital.  After dinner he argued a great deal, spoke
    vehemently against the Church, and uttered the most desperate
    Radicalism that was perhaps ever heard, saying, he hoped that in a
    short time there would not be a king or queen in Europe, and
    inveighing bitterly against the English aristocracy, and against the
    Duke of Wellington in particular, whom he said, if he himself was
    ever president of an English republic—an event which he seemed to
    think by no means improbable—he would hang for certain infamous acts
    of profligacy and bloodshed which he had perpetrated in Spain.  Being
    informed that the writer was something of a philologist, to which
    character the individual in question laid great pretensions, he came
    and sat down by him, and talked about languages and literature.  The
    writer, who was only a boy, was a little frightened at first.

The quarrels of authors are frequently amusing but rarely edifying, and
this hatred of Bowring that possessed the soul of poor Borrow in his
later years is of the same texture as the rest.  We shall never know the
facts, but the position is comprehensible enough.  Let us turn to the
extant correspondence which, as far as we know, opened when Borrow paid
what was probably his third visit to London in 1829:

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                   17 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, BLOOMSBURY.  [_Dec._ 6, 1829.]

    MY DEAR SIR,—Lest I should intrude upon you when you are busy, I
    write to inquire when you will be unoccupied.  I wish to shew you my
    translation of _The Death of Balder_, Ewald’s most celebrated
    production, which, if you approve of, you will perhaps render me some
    assistance in bringing forth, for I don’t know many publishers.  I
    think this will be a proper time to introduce it to the British
    public, as your account of Danish literature will doubtless cause a
    sensation.  My friend Mr. R. Taylor has my _Kæmpe Viser_, which he
    has read and approves of; but he is so very deeply occupied, that I
    am apprehensive he neglects them: but I am unwilling to take them out
    of his hands, lest I offend him.  Your letting me know when I may
    call will greatly oblige,—Dear Sir, your most obedient servant,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                  17 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, BLOOMSBURY.  [_Dec._ 28, 1829.]

    MY DEAR SIR,—I trouble you with these lines for the purpose of
    submitting a little project of mine for your approbation.  When I had
    last the pleasure of being at yours, you mentioned that we might at
    some future period unite our strength in composing a kind of Danish
    Anthology.  You know, as well as I, that by far the most remarkable
    portion of Danish poetry is comprised in those ancient popular
    productions termed _Kæmpe __Viser_, which I have translated.  Suppose
    we bring forward at once the first volume of the Danish Anthology,
    which should contain the heroic and supernatural songs of the _K.
    V._, which are certainly the most interesting; they are quite ready
    for the press with the necessary notes, and with an introduction
    which I am not ashamed of.  The second volume might consist of the
    Historic songs and the ballads and Romances, this and the third
    volume, which should consist of the modern Danish poetry, and should
    commence with the celebrated “Ode to the Birds” by Morten Borup,
    might appear in company at the beginning of next season.  To
    Ölenslager should be allotted the principal part of the fourth
    volume; and it is my opinion that amongst his minor pieces should be
    given a good translation of his Aladdin, by which alone he has
    rendered his claim to the title of a great poet indubitable.  A
    proper Danish Anthology cannot be contained in less than 4 volumes,
    the literature being so copious.  The first volume, as I said before,
    might appear instanter, with no further trouble to yourself than
    writing, if you should think fit, a page or two of introductory
    matter.—Yours most truly, my dear Sir,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                17 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, _Decr._ 31, 1829.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I received your note, and as it appears that you will
    not be disengaged till next Friday evening (this day week) I will
    call then.  You think that no more than two volumes can be ventured
    on.  Well! be it so!  The first volume can contain 70 choice _Kæmpe
    Viser_; viz. all the heroic, all the supernatural ballads (which two
    classes are by far the most interesting), and a few of the historic
    and romantic songs.  The sooner the work is advertised the better,
    _for I am terribly afraid of being forestalled in the Kæmpe Viser by
    some of those Scotch blackguards_ who affect to translate from all
    languages, of which they are fully as ignorant as Lockhart is of
    Spanish.  I am quite ready with the first volume, which might appear
    by the middle of February (the best time in the whole season), and if
    we unite our strength in the second, I think we can produce something
    worthy of fame, for we shall have plenty of matter to employ talent
    upon.—Most truly yours,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                     17 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, BLOOMSBURY, _Jany._ 7, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I send the prospectus for your inspection and for the
    correction of your master hand.  I have endeavoured to assume a
    Danish style, I know not whether I have been successful.  Alter, I
    pray you, whatever false logic has crept into it, find a remedy for
    its incoherencies, and render it fit for its intended purpose.  I
    have had for the two last days a rising headache which has almost
    prevented me doing anything.  I sat down this morning and translated
    a hundred lines of the _May-day_; it is a fine piece.—Yours most
    truly, my dear Sir,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                    17 GREAT RUSSELL STREET, BLOOMSBURY, _Jany._ 14, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I approve of the prospectus in every respect; it is
    business-like, and there is nothing flashy in it.  I do not wish to
    suggest one alteration.  I am not idle: I translated yesterday from
    your volume longish _Kæmpe Visers_, among which is the “Death of King
    Hacon at Kirkwall in Orkney,” after his unsuccessful invasion of
    Scotland.  To-day I translated “The Duke’s Daughter of Skage,” a
    noble ballad of 400 lines.  When I call again I will, with your
    permission, retake Tullin and attack _The Surveyor_.  Allow me, my
    dear Sir, to direct your attention to Ölenschlæger’s _St. Hems
    Aftenspil_, which is the last in his Digte of 1803.  It contains his
    best lyrics, one or two of which I have translated.  It might, I
    think, be contained within 70 pages, and I could translate it in 3
    weeks.  Were we to give the whole of it we should gratify
    Ölenschlæger’s wish expressed to you, that one of his larger pieces
    should appear.  But it is for you to decide entirely on what _is_ or
    what is _not_ to be done.  When you see the _foreign_ editor I should
    feel much obliged if you would speak to him about my reviewing
    Tegner, and enquire whether a _good_ article on Welsh poetry would be
    received.  I have the advantage of not being a Welsh-man.  I would
    speak the truth, and would give translations of some of the best
    Welsh poetry; and I really believe that my translations would not be
    the worst that have been made from the Welsh tongue.—Most truly
    yours,

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                           7 MUSEUM STREET, _Jany._, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I write this to inform you that I am at No. 7 Museum
    St., Bloomsbury.  I have been obliged to decamp from Russell St. for
    the cogent reason of an execution having been sent into the house,
    and I thought myself happy in escaping with my things.  I have got
    half of the Manuscript from Mr. Richard Taylor, but many of the pages
    must be rewritten owing to their being torn, etc.  He is printing the
    prospectus, but a proof has not yet been struck off.  Send me some as
    soon as you get them.  I will send one with a letter to _H. G._—Yours
    eternally,

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                        7 MUSEUM STREET, _Jany._ 25, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I find that you called at mine, I am sorry that I was
    not at home.  I have been to Richard Taylor, and you will have the
    prospectuses this afternoon.  I have translated Ferroe’s “Worthiness
    of Virtue” for you, and the two other pieces I shall translate this
    evening, and you shall have them all when I come on Wednesday
    evening.  If I can at all assist you in anything, pray let me know,
    and I shall be proud to do it.—Yours most truly,

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                        7 MUSEUM STREET, _Feby._ 20, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—To my great pleasure I perceive that the books have all
    arrived safe.  But I find that, instead of an Icelandic Grammar, you
    have lent me an _Essay on the origin of the Icelandic Language_,
    which I here return.  Thorlakson’s Grave-ode is superlatively fine,
    and I translated it this morning, as I breakfasted.  I have just
    finished a translation of Baggesen’s beautiful poem, and I send it
    for your inspection.—Most sincerely yours,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    _P.S._—When I come we will make the modifications of this piece, if
    you think any are requisite, for I have various readings in my mind
    for every stanza.  I wish you a very pleasant journey to Cambridge,
    and hope you will procure some names amongst the literati.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                         7 MUSEUM STREET, _March_ 9, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I have thought over the Museum matter which we were
    talking about last night, and it appears to me that it would be the
    very thing for me, provided that it could be accomplished.  I should
    feel obliged if you would deliberate upon the best mode of
    proceeding, so that when I see you again I may have the benefit of
    your advice.—Yours most sincerely,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

To this letter Bowring replied the same day.  He promised to help in the
Museum project “by every sort of counsel and creation.”  “I should
rejoice to see you _nicked_ in the British Museum,” he concludes.

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                        7 MUSEUM STREET, _Friday Evening_, _May_ 21, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I shall be happy to accept your invitation to meet Mr.
    Grundtvig to-morrow morning.  As at present no doubt seems to be
    entertained of Prince Leopold’s accepting the sovereignty of Greece,
    would you have any objection to write to him concerning me?  I should
    be very happy to go to Greece in his service.  I do not wish to go in
    a civil or domestic capacity, and I have, moreover, no doubt that all
    such situations have been long since filled up; I wish to go in a
    military one, for which I am qualified by birth and early habits.
    You might inform the Prince that I have been for years on the
    Commander-in-Chief’s List for a commission, but that I have not had
    sufficient interest to procure an appointment.  One of my reasons for
    wishing to reside in Greece is, that the mines of Eastern Literature
    would be acceptable to me.  I should soon become an adept in Turkish,
    and would weave and transmit to you such an anthology as would
    gladden your very heart.  As for _The Songs of Scandinavia_, all the
    ballads would be ready before departure, and as I should take books,
    I would in a few months send you translations of the modern lyric
    poetry.  I hope this letter will not displease you.  I do not write
    it from _flightiness_, but from thoughtfulness.  I am uneasy to find
    myself at four and twenty drifting on the sea of the world, and
    likely to continue so.—Yours most sincerely,

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING.

                                             7 MUSEUM ST., _June_ 1, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I send you _Hafbur and Signe_ to deposit in the
    Scandinavian Treasury, and I should feel obliged by your doing the
    following things.

    1.  Hunting up and lending me your Anglo-Saxon Dictionary as soon as
    possible, for Grundtvig wishes me to assist him in the translation of
    some Anglo-Saxon Proverbs.

    2.  When you write to Finn Magnussen to thank him for his attention,
    pray request him to send the _Feeroiska Quida_, or popular songs of
    Ferroe, and also _Broder Run’s Historie_, _or the History of Friar
    Rush_, the book which Thiele mentions in his _Folkesagn_.—Yours most
    sincerely,

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                          7 MUSEUM STREET, _June_ 7, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I have looked over Mr. Grundtvig’s manuscripts.  It is a
    very long affair, and the language is Norman-Saxon.  £40 would not be
    an extravagant price for a transcript, and so they told him at the
    museum.  However, as I am doing nothing particular at present, and as
    I might learn something from transcribing it, I would do it for £20.
    He will call on you to-morrow morning, and then if you please you may
    recommend me.  The character closely resembles the ancient Irish, so
    I think you can answer for my competency.—Yours most truly,

                                                                G. BORROW.

    _P.S._—Do not lose the original copies of the Danish translations
    which you sent to the _Foreign Quarterly_, for I have no duplicates.
    I think _The Roses_ of Ingemann was sent; it is not printed; so if it
    be not returned, we shall have to re-translate it.

                                * * * * *

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                           7 MUSEUM ST., _Sept._ 14, 1830.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I return you the Bohemian books.  I am going to Norwich
    for some short time as I am very unwell, and hope that cold bathing
    in October and November may prove of service to me.  My complaints
    are, I believe, the offspring of ennui and unsettled prospects.  I
    have thoughts of attempting to get into the French service, as I
    should like prodigiously to serve under Clausel in the next Bedouin
    campaign.  I shall leave London next Sunday and will call some
    evening to take my leave; I cannot come in the morning, as early
    rising kills me.—Most sincerely yours,

                                                                G. BORROW.

Borrow’s next letter to Bowring that has been preserved is dated 1835 and
was written from Portugal.  With that I will deal when we come to
Borrow’s travels in the Peninsula.  Here it sufficeth to note that during
the years of Borrow’s most urgent need he seems to have found a kind
friend if not a very zealous helper in the “Old Radical” whom he came to
hate so cordially.




CHAPTER XIV
BORROW AND THE BIBLE SOCIETY


THAT George Borrow should have become an agent for the Bible Society,
then in the third decade of its flourishing career, has naturally excited
doubts as to his moral honesty.  The position was truly a contrast to an
earlier ideal contained in the letter to his Norwich friend, Roger
Kerrison, that we have already given, in which, with all the zest of a
Shelley, he declares that he intends to live in London, “write plays,
poetry, etc., abuse religion, and get myself prosecuted.”  But that was
in 1824, and Borrow had suffered great tribulation in the intervening
eight years.  He had acquired many languages, wandered far and written
much, all too little of which had found a publisher.  There was plenty of
time for his religious outlook to have changed in the interval, and in
any case Borrow was no theologian.  The negative outlook of “Godless
Billy Taylor,” and the positive outlook of certain Evangelical friends
with whom he was now on visiting terms, were of small account compared
with the imperative need of making a living—and then there was the
passionate longing of his nature for a wider sphere—for travelling
activity which should not be dependent alone upon the vagabond’s crust.
What matter if, as Harriet Martineau—most generous and also most
malicious of women, with much kinship with Borrow in temperament—said,
that his appearance before the public as a devout agent of the Bible
Society excited a “burst of laughter from all who remembered the old
Norwich days”; what matter if another “scribbling woman,” as Carlyle
called such strident female writers as were in vogue in mid-Victorian
days—Frances Power Cobbe—thought him “insincere”; these were unable to
comprehend the abnormal heart of Borrow, so entirely at one with Goethe
in _Wilhelm Meister’s Wanderjahre_:

    Bleibe nicht am Boden heften,
    Frisch gewagt und frisch hinaus!
    Kopf und Arm, mit heitern Kräften,
    Ueberall sind sie zu Haus;
    Wo wir uns der Sonne freuen,
    Sind wir jede Sorge los;
    Dass wir uns in ihr zerstreuen,
    Darum ist die Welt so gross. {91a}

Here was Borrow’s opportunity indeed.  Verily I believe that it would
have been the same had it been a society for the propagation of the
writings of Defoe among the Persians.  With what zest would Borrow have
undertaken to translate _Moll Flanders_ and _Captain Singleton_ into the
languages of Hafiz and Omar!  But the Bible Society was ready to his
hand, and Borrow did nothing by halves.  A good hater and a staunch
friend, he was loyal to the Bible Society in no half-hearted way, and not
the most pronounced quarrel with forces obviously quite out of tune with
his nature led to any real slackening of that loyalty.  In the end a
portion of his property went to swell the Bible Society’s funds. {91b}

When Borrow became one of its servants, the Bible Society was only in its
third decade.  It was founded in the year 1804, and had the names of
William Wilberforce, Granville Sharp, and Zachary Macaulay on its first
committee.  To circulate the authorised version of the Bible without note
or comment was the first ideal that these worthy men set before them;
never to the entire satisfaction of the great printing organisations,
which already had a considerable financial interest in such a
circulation.  For long years the words “Sold under cost price” upon the
Bibles of the Society excited mingled feelings among those interested in
the book trade.  The Society’s first idea was limited to Bibles in the
English tongue.  This was speedily modified.  A Bible Society was set up
in Nuremberg to which money was granted by the parent organisation.  A
Bible in the Welsh language was circulated broadcast through the
Principality, and so the movement grew.  From the first it had one of its
principal centres in Norwich, where Joseph John Gurney’s house was open
to its committee, and at its annual gatherings at Earlham his sister
Elizabeth Fry took a leading part, while Wilberforce, Charles Simeon, the
famous preacher, and Legh Richmond, whose _Dairyman’s Daughter_ Borrow
failed to appreciate, were of the company.  “Uncles Buxton and Cunningham
are here,” we find one of Joseph John Gurney’s daughters writing in
describing a Bible Society gathering.  This was John Cunningham, rector
of Harrow, and it was his brother who helped Borrow to his position in
connection with the Society, as we shall see.  At the moment of these
early meetings Borrow is but a boy, meeting Joseph Gurney on the banks of
the river near Earlham, and listening to his discourse upon angling.  The
work of the Bible Society in Russia may be said to have commenced when
one John Paterson of Glasgow, who had been a missionary of the
Congregational body, went to St. Petersburg during those critical months
of 1812 that Napoleon was marching into Russia.  Paterson indeed, William
Canton tells us, was “one of the last to behold the old Tartar wall and
high brick towers” and other splendours of the Moscow which in a month or
two were to be consumed by the flames.  Paterson was back again in St.
Petersburg before the French were at the gates of Moscow, and it is
noteworthy that while Moscow was burning, and the Czar was on his way to
join his army, this remarkable Scot was submitting to Prince Galitzin a
plan for a Bible Society in St. Petersburg, and a memorial to the Czar
thereon:

    The plan and memorial were examined by the Czar on the 18th (of
    December); with a stroke of his pen he gave his sanction—“So be it,
    Alexander”; and as he wrote, the last tattered remnants of the Grand
    Army struggled across the ice of the Niemen. {92}

The Society was formed in January 1813, and when the Czar returned to St.
Petersburg in 1815, after the shattering of Napoleon’s power, he
authorised a new translation of the Bible into modern Russian.  From
Russia it was not a far cry, where the spirit of evangelisation held
sway, to Manchuria and to China.  To these remote lands the Bible Society
desired to send its literature.  In 1822 the gospel of St. Matthew was
printed in St. Petersburg in Manchu.  Ten years later the type of the
whole New Testament in that language was lying in the Russian capital.
“All that was required was a Manchu scholar to see the work through the
press.”  Here came the chance for Borrow.  At this period there resided
at Oulton Hall, Suffolk, but a few miles from Norwich, a family of the
name of Skepper, Edmund and Anne his wife, with their two children,
Breame and Mary.  Mary married in 1817 one Henry Clarke, a lieutenant in
the Royal Navy.  He died afterwards of consumption.  A posthumous child
of the marriage, Henrietta Mary, was born two months after her father
died.  Mary Clarke, as she now was, threw herself with zest into all the
religious enthusiasms of the locality, and the Rev. Francis Cunningham,
Vicar of St. Margaret’s, Lowestoft, was one of her friends.  Borrow had
met Mary Clarke on one of her visits to Lowestoft, and she had doubtless
been impressed with his fine presence, to say nothing of the intelligence
and varied learning of the young man.  The following note, the first
communication I can find from Borrow to his future wife, indicates how
matters stood at the time:

                                TO MRS. CLARKE

                                   ST. GILES, NORWICH, 22 _October_, 1832.

    DEAR MADAM,—According to promise I transmit you a piece of Oriental
    writing, namely the tale of Blue Beard, translated into Turkish by
    myself.  I wish it were in my power to send you something more worthy
    of your acceptance, but I hope you will not disdain the gift,
    insignificant though it be.  Desiring to be kindly remembered to Mr.
    and Mrs. Skepper and the remainder of the family,—I remain, dear
    Madam, your most obedient humble servant,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

That Borrow owed his introduction to Mr. Cunningham to Mrs. Clarke is
clear, although Cunningham, in his letter to the Bible Society urging the
claims of Borrow, refers to the fact that a “young farmer” in the
neighbourhood had introduced him.  This was probably her brother, Breame
Skepper.  Dr. Knapp was of the opinion that Joseph John Gurney obtained
Borrow his appointment, but the recently published correspondence of
Borrow with the Bible Society makes it clear that Cunningham wrote—on
27th December, 1832—recommending Borrow to the secretary, the Rev. Andrew
Brandram.  How little he knew of Borrow is indicated by the fact that he
referred to him as “independent in circumstances.”  Brandram told
Caroline Fox many years afterwards that Gurney had effected the
introduction, but this was merely a lapse of memory.  In fact we find
Borrow asking to be allowed to meet Gurney before his departure.  In any
case he has himself told us, in one of the brief biographies of himself
that he wrote, that he promptly walked to London, covering the whole
distance of 112 miles in twenty-seven hours, and that his expenses
amounted to 5½d. laid out in a pint of ale, a half-pint of milk, a roll
of bread and two apples.  He reached London in the early morning, called
at the offices of the Bible Society in Earl Street, and was kindly
received by Andrew Brandram and Joseph Jowett, the two secretaries.  He
was asked if he would care to learn Manchu, and go to St. Petersburg.  He
was given six months for the task, and doubtless also some money on
account.  He returned to Norwich more luxuriously—by mail coach.  In
June, 1833, we find a letter from Borrow to Jowett, dated from Willow
Lane, Norwich, and commencing, “I have mastered Manchu, and I should feel
obliged by your informing the committee of the fact, and also my
excellent friend, Mr. Brandram.”  A long reply to this by Jowett is among
my Borrow Papers, but the Bible Society clearly kept copies of its
letters, and a portion of this one has been printed.  It shows that
Borrow went through much heart-burning before his destiny was finally
settled.  At last he was again invited to London, and found himself as
one of two candidates for the privilege of going to Russia.  The
examination consisted of a Manchu hymn, of which Borrow’s version seems
to have proved the more acceptable, and he afterwards printed it in his
_Targum_.  Finally, on the 5th of July, 1833, Borrow received a letter
from Jowett offering him the appointment with a salary of £200 a year and
expenses.  The letter contained his first lesson in the then unaccustomed
discipline of the Evangelical vocabulary.  He was not at first at home in
the precise measure of unction required by his new friends.  Borrow had
spoken of the prospect of becoming “useful to the Deity, to man, and to
himself.”  “Doubtless you meant,” commented Jowett, “the prospect of
glorifying God,” and Jowett frankly tells him that his tone of confidence
in speaking of himself “had alarmed some of the excellent members of our
committee.”  Borrow adapted himself at once, and is congratulated by
Jowett in a later communication upon the “truly Christian” spirit of his
next letter.

By an interesting coincidence there was living in Norwich at the moment
when Borrow was about to leave it, a man who had long identified himself
with good causes in Russia, and had lived in that country for a
considerable period of his life.  John Venning was born in Totnes in
1776, and he is buried—in the Rosary Cemetery—at Norwich, where he died
in 1858, after twenty-eight years’ residence in that city.  He started
for St. Petersburg four years after John Howard had died, ostensibly on
behalf of the commercial house with which he was associated, but with the
intention of carrying on the work of that great man in prison reform.
Alexander I. was on the throne, and he made Venning his friend,
frequently conversing with him upon religious subjects.  He became the
treasurer of a society for the humanising of Russian prisons; but when
Nicholas became Czar in 1825 Venning’s work became more difficult, though
the Emperor was sympathetic.  Venning returned to England in 1830, and
thus opportunely, in 1833, was able to give his fellow-townsman letters
of introduction to Prince Galitzin and other Russian notables, so that
Borrow was able to set forth under the happiest auspices—with an entire
change of conditions from those eight years of semi-starvation that he
was now to leave behind him for ever.  Borrow left London for St.
Petersburg on 31st July, 1833, not forgetting to pay his mother before he
left the £17 he had had to borrow during his time of stress.  Always
devoted to his mother, Borrow sent her sums of money at intervals from
the moment the power of earning came to him.  We shall never know, we can
only surmise, something of the self-sacrificing devotion of that mother
during the years in which Borrow had failed to find remunerative work.
Wherever he wandered there had always been a home in the Willow Lane
cottage.  It is probable that much the greater part of the period of his
eight years of penury was spent under her roof.  Yet we may be sure that
the good mother never once reproached her son.  She had just that touch
of idealism in her character that made for faith and hope.  In any case
never more was Borrow to suffer penury, or to be a burden on his mother.
Henceforth, to her dying day, she was to be his devoted care.




CHAPTER XV
ST. PETERSBURG AND JOHN P. HASFELD


BORROW travelled by way of Hamburg and Lübeck to Travemünde, whence he
went by sea to St. Petersburg, now called Petrograd, where he arrived on
the twentieth of August, 1833.  He was back in London in September, 1835,
and thus it will be seen that he spent two years in Russia.  After the
hard life he had led, everything was now rose-coloured.  “Petersburg is
the finest city in the world,” he wrote to Mr. Jowett; “neither London
nor Paris nor any other European capital which I have visited has
sufficient pretensions to enter into comparison with it in respect to
beauty and grandeur.”  But the striking thing about Borrow in these early
years was his capacity for making friends.  He had not been a week in St.
Petersburg before he had gained the regard of one William Glen, who, in
1825, had been engaged by the Bible Society to translate the Old
Testament into Persian.  The clever Scot, of whom Borrow was informed by
a competent judge that he was “a Persian scholar of the first water,” was
probably too heretical for the Society, which recalled him, much to his
chagrin.  “He is a very learned man, but of very simple and unassuming
manners,” wrote Borrow to Jowett.  His version of the _Psalms_ appeared
in 1830, and of _Proverbs_ in 1831.  Thus he was going home in despair,
but seems to have had “good talk” on the way with Borrow in St.
Petersburg.  In 1845 his complete Old Testament in Persian appeared in
Edinburgh.  This William Glen has been confused with another William
Glen, a law student, who taught Carlyle Greek, but they had nothing in
common.  Borrow and Carlyle could not possibly have had friends in
common.  Borrow was drawn towards this William Glen by his enthusiasm for
the Persian language.  But Glen departed out of his life very quickly.
Hasfeld, who entered it about the same time, was to stay longer.  Hasfeld
was a Dane, now thirty-three years of age, who, after a period in the
Foreign Office at Copenhagen, had come to St. Petersburg as an
interpreter to the Danish Legation, but made quite a good income as a
professor of European languages in cadet schools and elsewhere.  The
English language and literature would seem to have been his favourite
topic.  His friendship for Borrow was a great factor in Borrow’s life in
Russia and elsewhere.  If Borrow’s letters to Hasfeld should ever come to
light, they will prove the best that he wrote.  Hasfeld’s letters to
Borrow were preserved by him.  Three of them are in my possession.
Others were secured by Dr. Knapp, who made far too little use of them.
They are all written in Danish on foreign notepaper: flowery,
grandiloquent productions we may admit, but if we may judge a man by his
correspondents, we have a revelation of a more human Borrow than the
correspondence with the friends at Earl Street reveals:

                                    ST. PETERSBURG, 6/18 _November_, 1836.

    MY DEAR FRIEND,—Much water has run through the Neva since I last
    wrote to you, my last letter was dated 5/17th April; the last letter
    I received from you was dated Madrid, 23rd May, and I now see with
    regret that it is still unanswered; it is, however, a good thing that
    I have not written as often to you as I have thought about you, for
    otherwise you would have received a couple of letters daily, because
    the sun never sets without you, my lean friend, entering into my
    imagination.  I received the Spanish letter a day or two before I
    left for Stockholm, and it made the journey with me, for it was in my
    mind to send you an epistle from Svea’s capital, but there were so
    many petty hindrances that I was nearly forgetting myself, let alone
    correspondence.  I lived in Stockholm as if each day were to be my
    last, swam in champagne, or rested in girls’ embraces.  You doubtless
    blush for me; you may do so, but don’t think that that conviction
    will murder my almost shameless candour, the only virtue which I
    possess, in a superfluous degree.  In Sweden I tried to be lovable,
    and succeeded, to the astonishment of myself and everybody else.  I
    reaped the reward on the most beautiful lips, which only too often
    had to complain that the fascinating Dane was faithless like the foam
    of the sea and the ice of spring.  Every wrinkle which seriousness
    had impressed on my face vanished in joy and smiles; my frozen heart
    melted and pulsed with the rapid beat of gladness; in short, I was
    not recognisable.  Now I have come back to my old wrinkles, and make
    sacrifice again on the altar of friendship, and when the incense,
    this letter, reaches you, then prove to me your pleasure, wherever
    you may be, and let an echo of friendship’s voice resound from
    Granada’s Alhambra or Sahara’s deserts.  But I know that you, good
    soul, will write and give me great pleasure by informing me that you
    are happy and well; when I get a letter from you my heart rejoices,
    and I feel as if I were happy, and that is what happiness consists
    of.  Therefore let your soldierlike letters march promptly to their
    place of arms—paper—and move in close columns to St. Petersburg,
    where they will find warm winter quarters.  I have received a letter
    from my correspondent in London, Mr. Edward Thomas Allan, No. 11
    North Audley St.; he informs me that my manuscript has been
    promenading about, calling on publishers without having been well
    received; some of them would not even look at it, because it smelt of
    Russian leather; others kept it for three or six weeks and sent it
    back with “Thanks for the loan.”  They probably used it to get rid of
    the moth out of their old clothes.  It first went to Longman and
    Co.’s, Paternoster Row; Bull of Hollis St.; Saunders and Otley,
    Conduit St.; John Murray of Albemarle St., who kept it for three
    weeks; and finally it went to Bentley of New Burlington St., who kept
    it for SIX weeks and returned it; now it is to pay a visit to a Mr.
    Colburn, and if he won’t have the abandoned child, I will myself care
    for it.  If this finds you in London, which is quite possible, see
    whether you can do anything for me in this matter.  Thank God, I
    shall not buy bread with the shillings I perhaps may get for a work
    which has cost me seventy nights, for I cannot work during the day.
    In _The Athenæum_, No. 436, issued on the 3rd March this year, you
    will find an article which I wrote, and in which you are referred to;
    in the same paper you will also find an extract from my translation.
    I hope that article will meet with your approbation.  Ivan
    Semionewitch sends his kind regards to you.  I dare not write any
    more, for then I should make the letter a double one, and it may
    perhaps go after you to the continent; if it reaches you in England,
    write AT ONCE to your sincere friend,

                                                            J. P. HASFELD.

    My address is, Stieglitz and Co., St. Petersburg.

                                * * * * *

                                ST. PETERSBURG, 9_th_/21_st_ _July_, 1842.

    DEAR FRIEND,—I do not know how I shall begin, for you have been a
    long time without any news from me, and the fault is mine, for the
    last letter was from you; as a matter of fact, I did produce a long
    letter for you last year in September, but you did not get it,
    because it was too long to send by post and I had no other
    opportunity, so that, as I am almost tired of the letter, you shall,
    nevertheless, get it one day, for perhaps you will find something
    interesting in it; I cannot do so, for I never like to read over my
    own letters.  Six days ago I commenced my old hermit life; my sisters
    left me on the 3rd/15th July, and are now, with God’s help, in
    Denmark.  They left with the French steamer _Amsterdam_, and had two
    Russian ladies with them, who are to spend a few months with us and
    visit the sea watering-places.  These ladies are the Misses Koladkin,
    and have learnt English from me, and became my sisters’ friends as
    soon as they could understand each other.  My sisters have also made
    such good progress in your language that they would be able to arouse
    your astonishment.  They read and understand everything in English,
    and, thank you, very much for the pleasure you gave them with your
    “Targum”; they know how to appreciate “King Christian stood by the
    high mast,” and everything which you have translated of languages
    with which they are acquainted.  They have not had more than sixty
    real lessons in English.  After they had taken ten lessons, I began,
    to their great despair, to speak English, and only gave them a Danish
    translation when it was absolutely necessary.  The result was that
    they became so accustomed to English that it scarcely ever occurs to
    them to speak Danish together; when one cannot get away from me one
    must learn from me.  The brothers and sisters remaining behind are
    now also to go to school when they get home, for they have recognised
    how pleasant it is to speak a language which servants and those
    around one do not understand.  During all the winter my dearest
    thought was how, this summer, I was going to visit my long, good
    friend, who was previously lean and who is now fat, and how I should
    let him fatten me a little, so as to be able to withstand better the
    long winter in Russia; I would then in the autumn, like the bears, go
    into my winter lair fat and sleek, and of all these romantic thoughts
    none has materialised, but I have always had the joy of thinking them
    and of continuing them; I can feel that I smile when such ideas run
    through my mind.  I am convinced that if I had nothing else to do
    than to employ my mind with pleasant thoughts, I should become fat on
    thoughts alone.  The principal reason why this real pleasure journey
    had to be postponed, was that my eldest sister, Hanna, became ill
    about Easter, and it was not until the end of June that she was well
    enough to travel.  I will not speak about the confusion which a sick
    lady can cause in a bachelor’s house, occasionally I almost lost my
    patience.  For the amount of roubles which that illness cost I could
    very well have travelled to America and back again to St. Petersburg;
    I have, however, the consolation in my reasonable trouble that the
    money which the doctor and chemist have received was well spent.  The
    lady got about again after she had caused me and Augusta just as much
    pain, if not more, than she herself suffered.  Perhaps you know how
    amiable people are when they suffer from liver trouble; I hope you
    may never get it.  I am not anxious to have it either, for you may do
    what the devil you like for such persons, and even then they are not
    satisfied.  We have had great festivals here by reason of the
    Emperor’s marriage; I did not move a step to see the pageantry;
    moreover, it is difficult to find anything fresh in it which would
    afford me enjoyment; I have seen illuminations and fireworks, the
    only attractive thing there was must have been the King of Prussia;
    but as I do not know that good man, I have not very great interest in
    him either; nor, so I am told, did he ask for me, and he went away
    without troubling himself in the slightest about me; it was a good
    thing that I did not bother him.

                                                                  J. P. H.

                                * * * * *

                         ST. PETERSBURG, 26_th_ _April_/8_th_ _May_, 1858.

    DEAR FRIEND,—I thank you for your friendly letter of the 12th April,
    and also for the invitation to visit you.  I am thinking of leaving
    Russia soon, perhaps permanently, for twenty-seven years are enough
    of this climate.  It is as yet undecided when I leave, for it depends
    on business matters which must be settled, but I hope it will be
    soon.  What I shall do I do not yet know either, but I shall have
    enough to live on; perhaps I shall settle down in Denmark.  It is
    very probable that I shall come to London in the summer, and then I
    shall soon be at Yarmouth with you, my old true friend.  It was a
    good thing that you at last wrote, for it would have been too bad to
    extend your disinclination to write letters even to me.  The last
    period one stays in a country is strange, and I have many persons
    whom I have to separate from.  If you want anything done in Russia,
    let me know promptly; when I am in movement I will write, so that you
    may know where I am and what has become of me.  I have been ill
    nearly all the winter, but now feel daily better, and when I get on
    the water I shall soon be well.  We have already had hot and thundery
    weather, but it has now become cool again.  I have already sold the
    greater part of my furniture, and am living in furnished apartments
    which cost me seventy roubles per month; I shall soon be tired of
    that.  I am expecting a letter from Denmark which will settle
    matters, and then I can get ready and spread my wings to get out into
    the world, for this is not the world, but Russia.  I see you have
    changed houses, for last year you lived at No. 37.  With kindest
    regards to your dear ones, I am, dear friend, yours sincerely,

                                                          JOHN P. HASFELD.




CHAPTER XVI
THE MANCHU BIBLE—“TARGUM”—“THE TALISMAN”


AS for the absurd object for which Borrow was sent to Russia the less
said the better.  Any of my readers who care for the survey of human
folly associated with undiscriminating Bible worship can read of this
particular example in the Society’s own records. {102}  The Bible Society
wanted the Bible to be set up in the Manchu language, the official
language of the Chinese Court and Government.  A Russian scholar named
Lipóftsof, who had spent twenty years in China, undertook in 1821 to
translate the New Testament into Manchu for £560.  Lipóftsof had done his
work in 1826, and had sent two manuscript copies to London.  In 1832 the
Rev. William Swan of the London Missionary Society in passing through St.
Petersburg discovered a transcript of a large part of the Old and New
Testament in Manchu, made by one Pierot, a French Jesuit, many years
before.  This transcript was unavailable, but a second was soon
afterwards forthcoming for free publication if a qualified Manchu scholar
could be found to see it through the Press.  Mr. Swan’s communication of
these facts to the Bible Society in London gave Borrow his opportunity.
It was his task to find the printers, buy the paper, and hire the
qualified compositors for setting the type.  It must be admitted Borrow
worked hard for his £200 a year.  First he had to ask the diplomatists
for permission from the Russian Government, not now so friendly to
British missionary zeal.  The Russian Bible Society had been suppressed
in 1826.  He succeeded here.  Then he had to continue his studies in the
Manchu language.  He had written from Norwich to Mr. Jowett on 9th June,
1833, “I have mastered Manchu,” but on 20th January, 1834, we find him
writing to the same correspondent: “I pay about six shillings, English,
for each lesson, which I grudge not, for the perfect acquirement of
Manchu is one of my most ardent wishes.” {103a}  Then he found the
printers—a German firm, Schultz and Beneze—who probably printed the two
little books of Borrow’s own for him as a “make weight.”  He purchased
paper for his Manchu translation with an ability that would have done
credit to a modern newspaper manager.  Every detail of these transactions
is given in his letters to the Bible Society, and one cannot but be
amused at Borrow’s explanation to the Reverend Secretary of the little
subterfuges by which he proposed to “best” the godless for the benefit of
the godly:

    Knowing but too well that it is the general opinion of the people of
    this country that Englishmen are made of gold, and that it is only
    necessary to ask the most extravagant price for any article in order
    to obtain it, I told no person, to whom I applied, who I was, or of
    what country; and I believe I was supposed to be a German. {103b}

Then came the composing or setting up of the type of the book.  When
Borrow was called to account by his London employers, who were not sure
whether he was wasting time, he replied: “I have been working in the
printing-office as a common compositor, between ten and thirteen hours
every day.”  In another letter Borrow records further difficulties with
the printers after the composition had been effected.  Several of the
working printers, it appears, “went away in disgust.”  Then he adds:

    I was resolved “to do or die,” and, instead of distressing and
    perplexing the Committee with complaints, to write nothing until I
    could write something perfectly satisfactory, as I now can; and to
    bring about that result I have spared neither myself nor my own
    money.  I have toiled in a close printing-office the whole day,
    during ninety degrees of heat, for the purpose of setting an example,
    and have bribed people to work whom nothing but bribes would induce
    so to do.  I am obliged to say all this in self-justification.  No
    member of the Bible Society would ever have heard a syllable
    respecting what I have undergone but for the question, “What has Mr.
    Borrow been about?” {103c}

It is not my intention to add materially to the letters of Borrow from
Russia and from Spain that have already been published, although many are
in my possession.  They reveal an aspect of the life of Borrow that has
been amply dealt with already, and it is an aspect that interests me but
little.  Here, however, is one hitherto unpublished letter that throws
much light upon Borrow’s work at this time, and shows, moreover, how well
he was learning the cant phrases which found acceptance with his friends
in Earl Street:

                         TO THE REV. ANDREW BRANDRAM

                                      ST. PETERSBURG, 18_th_ _Oct._, 1833.

    REVEREND SIR,—Supposing that you will not be displeased to hear how I
    am proceeding, I have taken the liberty to send a few lines by a
    friend {104} who is leaving Russia for England.  Since my arrival in
    Petersburg I have been occupied eight hours every day in transcribing
    a Manchu manuscript of the Old Testament belonging to Baron
    Schilling, and I am happy to be able to say that I have just
    completed the last of it, the Rev. Mr. Swan, the Scottish missionary,
    having before my arrival copied the previous part.  Mr. Swan departs
    to his mission in Siberia in about two months, during most part of
    which time I shall be engaged in collating our transcripts with the
    original.  It is a great blessing that the Bible Society has now
    prepared the whole of the Sacred Scriptures in Manchu, which will
    doubtless, when printed, prove of incalculable benefit to tens of
    millions who have hitherto been ignorant of the will of God, putting
    their trust in idols of wood and stone instead of in a crucified
    Saviour.  I am sorry to say that this country in respect to religion
    is in a state almost as lamentable as the darkest regions of the
    East, and the blame of this rests entirely upon the Greek hierarchy,
    who discountenance all attempts to the spiritual improvement of the
    people, who, poor things, are exceedingly willing to receive
    instruction, and, notwithstanding the scantiness of their means in
    general for the most part, eagerly buy the tracts which a few pious
    English Christians cause to be printed and hawked in the
    neighbourhood.  But no one is better aware, Sir, than yourself that
    without the Scriptures men can never be brought to a true sense of
    their fallen and miserable state, and of the proper means to be
    employed to free themselves from the thraldom of Satan.  The last few
    copies which remained of the New Testament in Russian were purchased
    and distributed a few days ago, and it is lamentable to be compelled
    to state that at the present there appears no probability of another
    edition being permitted in the modern language.  It is true that
    there are near twenty thousand copies of the Sclavonic bible in the
    shop which is entrusted with the sale of the books of the late
    Russian Bible Society, but the Sclavonian translation is upwards of a
    thousand years old, having been made in the eighth century, and
    differs from the dialect spoken at present in Russia as much as the
    old Saxon does from the modern English.  Therefore it cannot be of
    the slightest utility to any but the learned, that is, to about ten
    individuals in one thousand.  I hope and trust that the Almighty will
    see fit to open some door for the illumination of this country, for
    it is not to be wondered if vice and crime be very prevalent here
    when the people are ignorant of the commandments of God.  Is it to be
    wondered that the people follow their every day pursuits on the
    Sabbath when they know not the unlawfulness of so doing?  Is it to be
    wondered that they steal when only in dread of the laws of the
    country, and are not deterred by the voice of conscience which only
    exists in a few?  This accounts for their profanation of their
    Sabbath, their proneness to theft, etc.  It is only surprising that
    so much goodness is to be found in their nature as is the case, for
    they are mild, polite, and obliging, and in most of their faces is an
    expression of great kindness and benignity.  I find that the slight
    knowledge which I possess of the Russian tongue is of the utmost
    service to me here, for the common opinion in England that only
    French and German are spoken by persons of any respectability in
    Petersburg is a great and injurious error.  The nobility, it is true,
    for the most part speak French when necessity obliges them, that is,
    when in company with foreigners who are ignorant of Russian, but the
    affairs of most people who arrive in Petersburg do not lie among the
    nobility, therefore a knowledge of the language of the country,
    unless you associate solely with your own countrymen, is
    indispensable.  The servants speak no language but their native
    tongue, and also nine out of ten of the middle classes of Russians.
    I might as well address Mr. Lipóftsof, who is to be my coadjutor in
    the edition of the New Testament (in Manchu), in Hebrew as in either
    French or German, for though he can read the first a little he cannot
    speak a word of it or understand when spoken.  I will now conclude by
    wishing you all possible happiness.  I have the honour to be, etc.,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

When the work was done at so great a cost of money, and of energy and
enthusiasm on the part of George Borrow, it was found that the books were
useless.  Most of these New Testaments were afterwards sent out to China,
and copies distributed by the missionaries there as opportunities
offered.  It was found then—why not before is not explained—that the
Manchus in China were able to read Chinese, preferring it to their own
language, which indeed had become almost confined to official use. {105}
In fact what was a congenial livelihood for Borrow—this production of a
Bible in the Manchu tongue—would have been death and desolation to the
highly placed caste of the Chinese Empire had these been compelled to
make use of Borrow’s efforts.  The experiment was not to be made.  The
Bible Society had such comfort for their subscribers as is contained in
the fact that in the year 1859 editions of _St. Matthew_ and _St. Mark_
were published in Manchu and Chinese side by side, the Manchu text being
a reprint of that edited by Borrow, and that these books are still in use
in Chinese Turkestan.  But Borrow had here to suffer one of the many
disappointments of his life.  If not actually a gypsy he had all a
gypsy’s love of wandering.  No impartial reader of the innumerable
letters of this period can possibly claim that there was in Borrow any of
the proselytising zeal or evangelical fervour which wins for the names of
Henry Martyn and of David Livingstone so much honour and sympathy even
among the least zealous.  At the best Borrow’s zeal for religion was of
the order of Dr. Keate, the famous headmaster of Eton—“Blessed are the
pure in heart . . . if you are not pure in heart, by God, I’ll flog you!”
Borrow had got his New Testaments printed, and he wanted to distribute
them because he wished to see still more of the world, and had no lack of
courage to carry out any well-defined scheme of the organisation which
was employing him.  Borrow had thrown out constant hints in his letters
home.  People had suggested to him, he said, that he was printing
Testaments for which he would never find readers.  If you wish for
readers, they had said to him, “you must seek them among the natives of
Pekin and the fierce hordes of desert Tartary.”  And it was this last
most courageous thing that Borrow proposed.  Let him, he said to Mr.
Jowett, fix his headquarters at Kiachta upon the northern frontier of
China.  The Society should have an agent there:

    I am a person of few words, and will therefore state without
    circumlocution that I am willing to become that agent.  I speak Russ,
    Manchu, and the Tartar or broken Turkish of the Russian steppes, and
    have also some knowledge of Chinese, which I might easily improve at
    Kiachta, half of the inhabitants of which town are Chinamen.  I am
    therefore not altogether unqualified for such an adventure. {106}

The Bible Committee considered this and other plans through the
intervening months, and it seems clear that at the end they would have
sanctioned some form of missionary work for Borrow in the Chinese Empire;
but on 1st June, 1835, he wrote to say that the Russian Government,
solicitous of maintaining good relations with China, would not grant him
a passport across Siberia except on the condition that he carried not one
single Manchu Bible thither. {107}  And so Borrow’s dreams were left
unfulfilled.  He was never to see China or the farther East, although,
because he was a dreamer and like his hero, Defoe, a bit of a liar, he
often said he had.  In September, 1835, he was back in England awaiting
in his mother’s home in Norwich further commissions from his friends of
the Bible Society.

                                * * * * *

Work on the Manchu New Testament did not entirely absorb Borrow’s
activities in St. Petersburg.  He seems to have made a proposition to
another organisation, as the following letter indicates.  The proposal
does not appear to have borne any fruit:

                       PRAYER BOOK AND HOMILY SOCIETY,
              No. 4 EXETER HALL, LONDON, _January_ 16_th_, 1835.

    SIR,—Your letters dated July and November 17, 1834, and addressed to
    the Rev. F. Cunningham, have been laid before the Committee of the
    Prayer Book and Homily Society, who have agreed to print the
    translation of the first three Homilies into the Russian language at
    St. Petersburg, under the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Biller, so soon
    as they shall have caused the translation to undergo a thorough
    revision, and shall have certified the same to this Society.  I write
    by this post to Mrs. Biller on the subject.  In respect to the second
    Homily in Manchu, if we rightly understand your statement, an edition
    of five hundred copies may be sent forth, the whole expense of which,
    including paper and printing, will amount to about £12.  If we are
    correct in this the Committee are willing to bear the expense of five
    hundred copies, by way of trial, their wish being this, viz.: that
    printed copies should be put into the hands of the most competent
    persons, who shall be invited to offer such remarks on the
    translation as shall seem desirable; especially that Dr. Morrison of
    Canton should be requested to submit copies to the inspection of
    Manchu scholars as he shall think fit.  When the translation has been
    thoroughly revised, the Committee will consider the propriety of
    printing a larger edition.  They think that the plan of submitting
    copies in letters of gold to the inspection of the highest personages
    in China should probably be deferred till the translation has been
    thus revised.  We hope that this resolution will be satisfactory to
    you; but the Committee, not wishing to prescribe a narrower limit
    than such as is strictly necessary, have directed me to say, that
    should the expense of an edition of five hundred copies of the Homily
    in Manchu exceed £12, they will still be willing to meet it, but not
    beyond the sum of £15.

    Should you print this edition be pleased to furnish us with
    twenty-five copies, and send twenty-five copies at the least to Rev.
    Dr. Morrison, at Canton, if you have the means of doing so; if not,
    we should wish to receive fifty copies, that _we_ may send
    twenty-five to Canton.  In this case you will be at liberty to draw a
    bill upon us for the money, within the limits specified above, in
    such manner as is most convenient.  Possibly Mr. and Mrs. Biller may
    be able to assist you in this matter.  Believe me, dear Sir, yours
    most sincerely,

                                                          C. R. PRITCHETT.

    Mr. G. Borrow.

    I am not aware whether I am addressing a clergyman or a layman, and
    therefore shall direct as above.  Will you be so kind as to send the
    MS. of the Russian Homilies to Mrs. Biller?

During Borrow’s last month or two in St. Petersburg he printed two thin
octavo volumes of translations—some of them verses which, undeterred by
the disheartening reception of earlier efforts, he had continued to make
from each language in succession that he had the happiness to acquire,
although most of the poems are from his old portfolios.  These little
books were named _Targum_ and _The Talisman_.  Dr. Knapp calls the latter
an appendix to the former.  They are absolutely separate volumes of
verse.  The publishers, it will be seen, are the German firm that printed
the Manchu New Testament, Schultz and Beneze.  Borrow’s preface to
_Targum_ is dated “St. Petersburg, June 1, 1835.”  Here in _Targum_ we
find the trial poem which in competition with a rival candidate had won
him the privilege of going to Russia for the Bible Society—_The Mountain
Chase_.  Here also among new verses are some from the Arabic, the
Persian, and the Turkish.  If it be true, as his friend Hasfeld said,
that here was a poet who was able to render another without robbing the
garland of a single leaf—that would but prove that the poetry which
Borrow rendered was not of the first order.  Nor taking another
standard—the capacity to render the ballad with a force that captures
“the common people”—can we agree with William Bodham Donne, who was
delighted with _Targum_ and said that “the language and rhythm are vastly
superior to Macaulay’s _Lays of Ancient Rome_.”  In _The Talisman_ we
have four little poems from the Russian of Pushkin followed by another
poem, _The Mermaid_, by the same author.  Three other poems in Russian
and Polish complete the little book.  Borrow left behind him in St.
Petersburg with his friend, Hasfeld, a presentation copy for Pushkin,
who, when he received it, expressed regret that he had not met his
translator while Borrow was in St. Petersburg.




CHAPTER XVII
THREE VISITS TO SPAIN


FROM his journey to Russia Borrow had acquired valuable experience, but
nothing in the way of fame, although his mother had been able to record
in a letter to St. Petersburg that she had heard at a Bible Society
gathering in Norwich his name “sounded through the hall” by Mr. Joseph
John Gurney and Mr. Cunningham, to her great delight.  “All this is very
pleasing to me,” she said, “God bless you!”  Even more pleasing to Borrow
must have been a letter from Mary Clarke, his future wife, who was able
to tell him that she heard Francis Cunningham refer to him as “one of the
most extraordinary and interesting individuals of the present day.”  But
these tributes were not all-satisfying to an ambitious man, and this
Borrow undoubtedly was.  His Russian journey was followed by five weeks
of idleness in Norwich varied by the one excitement of attending a Bible
meeting at Oulton with the Reverend Francis Cunningham in the chair, when
“Mr. George Borrow from Russia” {110} made one of the usual conventional
missionary speeches, Mary Clarke’s brother, Breame Skepper, being also
among the orators.  Borrow begged for more work from the Society.  He
urged the desirability of carrying out its own idea of an investigation
in Portugal and perhaps also in Spain, and hinted that he could write a
small volume concerning what he saw and heard which might cover the
expense of the expedition.  So much persistency conquered.  Borrow sailed
from London on 6th November, 1835, and reached Lisbon on 12th November,
this his first visit to the Peninsula lasting exactly eleven months.  The
next four years and six months were to be spent mainly in Spain.  Broadly
the time divides itself in the following fashion:

1st Tour (_via_         2nd Tour (_via_         3rd Tour (_via_
Lisbon), Nov. 1835 to   Cadiz), Nov. 1836 to    Cadiz), Dec. 1838 to
Oct. 1836.              Sept. 1838.             Mar. 1840.
Lisbon.                 Cadiz.                  Cadiz.
Mafia.                  Lisbon.                 Seville.
Evora.                  Seville.                Madrid.
Badajoz.                Madrid.                 Gibraltar.
Madrid.                 Salamanca.              Tangier.
                        Coruña.
                        Oviedo.
                        Toledo.

What a world of adventure do the mere names of these places call up.
Borrow entered the Peninsula at an exciting period of its history.
Traces of the great war in which Napoleon’s legions faced those of
Wellington still abounded.  Here and there a bridge had disappeared, and
some of Borrow’s strange experiences on ferry-boats were indirectly due
to the results of Napoleon’s ambition.  Everywhere there was still war in
the land.  Portugal indeed had just passed through a revolution.  The
partisans of the infant Queen Maria II. had been fighting with her uncle
Dom Miguel for eight years, and it was only a few short months before
Borrow landed at Lisbon that Maria had become undisputed queen.  Spain,
to which Borrow speedily betook himself, was even in a worse state.  She
was in the throes of a six years’ war.  Queen Isabel II., a child of
three, reigned over a chaotic country with her mother Dona Christina as
regent; her uncle Don Carlos was a formidable claimant to the throne and
had the support of the absolutist and clerical parties.  Borrow’s
political sympathies were always in the direction of absolutism; but in
religion, although a staunch Church of England man, he was certainly an
anti-clerical one in Roman Catholic Spain.  In any case he steered
judiciously enough between contending factions, describing the fanatics
of either side with vigour and sometimes with humour.  Mr. Brandram’s
injunction to Borrow “to be on his guard against becoming too much
committed to one particular party” seems to have been unnecessary.

Borrow’s three expeditions to Spain have more to be said for them than
had his journey to St. Petersburg.  The work of the Bible Society was and
is at its highest point of human service when distributing either the Old
or the New Testament in Christian countries, Spain, England, or another.
Few there be to-day in any country who, in the interests of civilisation,
would deny to the Bible a wider distribution.  In a remote village of
Spain a Bible Society’s colporteur, carrying a coloured banner, sold me a
copy of Cipriano de Valera’s New Testament for a peseta.  But in the
minds of the worthy people who ran the Bible Society eighty years ago it
was not so much that humanity was to be bettered as that Roman
Catholicism was to be worsened.  Every New Testament sold in Spain was in
the eyes of the English fanatic who subscribed his silver a blow to the
Church of that land.  Otherwise and as to the humanising influence of the
propaganda it may be said that the villages of Spain that Borrow visited
could even at that time compare favourably, morally and educationally,
with villages of his own county of Norfolk at the same period.  The
morals of the agricultural labourers of the English fen country eighty
years ago were a scandal, and the peasantry read nothing; more than half
of them could not read.  They had not, moreover, the humanising passion
for song and dance that Andalusia knew.  But this is not to deny that the
Bible Society under Borrow’s instrumentality did a good work in Spain,
nor that they did it on the whole in a broad and generous way.  Borrow
admits that there was a section of the Roman Catholic clergy “favourably
disposed towards the circulation of the Gospel,” and the Society actually
fixed upon a Roman Catholic version of the Spanish Bible, that by Scio de
San Miguel, although this version Borrow considered a bad translation.
Much has been said about the aim of the Bible Society to provide the
Bible without notes or comment—in its way a most meritorious aim,
although then as now opposed to the instinct of a large number of the
priests of the Roman Church.  It is true that their attitude does not in
any way possess the sanction of the ecclesiastical authorities.  It may
be urged, indeed, that the interpretation of the Bible by a priest,
usually of mature judgment, and frequently of a higher education than the
people with whom he is associated, is at least as trustworthy as its
interpretation at the hands of very partially educated young women and
exceedingly inadequately equipped young men who to-day provide
interpretation and comment in so many of the Sunday Schools of Protestant
countries.

Behold George Borrow, then, first in Portugal and a little later in
Spain, upon his great mission—avowedly at first a tentative
mission—rather to see what were the prospects for Bible distribution than
to distribute Bibles.  But Borrow’s zeal knew no such limitations.
Before very long he had a shop in one of the principal streets of
Madrid—the Calle del Principe—much more in the heart of things than the
very prosperous Bible Society of our day ventures upon. {113}  Meanwhile
he is at present in Portugal not very certain of his movements, and he
writes to his old friend Dr. Bowring the following letter with a request
with which Bowring complied, although in the coldest manner:

                             TO DR. JOHN BOWRING

                                  EVORA IN THE ALEMTEJO, 27 _Decr._, 1835.

    DEAR SIR,—Pray excuse me for troubling you with these lines.  I write
    to you, as usual, for assistance in my projects, convinced that you
    will withhold none which it may be in your power to afford, more
    especially when by so doing you will perhaps be promoting the
    happiness of our fellow creatures.  I returned from dear, glorious
    Russia about three months since, after having edited there the Manchu
    New Testament in eight volumes.  I am now in Portugal, for the
    Society still do me the honour of employing me.  For the last six
    weeks I have been wandering amongst the wilds of the Alemtejo and
    have introduced myself to its rustics, banditti, etc., and become
    very popular amongst them, but as it is much more easy to introduce
    oneself to the cottage than the hall (though I am not entirely
    unknown in the latter), I want you to give or procure me letters to
    the most liberal and influential minds of Portugal.  I likewise want
    a letter from the Foreign Office to Lord De Walden, in a word, I want
    to make what interest I can towards obtaining the admission of the
    Gospel of Jesus into the public schools of Portugal which are about
    to be established.  I beg leave to state that this is _my plan_, and
    not other persons’, as I was merely sent over to Portugal to observe
    the disposition of the people, therefore I do not wish to be named as
    an Agent of the B.S., but as a person who has plans for the mental
    improvement of the Portuguese; should I receive _these letters_
    within the space of six weeks it will be time enough, for before
    setting up my machine in Portugal I wish to lay the foundation of
    something similar in Spain.  When you send the Portuguese letters
    direct thus:

                                                        Mr. George Borrow,
                                                 to the care of Mr. Wilby,
                                            Rua Dos Restauradores, Lisbon.

    I start for Spain to-morrow, and I want letters something similar
    (there is impudence for you) for Madrid, _which I should like to have
    as soon as possible_.  I do not much care at present for an
    introduction to the Ambassador at Madrid, as I shall not commence
    operations seriously in Spain until I have disposed of Portugal.  I
    will not apologise for writing to you in this manner, for you know
    me, but I will tell you one thing, which is that the letter which you
    procured for me, on my going to St. Petersburg, from Lord Palmerston,
    assisted me wonderfully.  I called twice at your domicile on my
    return; the first time you were in Scotland, the second in France,
    and I assure you I cried with vexation.  Remember me to Mrs. Bowring
    and God bless you.

                                                                G. BORROW.

    _P.S._—I am told that Mendizábal is liberal, and has been in England;
    perhaps he would assist me.

During this eleven months’ stay in the Peninsula Borrow made his way to
Madrid, and here he interviewed the British Minister, Sir George
Villiers, afterwards fourth Earl of Clarendon, and had received a quite
remarkable encouragement from him for the publication and distribution of
the Bible.  He also interviewed the Spanish Prime Minister, Mendizábal,
“whom it is as difficult to get nigh as it is to approach the North
Pole,” and he has given us a picturesque account of the interview in _The
Bible in Spain_.  It was agreed that 5,000 copies of the Spanish
Testament were to be reprinted from Scio’s text at the expense of the
Bible Society, and all these Borrow was to handle as he thought fit.
Then Borrow made his way to Granada, where, under date 30th August, 1836,
his autograph may be read in the visitors’ book of the Alhambra:

                         _George Borrow Norvicensis_.

Here he studied his friends the gypsies, now and probably then, as we may
assume from his _Zincali_, the sordid scum on the hillside of that great
city, but now more assuredly than then unutterably demoralised by the
numerous but curious tourists who visit this rabble under police
protection, the very policeman or gendarme not despising a peseta for his
protective services.  But Borrow’s hobbies included the Romanies of every
land, and a year later he produced and published a gypsy version of the
Gospel of St. Luke.  In October, 1836, Borrow was back in England.  He
found that the Bible Society approved of him.  In November of the same
year he left London for Cadiz on his second visit to Spain.  The journey
is described in _The Bible in Spain_; but here, from my Borrow Papers, is
a kind letter that Mr. Brandram wrote to Borrow’s mother on the occasion:

                                     No. 10 EAST STREET, _Jany._ 11, 1837.

    MY DEAR MADAM,—I have the joyful news to send you that your son has
    again safely arrived at Madrid.  His journey we were aware was
    exceedingly perilous, more perilous than we should have allowed him
    to take had we sooner known the extent of the danger.  He begs me to
    write, intending to write to you himself without delay.  He has
    suffered from the intense cold, but nothing beyond inconvenience.
    Accept my congratulations, and my best wishes that your dear son may
    be preserved to be your comfort in declining years—and may the God of
    all consolation himself deign to comfort your heart by the truths of
    that holy volume your son is endeavouring, in connection with our
    Society, to spread abroad.—Believe me, dear Madam, yours faithfully,

                                                              A. BRANDRAM.

    Mrs. Borrow, Norwich.

A brilliant letter from Seville followed soon after, and then he went on
to Madrid, not without many adventures.  “The cold nearly killed me,” he
said.  “I swallowed nearly two bottles of brandy; it affected me no more
than warm water.”  This to kindly Mr. Brandram, who clearly had no
teetotaler proclivities, for the letter, as he said, “filled his heart
with joy and gladness.”  Meanwhile those five thousand copies of the New
Testament were a-printing, Borrow superintending the work with the
assistance of a new friend, Dr. Usoz.  “As soon as the book is printed
and issued,” he tells Mr. Brandram, “I will ride forth from Madrid into
the wildest parts of Spain, . . .” and so, after some correspondence with
the Society which is quite entertaining, he did.  The reader of _The
Bible in Spain_ will note some seventy separate towns and villages that
Borrow visited, not without countless remarkable adventures on the way.
“I felt some desire,” he says in _The Romany Rye_, “to meet with one of
those adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as
plentiful as blackberries in autumn.”  Assuredly in this tour of Spanish
villages Borrow met with no lack of adventures.  The committee of the
Bible Society authorised this tour in March, 1837, and in May Borrow
started off on horseback attended by his faithful servant, Antonio.  This
tour was to last five months, and “if I am spared,” he writes to his
friend Hasfeld, “and have not fallen a prey to sickness, Carlists,
banditti, or wild beasts, I shall return to Madrid.”  He hopes a little
later, he tells Hasfeld, to be sent to China.  We have then a glimpse of
his servant, the excellent Antonio, which supplements that contained in
_The Bible in Spain_.  “He is inordinately given to drink, and is of so
quarrelsome a disposition that he is almost constantly involved in some
broil.”  Not all his weird experiences were conveyed in his letters to
the Bible Society’s secretary.  Some of these letters, however—the more
highly coloured ones—were used in _The Bible in Spain_, word for word,
and wonderful reading they must have made for the secretary, who indeed
asked for more, although, with a view to keeping Borrow humble—an
impossible task—Mr. Brandram takes occasion to say “Mr. Graydon’s
letters, as well as yours, are deeply interesting,” Graydon being a hated
rival, as we shall see.  The question of money was also not overlooked by
the assiduous secretary.  “I know you are no accountant,” he writes, “but
do not forget there are some who are,” and a financial document was
forwarded to Borrow about this time as a stimulus and a warning.

But Borrow was happy, for next to the adventures of five glorious months
in the villages between Madrid and Coruña nothing could be more to his
taste than a good, wholesome quarrel.  He was imprisoned by order of the
Spanish Government and released on the intervention of the British
Embassy.  He tells the story so graphically in _The Bible in Spain_ that
it is superfluous to repeat it; but here he does not tell of the great
quarrel with regard to Lieutenant Graydon that led him to attack that
worthy zealot in a letter to the Bible Society.  This attack did indeed
cause the Society to recall Graydon, whose zealous proclamation of
anti-Romanism must, however, have been more to the taste of some of its
subscribers than Borrow’s “trimming” methods.  Moreover, Graydon worked
for love of the cause and required no salary, which must always have been
in his favour.  Borrow was ten days in a Madrid prison, and there, as
ever, he had extraordinary adventures if we may believe his own
narrative, but they are much too good to be torn from their context.
Suffice to say here that in the actual correspondence we find breezy
controversy between Borrow and the Society.  Borrow thought that the
secretary had called in question the accuracy of his statements as to
this or that particular in his conduct.  Ever a fighter, he appealed to
the British Embassy for confirmation of his word, and finally Mr.
Brandram suggested he should come back to England for a time and talk
matters over with the members of the committee.  An interesting letter to
his future wife belongs to this period:

                                TO MRS. CLARKE

                                                  TOLEDO, _Decr._ 5, 1837.

    MY DEAR MADAM,—I received your letter the day previous to my leaving
    Madrid for this place, whither I arrived in safety on the 2nd inst.
    I have availed myself of the very first opportunity of answering it
    which has presented itself.  Permit me in the first place to
    sympathise sincerely in the loss which you have, it appears, lately
    sustained in your excellent brother, more especially as he was my own
    good kind friend.  I little deemed when I parted from him only one
    short year since, at Oulton, that I was doomed never to press his
    honest hand again; but why should we grieve?  He was a devout and
    humble Christian, and we have no reason to doubt that he has been
    admitted to the joys of his Lord; he was also zealous in his way, and
    although he had but two talents entrusted to him, he turned them to
    the best account and doubled them; perhaps he now rules over as many
    heavenly cities; therefore why, why should we grieve?  Indeed it is
    possible that if we knew all, we should deem that we had high and
    cogent reason to rejoice that the Lord has snatched him from earth
    and earthly ties at this particular season.  His principles were very
    excellent, but an evil and undue influence, continually exerted over
    him, might have gradually corrupted his heart, until it became
    alienated from loyalty and true religion, which are indeed
    inseparable; for the latter he might have substituted the vulgar
    savage bigotry of what is called “Dissent,” for the former
    “Radicalism,” that upas tree of the British Isles whose root is in
    the infernal pit.

    You have stated to me how unpleasantly you are situated, and certain
    heavy trials which you have lately been subjected to.  You have,
    moreover, done me the honour to ask my advice upon these points.  I
    give it without hesitation and in a very few words.  Maintain
    unflinchingly your right, your whole right, without yielding one
    particle, without abandoning one position, as the slightest
    manifestation of weakness and hesitation will be instantly taken
    advantage of by your adversaries, and be fraught with danger to
    yourself.  Permit me here to state that it was in anticipation of
    something allied to the evil spirit which has lately been displayed
    towards you, I advised you on my last visit never to be persuaded to
    resign the house which you now occupy; it is one of the strongest of
    your entrenchments—abandon it and the foot of the enemy is in your
    camp, and with the help of law and chicanery you might be reduced to
    extremity.  A line of the poet Spencer is strongly applicable to your
    situation:

                 “Be firm, be firm, and everywhere be firm.”

    I would likewise strongly advise that with the least possible delay
    you call in the entire amount of whatever claim you possess on the
    landed property lately your brother’s, else I foresee that you will
    be involved in an endless series of dispute and litigation, which by
    one single act of resolution you may avoid.  Remember that no
    forbearance on your part will be properly appreciated, and that every
    kindly feeling and desire of conciliation which you may display, will
    be set down to fear, and the consciousness of standing on weak
    ground.  I am old in the knowledge of the world and those who dwell
    upon it, and would rather trust myself to the loving mercies of the
    hungry wolves of the Spanish mountains, than to the generosity and
    sense of justice of the Radicals of England.  However determined you
    may show yourself, no reasonable person can cast any blame upon you,
    for from the contents of your letter, it appears, that your enemies
    have kept no terms with you, and entirely unprovoked, have done all
    in their power to outrage and harrow your feelings.  Enough on this
    point.

    Toledo was formerly the capital of Spain.  Its population at present
    barely amounts to fifteen thousand souls, though in the time of the
    Romans and also during the Middle Ages, its population is said to
    have amounted to between two and three hundred thousand souls, which
    at present however does not amount to fifteen thousand.  It is
    situated about twelve leagues (40 miles) to the westward of Madrid,
    and is built upon a steep rocky hill, round which flows the Tagus on
    all sides but the North.  It still possesses a great many remarkable
    edifices, notwithstanding that it has long since fallen into decay.
    Its Cathedral is the most magnificent of Spain, and is the See of the
    Primate.  In the tower of this Cathedral is the famous bell of
    Toledo, the largest in the world, with the exception of the
    monster-bell of Moscow, which I have also seen.  It weighs 1543
    arrobes, or 37-032 pounds.  It has, however, a disagreeable sound,
    owing to a large cleft in its side.  Toledo could once boast the
    finest pictures in Spain, but many were stolen or destroyed [by the]
    French during the Peninsular War, and still more have lately been
    removed by order of the Government.  Perhaps the most remarkable
    still remains.  I allude to that which represents the burial of the
    Count of Orgaz, the masterpiece of Domenico the Greek, a most
    extraordinary genius some of whose productions possess merit of a
    very high order; the picture in question is in the little parish
    church of San Tomé, at the bottom of the aisle, at the left hand of
    the altar.  Could it be purchased, I should say it would be cheap at
    £5,000.  You will easily guess that I did not visit Toledo for the
    sake of seeing its curiosities, but rather in the hope of propagating
    the Word.  I have this day caused three hundred advertisements to be
    affixed to the walls, informing the people where it is to be had.  I
    have humble hope in the Lord that he will bless my labours,
    notwithstanding that Toledo abounds with priests, friars, and other
    minions of cruel Rome.  Should you see my dear Mrs. Ritson, pray
    remember me kindly to her and assure her that I often think of her,
    and the same you may say to Miss Henrietta.  I hope my dear Mother is
    well.  God bless you at all times and seasons.

                                                                     G. B.

    _P.S._—My Gipsy Translation of Luke is ready for the press, and I
    shall commence printing it as soon as I return to Madrid.  I hope
    that in the event of any of these singular people visiting your
    neighbourhood you will seek them out, and speak to them of Christ,
    and tell them what is being done for their brethren in a far foreign
    land.  A Gipsy woman and her child have paid me several visits since
    my arrival here; her husband is in the prison for mule-stealing, and
    next week departs for ten years slavery in the galleys.  She is in
    great trouble and affliction, and says that I am the only friend she
    has ever met with in Spain.  She goes about telling fortunes, in
    order to support her husband in prison, notwithstanding that he had
    previously abandoned her, and departed for Granada with another Gypsy
    woman of the name of Aurora, who persuaded him to commit the robbery,
    for which he is now suffering.  If this is not conjugal affection,
    what is?

    Mrs. Clarke,
       Oulton Cottage,
          Lowestoft,
             Suffolk,
                England.

In the beginning of September, 1838, Borrow was again in England, when he
issued a lengthy and eloquent defence of his conduct and a report on
“Past and Future Operations in Spain.”  In December of the same year
Borrow was again on his way to Cadiz upon his third and last visit to
Spain.

Borrow reached Cadiz on this his last visit on 31st December, 1838, and
went straight to Seville, where he arrived on 2nd January, 1839.  Here he
took a beautiful little house, “a paradise in its way,” in the Plazuela
de la Pila Seca, and furnished it—clearly at the expense of his friend
Mrs. Clarke of Oulton, who must have sent him a cheque for the purpose.
He had been corresponding regularly with Mrs. Clarke, who had told him of
her difficulties with lawyers and relatives, and Borrow had advised her
to cut the Gordian knot and come to Spain.  But Mrs. Clarke and her
daughter, Henrietta, did not arrive from England until June.

In the intervening months Borrow had been working more in his own
interests than in those of the patient Bible Society, for he started to
gather material for his _Gypsies in Spain_, and this book was for the
most part actually written in Seville.  It was at this period that he had
the many interviews with Colonel Elers Napier that we quote at length in
our next chapter.

A little later he is telling Mr. Brandram of his adventure with the blind
girl of Manzanares who could talk in the Latin tongue, which she had been
taught by a Jesuit priest, an episode which he retold in _The Bible in
Spain_.  “When shall we hear,” he asks, “of an English rector instructing
a beggar girl in the language of Cicero?”  To which Mr. Brandram, who was
rector of Beckenham, replied “Cui bono?”  The letters of this period are
the best that he ever wrote, and are incorporated more exactly than the
earlier ones in _The Bible in Spain_.

Four letters to his mother within the period of his second and third
visits may well be presented together here from my Borrow Papers:

                              TO MRS. ANN BORROW

                                                  MADRID, _July_ 27, 1838.

    MY DEAR MOTHER,—I am in perfect health though just returned from a
    long expedition in which I have been terribly burnt by the sun.  In
    about ten days I sold nearly a thousand Testaments among the
    labourers of the plains and mountains of Castille and La Mancha.
    Everybody in Madrid is wondering and saying such a thing is a
    miracle, as I have not entered a town, and the country people are
    very poor and have never seen or heard of the Testament before.  But
    I confess to you that I dislike my situation and begin to think that
    I have been deceived; the B.S. have had another person on the
    sea-coast who has nearly ruined their cause in Spain by circulating
    seditious handbills and tracts.  The consequence has been that many
    of my depots have been seized in which I kept my Bibles in various
    parts of the country, for the government think that he is employed by
    me; I told the B.S. all along what would be the consequence of
    employing this man, but they took huff and would scarce believe me,
    and now all my words are come true; I do not blame the government in
    the slightest degree for what they have done in many points, they
    have shown themselves to be my good friends, but they have been
    driven to the step by the insane conduct of the person alluded to.  I
    told them frankly in my last letter that I would leave their service
    if they encouraged him; for I will not be put in prison again on his
    account, and lose another servant by the gaol fever, and then obtain
    neither thanks nor reward.  I am going out of town again in a day or
    two, but I shall now write very frequently, therefore be not alarmed
    for I will run into no danger.  Burn this letter and speak to no one
    about it, nor any others that I may send.  God bless you, my dear
    mother.

                                                                     G. B.

                                * * * * *

                 TO MRS. ANN BORROW, WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES,
                             NORWICH (INGLATERRA)

                                                 MADRID, _August_ 5, 1838.

    MY DEAR MOTHER,—I merely write this to inform you that I am back to
    Madrid from my expedition.  I have been very successful and have sold
    a great many Testaments.  Indeed all the villages and towns within
    thirty miles have been supplied.  In Madrid itself I can do nothing
    as I am closely watched by order of the government and not permitted
    to sell, so that all I do is by riding out to places where they
    cannot follow me.  I do not blame them, for they have much to
    complain of, though nothing of me, but if the Society will
    countenance such men as they have lately done in the South of Spain
    they must expect to reap the consequences.  It is very probable that
    I may come to England in a little time, and then you will see me; but
    do not talk any more about yourself being “no more seen,” for it only
    serves to dishearten me, and God knows I have enough to make me
    melancholy already.  I am in a great hurry and cannot write any more
    at present.—I remain, dear mother, yours affectionately,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. ANN BORROW

                                                                (No date.)

    MY DEAR MAMA,—As I am afraid that you may not have received my last
    letter in consequence of several couriers having been stopped, I
    write to inform you that I am quite well.

    I have been in some difficulties.  I was selling so many Testaments
    that the priests became alarmed, and prevailed on the government to
    put a stop to my selling any more; they were likewise talking of
    prosecuting me as a witch, but they have thought better of it.  I
    hear it is very cold in England, pray take care of yourself, I shall
    send you more in a few weeks.—God bless you, my dear mama,

                                                                     G. B.

It was in the middle of his third and last visit to Spain that Borrow
wrote this next letter to his mother which gives the first suggestion of
the romantic and happy termination of his final visit to the Peninsula:

                              TO MRS. ANN BORROW

                                         SEVILLE, SPAIN, _April_ 27, 1839.

    MY DEAR MOTHER,—I should have written to you before I left Madrid,
    but I had a long and dangerous journey to make, and I wished to get
    it over before saying anything to you.  I am now safely arrived, by
    the blessing of God, in Seville, which, in my opinion, is the most
    delightful town in the world.  If it were not a strange place with a
    strange language I know you would like to live in it, but it is
    rather too late in the day for you to learn Spanish and accommodate
    yourself to Spanish ways.  Before I left Madrid I accomplished a
    great deal, having sold upwards of one thousand Testaments and nearly
    five hundred Bibles, so that at present very few remain; indeed, not
    a single Bible, and I was obliged to send away hundreds of people who
    wanted to purchase, but whom I could not supply.  All this has been
    done without the slightest noise or disturbance or anything that
    could give cause of displeasure to the government, so that I am now
    on very good terms with the authorities, though they are perfectly
    aware of what I am about.  Should the Society think proper to be
    guided by the experience which I have acquired, and my knowledge of
    the country and the people, they might if they choosed sell at least
    twelve thousand Bibles and Testaments yearly in Spain, but let them
    adopt or let any other people adopt any other principle than that on
    which I act and everything will miscarry.  All the difficulties, as I
    told my friends the time I was in England, which I have had to
    encounter were owing to the faults and imprudencies of other people,
    and, I may say, still are owing.  Two Methodist schoolmasters have
    lately settled at Cadiz, and some little time ago took it into their
    heads to speak and preach, as I am informed, against the Virgin Mary;
    information was instantly sent to Madrid, and the blame, or part of
    it, was as usual laid to me; however, I found means to clear myself,
    for I have powerful friends in Madrid, who are well acquainted with
    my views, and who interested themselves for me, otherwise I should
    have been sent out of the country, as I believe the two others have
    been or will be.  I have said nothing on this point in my letters
    home, as people would perhaps say that I was lukewarm, whereas, on
    the contrary, I think of nothing but the means best adapted to
    promote the cause; but I am not one of those disposed to run a ship
    on a rock when only a little skill is necessary to keep her in the
    open sea.

    I hope Mrs. Clarke will write shortly; tell her if she wishes for a
    retreat I have found one here for her and Henrietta.  I have my eye
    on a beautiful one at fifteen pence a day.  I call it a small house,
    though it is a paradise in its way, having a stable, courtyard,
    fountain, and twenty rooms.  She has only to write to my address at
    Madrid and I shall receive the letter without fail.  Henrietta had
    better bring with her a Spanish grammar and pocket dictionary, as not
    a word of English is spoken here.  The house-dog—perhaps a real
    English bulldog would be better—likewise had better come, as it may
    be useful.  God bless you therefore for the present, my dearest
    mother.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

Borrow had need of friends more tolerant of his idiosyncrasies than the
“powerful friends” he describes to his mother, for the worthy secretary
of the Bible Society was still in a critical mood:

    You narrate your perilous journey to Seville, and say at the
    beginning of the description, “my usual wonderful good fortune
    accompanying us.”  This is a mood of speaking to which we are not
    accustomed—it savours, some of our friends would say, a little of the
    profane.

I find among my papers an interesting letter to Mrs. Clarke of this
period:

                                TO MRS. CLARKE

                                              SEVILLE, 10 _January_, 1839.

    MY DEAR MADAM,—As I left England very suddenly and had many
    preparations to make at exceedingly short notice, I was unable to
    perform my wish, and I believe my promise, of writing to you before
    my departure.  I took shipping at Falmouth and arrived at Cadiz
    without any circumstance worthy of remark occurring.  I am now, and
    have been for the last week, in Seville, the principal town of
    Andalusia, one of the most beautiful provinces in Spain.  I proceed
    to Madrid within a few days, but it is my intention to return as soon
    as possible to these parts, and commence operations here, where up to
    the present moment nothing has been done towards propagating the word
    of God.  Indeed my sole motive for visiting Madrid, and subjecting
    myself to a fatiguing journey through a country which I have already
    twice traversed, is to furnish myself with a sufficient stock of
    Testaments for distribution in the principal villages of Andalusia,
    as it is my intention to address myself chiefly to the peasantry,
    whom hitherto I have invariably found far more docile to instruction,
    and eager to acquire knowledge, than the brethren of the large towns.
    I intend, however, to make Seville my headquarters, and a depot for
    the books intended for other places.  Nothing can be more delightful
    than the situation of this place, which stands on the eastern bank of
    the Guadalquivir, the largest river in Spain, with the exception of
    the Ebro; smiling meadows, orange-groves and gardens encompass it on
    every side; while far away towards the south east are descried the
    blue ridges and misty pinnacles of the noble chain of mountains
    called the Sierrania de Ronda.  The streets are narrow and crooked
    like those of all the old Spanish and Moorish towns.  Indeed in many
    of them, whilst standing in the middle, you can touch both sides with
    your hands extended.  Yet the narrowness of the streets is by no
    means an inconvenience in this climate, especially in the summer when
    the sun burns with great heat and fury, but on the contrary is a very
    great comfort, as the hot beams are excluded, and the houses by this
    means kept seasonably cool.  Nothing pleases me more than the manner
    in which the houses of Seville are built.  They are, for the most
    part, of two stories, which surround a quadrangular court, of large
    or small dimensions, according to the size of the edifice—the upper
    story being furnished with a gallery overhanging the court, and
    offering an agreeable place for walking to those not disposed to go
    abroad.  In most of the courts is a stone fountain, continually
    streaming with cool and delicious water, and not unfrequently at the
    angles orange trees are planted, which perfume the air with their
    fruit and blossoms.  There are many magnificent edifices in Seville,
    especially the Cathedral and Alcazar or castle.  The former is indeed
    a glorious pile, constructed at various periods, and so large and
    covering so much ground that St. Paul’s, magnificent edifice as it
    certainly is, would look contemptible, if placed by its side.  Its
    tower which is called La Giralda is the work of the Moors, and once
    formed part of a mosque, and was the place from which the Imams at
    morn and eve summoned the children of Ismael to their devotions with
    the awful and true cry “There is but one God”; stultified however by
    the sequence “Mahomet is the Prophet of God.”  The Alcazar is also
    the work of the Moors, and was the palace of their kings as long as
    they lorded on the banks of the Guadalquivir; it contains halls of
    grandeur indescribable, and which are worthy specimens of the
    perfection to which architecture was carried in Spain by the Moors
    who certainly deserve to be styled Lords of Masonry, and who perhaps
    were upon the whole the most extraordinary nation which has appeared
    upon the earth since the time of the creation.

    I must however proceed no further at present in describing the
    remarkable objects of Seville as there are other matters which I must
    now touch upon, and which relate immediately to yourself.  Respecting
    your questions as to what quarter I would advise you to direct your
    course, as soon as your affairs shall have been arranged to your
    satisfaction, I beg leave to answer that I do not think that yourself
    and Miss Hen. could do better than come out to Seville, for a time,
    where you would be far out of the reach of the malignity of your
    ill-wishers, and might soon become useful helpers in the cause of
    God.  With your income you might live here with the greatest
    respectability, tenant one of the charming houses, which I have just
    described, and enjoy one of the finest climates in the world.
    Therefore you had better give this point your very serious
    consideration.  I do not think that Colchester or Edinburgh would
    please you half so much as Seville, where you would find a few
    excellent and worthy English families, long established in Spain, and
    following with great success the pursuits of commerce.

    Perhaps it would be well to invest part of your money in the purchase
    of some vessel trading to the Mediterranean if such extraordinary
    good interest, with perfect security, can be obtained, as you have
    stated.  However, pray act with the greatest caution and endeavour
    thoroughly to know your people before you place confidence in any
    person.  Should Mr. W. apply to you again, I think you may tell him
    that you will reconsider the matter provided he will give you one
    thousand pounds for your interest in your charming little estate.  I
    have no doubt that he would comply.

    The best general advice that I can give you for the present is to
    make the most of any species of property which you may deem it
    advisable to dispose of, and by no precipitate haste run the risk of
    incurring a loss.  Let no person persuade you, whether legal adviser
    or not, to take any step by which you may deem that your interests
    will be in the slightest degree compromised, and be reserved in your
    communications to all respecting your ultimate intentions.  I shall
    write to you speedily from Madrid and then I hope to have the
    satisfaction of hearing from you.

    Pray let Hen. continue to collect as much money as possible towards
    affording spiritual instruction to the Spanish Gypsies.  Pay a visit
    to dear Mrs. Ritson and communicate to her my best remembrances and
    kindest regards and inform her at the same time that if she please
    she may subscribe in this good cause.  I am shortly about to publish,
    on my own account, a work which I hope will prove of no slight
    spiritual benefit to these unhappy people.—I remain, dearest Madam,
    ever yours,

                                                                     G. B.

    Mrs. Clarke,
       Oulton Cottage,
          Oulton,
             near Lowestoft,
                Suffolk,
                   England.

On 29th July, 1839, Borrow was instructed by his Committee to return to
England, but he was already on the way to Tangier, whence in September he
wrote a long and interesting letter to Mr. Brandram, which was afterwards
incorporated in _The Bible in Spain_.  He had left Mrs. Clarke and her
daughter in Seville, and they joined him at Gibraltar later.  We find him
_en route_ for Tangier, staying two days with Mr. John M. Brackenbury,
the British Consul in Cadiz, who found him a most fascinating man.

His Tangier life is fully described in _The Bible in Spain_.  Here he
picked up a Jewish youth, Hayim Ben Attar, who returned to Spain as his
servant, and afterwards to England.

Borrow, at the end of September, was back again in Seville, in his house
near the cathedral, in the Plazuela de la Pila Seca, which, when I
visited Seville in the spring of the year 1913, I found had long been
destroyed to make way for new buildings.  Here he received the following
letter from Mr. George Browne of the Bible Society:—

                                TO MR. BORROW

                                              BIBLE HOUSE, _Oct._ 7, 1839.

    MY DEAR FRIEND,—Mr. Brandram and myself being both on the eve of a
    long journey, I have only time to inform you that yours of the 2d
    ult. from Tangier, and 21st from Cadiz came to hand this morning.
    Before this time you have doubtless received Mr. Brandram’s letter,
    accompanying the resolution of the Comee., of which I apprised you,
    but which was delayed a few days, for the purpose of reconsideration.
    We are not able to suggest precisely the course you should take in
    regard to the books left at Madrid and elsewhere, and how far it may
    be absolutely necessary or not for you to visit that city again
    before you return.  The books you speak of, as at Seville, may be
    sent to Gibraltar rather than to England, as well as any books you
    may deem it expedient or find it necessary to bring out of the
    country.  As soon as your arrangements are completed we shall look
    for the pleasure of seeing you in this country.  The haste in which I
    am compelled to write allows me to say no more than that my best
    wishes attend you, and that I am, with sincere regard, yours truly,

                                                                G. BROWNE.

    I thank you for your kind remembrance of Mrs. Browne.  Did I thank
    you for your letter to her?  She feels, I assure you, very much
    obliged.  Your description of Tangier will be another interesting
    “morceau” for her.

“Where is Borrow?” asked the Bible Society meanwhile of the Consuls at
Seville and Cadiz, but Borrow had ceased to care.  He hoped to become a
successful author with his _Gypsies_; he would at any rate secure
independence by marriage, which must have been already mooted.  In
November he and Mrs. Clarke were formally betrothed, and would have been
married in Spain, but a Protestant marriage was impossible there.  When
preparing to leave Seville he had one of those fiery quarrels with which
his life was to be studded.  This time it was with an official of the
city over a passport, and the official promptly locked him up for thirty
hours.  Hence the following letter in response to his complaint.  The
writer is Mr., afterwards Sir George, Jerningham, then Secretary of
Legation at Madrid, who, it may be mentioned, came from Costessey, four
miles from Norwich.  It is written from the British Legation, and is
dated 23rd December, 1839:

    I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of your two letters, the
    one without date, the second dated the 19_th_ _November_ (which
    however ought to have been _December_), respecting the outrageous
    conduct pursued towards you at Seville by the Alcalde of the district
    in which you resided.  I lost no time in addressing a strong
    representation thereon to the Spanish Minister, and I have to inform
    you that he has acquainted me with his having written to Seville for
    exact information upon the whole subject, and that he has promised a
    further answer to my representation as soon as his inquiries shall
    have been answered.  In the meantime I shall not fail to follow up
    your case with proper activity.

Borrow was still in Seville, hard at work upon the _Gypsies_, all through
the first three months of the year 1840.  In April the three friends left
Cadiz for London.  A letter of this period from Mr. Brackenbury, the
British Consul at Cadiz, is made clear by these facts:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                         BRITISH CONSULATE, CADIZ, _January_ 27_th_, 1840.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I received on the 19th your very acceptable letter
    without date, and am heartily rejoiced to find that you have received
    satisfaction for the insult, and that the Alcalde is likely to be
    punished for his unjustifiable conduct.  If you come to Cadiz your
    baggage may be landed and deposited at the gates to be shipped with
    yourselves wherever the steamer may go, in which case the authorities
    would not examine it, if you bring it into Cadiz it would be examined
    at the gates—or, if you were to get it examined at the Custom House
    at Seville and there sealed with the seal of the Customs—it might
    then be transhipped into the steamer or into any other vessel without
    being subjected to any examination.  If you take your horse, the
    agents of the steamer ought to be apprized of your intention, that
    they may be prepared, which I do not think they generally are, with a
    suitable box.

    Consuls are not authorised to unite Protestant subjects in the bonds
    of Holy Matrimony in popish countries—which seems a peculiar
    hardship, because popish priests could not, if they would—hence in
    Spain no Protestants can be legally married.  Marriages solemnised
    abroad according to the law of that land wheresoever the parties may
    at the time be inhabitants are valid—but the law of Spain excludes
    their priests from performing these ceremonies where both parties are
    Protestants—and where one is a Papist, except a dispensation be
    obtained from the Pope.  So you must either go to Gibraltar—or wait
    till you arrive in England.  I have represented the hardship of such
    a case more than once or twice to Government.  In my report upon the
    Consular Act, 6 GEO. IV. cap. 87—eleven years ago—I suggested that
    provision should be made to legalise marriages solemnised by the
    Consul within the Consulate, and that such marriages should be
    registered in the Consular Office—and that duly certified copies
    thereof should be equivalent to certificates of marriages registered
    in any church in England.  These suggestions not having been acted
    upon, I brought the matter under the consideration of Lord John
    Russell (I being then in England at the time of his altering the
    Marriage Act), and proposed that Consuls abroad should have the power
    of magistrates and civil authorities at home for receiving the
    declarations of British subjects who might wish to enter into the
    marriage state—but they feared lest the introduction of such a
    clause, simple and efficacious as it would have been, might have
    endangered the fate of the Bill; and so we are as Protestants
    deprived of all power of being legally married in Spain.

    What sort of a horse is your hack?—What colour?  What age?  Would he
    carry me?—What his action?  What his price?  Because if in all these
    points he would suit me, perhaps you would give me the refusal of
    him.  You will of course enquire whether your Arab may be legally
    exported.

    All my family beg to be kindly remembered to you.—I am, my dear sir,
    most faithfully yours,

                                                        J. M. BRACKENBURY.

    There is a young gentleman here, who is in Spain partly on account of
    his health—partly for literary purposes.  I will give him, with your
    leave, a line of introduction to you whenever he may go to Seville.
    He is the Honourable R. Dundas Murray, brother of Lord Elibank, a
    Scottish nobleman.




CHAPTER XVIII
BORROW’S SPANISH CIRCLE


THERE are many interesting personalities that pass before us in Borrow’s
three separate narratives, as they may be considered, of his Spanish
experiences.  We would fain know more concerning the two excellent
secretaries of the Bible Society—Samuel Brandram and Joseph Jowett.  We
merely know that the former was rector of Beckenham and was one of the
Society’s secretaries until his death in 1850; that the latter was rector
of Silk Willoughby in Lincolnshire, and belonged to the same family as
Jowett of Balliol.  But there are many quaint characters in Borrow’s own
narrative to whom we are introduced.  There is Maria Diaz, for example,
his landlady in the house in the Calle de Santiago in Madrid, and her
husband, Juan Lopez, also assisted Borrow in his Bible distribution.
Very eloquent are Borrow’s tributes to the pair in the pages of _The
Bible in Spain_.  “Honour to Maria Diaz, the quiet, dauntless, clever,
Castilian female!  I were an ingrate not to speak well of her.”  We get a
glimpse of Maria and her husband long years afterwards—a pensioner in a
Spanish almshouse revealing himself as the son of Borrow’s friends.
Eduardo Lopez was only eight years of age when Borrow was in Madrid, and
he really adds nothing to our knowledge.  Then there were those two
incorrigible vagabonds—Antonio Buchini, his Greek servant with an Italian
name, and Benedict Mol, the Swiss of Lucerne, who turns up in all sorts
of improbable circumstances as the seeker of treasure in the Church of
St. James of Compostella—only a masterly imagination could have made him
so interesting.  Concerning these there is nothing to supplement Borrow’s
own story.  But we have attractive glimpses of Borrow in the frequently
quoted narrative of Colonel Napier, and this is so illuminating that I
venture to reproduce it at greater length than previous biographers have
done.  Edward Elers Napier, who was born in 1808, was the son of one
Edward Elers of the Royal Navy.  His widow married the famous Admiral Sir
Charles Napier, who adopted her four children by her first husband.
Edward Elers, the younger, or Edward Napier, as he came to be called, was
educated at Sandhurst and entered the army, serving for some years in
India.  Later his regiment was ordered to Gibraltar, and it was thence
that he made several sporting excursions into Spain and Morocco.  Later
he served in Egypt, and when, through ill-health, he retired in 1843 on
half-pay, he lived for some years in Portugal.  In 1854 he returned to
the army and did good work in the Crimea, becoming a lieutenant-general
in 1864.  He died in 1870.  He wrote, in addition to these _Excursions_,
several other books, including _Scenes and Sports in Foreign Lands_.  It
was during his military career at Gibraltar that he met George Borrow at
Seville, as the following extracts from his book testify.  Borrow’s
pretension to have visited the East is characteristic—and amusing:—

    1839.  _Saturday_ 4_th_.—Out early, sketching at the Alcazar.  After
    breakfast it set in a day of rain, and I was reduced to wander about
    the galleries overlooking the “patio.”  Nothing so dreary and out of
    character as a rainy day in Spain.  Whilst occupied in moralising
    over the dripping water-spouts, I observed a tall,
    gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in a zamarra, leaning over the
    balustrades, and apparently engaged in a similar manner with myself.
    Community of thoughts and occupation generally tends to bring people
    together.  From the stranger’s complexion, which was fair, but with
    brilliant black eyes, I concluded he was not a Spaniard; in short,
    there was something so remarkable in his appearance that it was
    difficult to say to what nation he might belong.  He was tall, with a
    commanding appearance; yet, though apparently in the flower of
    manhood, his hair was so deeply tinged with the winter of either age
    or sorrow as to be nearly snow-white.  Under these circumstances, I
    was rather puzzled as to what language I should address him in.  At
    last, putting a bold face on the matter, I approached him with a
    “Bonjour, monsieur, quel triste temps!”

    “Yes, sir,” replied he in the purest Parisian accent; “and it is very
    unusual weather here at this time of the year.”

    “Does ‘monsieur’ intend to be any time at Seville?” asked I.  He
    replied in the affirmative.  We were soon on a friendly footing, and
    from his varied information I was both amused and instructed.  Still
    I became more than ever in the dark as to his nationality; I found he
    could speak English as fluently as French.  I tried him on the
    Italian track; again he was perfectly at home.  He had a Greek
    servant, to whom he gave his orders in Romaïc.  He conversed in good
    Castilian with “mine host”; exchanged a German salutation with an
    Austrian Baron, at the time an inmate of the fonda; and on mentioning
    to him my morning visit to Triano, which led to some remarks on the
    gypsies, and the probable place from whence they derived their
    origin, he expressed his belief that it was from Moultan, and said
    that, even to this day, they retained many Moultanee and Hindoostanee
    expressions, such as “pánee” (water), “buree pánee” (the sea), etc.
    He was rather startled when I replied “in Hindee,” but was delighted
    on finding I was an Indian, and entered freely, and with depth and
    acuteness, on the affairs of the East, most of which part of the
    world he had visited.

    In such varied discourse did the hours pass so swiftly away that we
    were not a little surprised when Pépé, the “mozo” (and I verily
    believe all Spanish waiters are called Pépé), announced the hour of
    dinner; after which we took a long walk together on the banks of the
    river.  But, on our return, I was as much as ever in ignorance as to
    who might be my new and pleasant acquaintance.

    I took the first opportunity of questioning Antonio Baillie (Buchini)
    on the subject, and his answer only tended to increase my curiosity.
    He said that nobody knew what nation the “mysterious Unknown”
    belonged to, nor what were his motives for travelling.  In his
    passport he went by the name of —, and as a British subject, but in
    consequence of a suspicion being entertained that he was a Russian
    spy, the police kept a sharp look-out over him.  Spy or no spy, I
    found him a very agreeable companion; and it was agreed that on the
    following day we should visit together the ruins of Italica.

    _May_ 5.—After breakfast, the “Unknown” and myself, mounting our
    horses, proceeded on our expedition to the ruins of Italica.
    Crossing the river, and proceeding through the populous suburb of
    Triano, already mentioned, we went over the same extensive plain that
    I had traversed in going to San Lucar, but keeping a little more to
    the right a short ride brought us in sight of the Convent of San
    Isidrio, surrounded by tall cypress and waving date-trees.  This once
    richly-endowed religious establishment is, together with the small
    neighbouring village of Santi Ponci, I believe, the property of the
    Duke of Medina Coeli, at whose expense the excavations are now
    carried on at the latter place, which is the ancient site of the
    Roman Italica.

    We sat down on a fragment of the walls, and sadly recalling the
    splendour of those times of yore, contrasted with the desolation
    around us, the “Unknown” began to feel the vein of poetry creeping
    through his inward soul, and gave vent to it by reciting, with great
    emphasis and effect, and to the astonishment of the wondering
    peasant, who must have thought him “loco,” the following well-known
    and beautiful lines:—

    “Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower, grown,
       Matted and massed together, hillocks heap’d
    On what were chambers, arch crush’d, column strown
       In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes steep’d
    In subterranean damps, where the owl peep’d,
       Deeming it midnight; Temples, baths, or halls—
    Pronounce who can: for all that Learning reap’d
       From her research hath been, that these are walls.”

    I had been too much taken up with the scene, the verses, and the
    strange being who was repeating them with so much feeling, to notice
    the approach of one who now formed the fourth person of our party.
    This was a slight female figure, beautiful in the extreme, but whose
    tattered garments, raven hair (which fell in matted elf-locks over
    her naked shoulders), swarthy complexion, and flashing eyes,
    proclaimed to be of the wandering tribe of “gitanos.”  From an
    intuitive sense of natural politeness she stood with crossed arms,
    and a slight smile on her dark and handsome countenance, until my
    companion had ceased, and then addressed us in the usual whining tone
    of supplication, with “Caballeritos, una limosita!  Dios se lo pagara
    a ustedes!”  (“Gentlemen, a little charity!  God will repay it to
    you!”)  The gypsy girl was so pretty, and her voice so sweet, that I
    involuntarily put my hand in my pocket.

    “Stop!” said the “Unknown.”  “Do you remember what I told you about
    the Eastern origin of these people?  You shall see I am correct.
    Come here, my pretty child,” said he in Moultanee, “and tell me where
    are the rest of your tribe?”

    The girl looked astounded, replied in the same tongue, but in broken
    language; when, taking him by the arm, she said, in Spanish: “Come,
    caballero; come to one who will be able to answer you;” and she led
    the way down amongst the ruins towards one of the dens formerly
    occupied by the wild beasts, and disclosed to us a set of beings
    scarcely less savage.  The sombre walls of this gloomy abode were
    illumined by a fire, the smoke from which escaped through a deep
    fissure in the massy roof; whilst the flickering flames threw a
    blood-red glare on the bronzed features of a group of children, of
    two men, and a decrepit old hag; who appeared busily engaged in some
    culinary preparations.

    On our entrance, the scowling glance of the males of the party, and a
    quick motion of the hand towards the folds of the “faja,” caused in
    _me_, at least, anything but a comfortable sensation; but their
    hostile intentions, if ever entertained, were immediately removed by
    a wave of the hand from our conductress, who, leading my companion
    towards the sibyl, whispered something in her ear.  The old crone
    appeared incredulous.  The “Unknown” uttered one word; but that word
    had the effect of magic; she prostrated herself at his feet, and in
    an instant, from an object of suspicion he became one of worship to
    the whole family, to whom, on taking leave, he made a handsome
    present, and departed with their united blessings, to the
    astonishment of myself, and what looked very like terror in our
    Spanish guide.

    I was, as the phrase goes, dying with curiosity, and, as soon as we
    mounted our horses, exclaimed, “Where, in the name of goodness, did
    you pick up your acquaintance and the language of these extraordinary
    people?”  “Some years ago, in Moultan,” he replied.  “And by what
    means do you possess such apparent influence over them?”  But the
    “Unknown” had already said more than he perhaps wished on the
    subject.  He drily replied that he had more than once owed his life
    to gipsies, and had reason to know them well; but this was said in a
    tone which precluded all further queries on my part.  The subject was
    never again broached, and we returned in silence to the fonda. . . .

    _May_ 7_th_.—Pouring with rain all day, during which I was mostly in
    the society of the “Unknown.”  This is a most extraordinary
    character, and the more I see of him the more I am puzzled.  He
    appears acquainted with everybody and everything, but apparently
    unknown to every one himself.  Though his figure bespeaks youth—and
    by his own account his age does not exceed thirty—yet the snows of
    eighty winters could not have whitened his locks more completely than
    they are.  But in his dark and searching eye there is an almost
    supernatural penetration and lustre, which, were I inclined to
    superstition, might induce me to set down its possessor as a second
    Melmoth; and in that character he often appears to me during the
    troubled rest I sometimes obtain through the medium of the great
    soother, “laudanum.”

The next most interesting figure in the Borrow gallery of this period is
Don Luis de Usóz y Rio, who was a good friend to Borrow during the whole
of his sojourn in Spain.  It was he who translated Borrow’s appeal to the
Spanish Prime Minister to be permitted to distribute Scio’s New
Testament.  He watched over Borrow with brotherly solicitude, and wrote
him more than one excellent letter, of which the two following from my
Borrow Papers, the last written at the close of the Spanish period, are
the most interesting:

                             TO MR. GEORGE BORROW
                       (_Translated from the Spanish_)

                               PIAZZA DI SPAGNA 47, ROME, 7 _April_, 1838.

    DEAR FRIEND,—I received your letter, and thank you for the same.  I
    know the works under the name of “Boz,” about which you write, and
    also the _Memoirs of the Pickwick Club_, and although they seemed to
    me good, I have failed to appreciate properly their qualities,
    because much of the dramatic style and dialogue in the same are very
    difficult for those who know English merely from books.  I made here
    a better acquaintance than that of Mezzofanti (who knows nothing),
    namely, that of Prof. Michel-Angelo Lanci, already well known on
    account of his work, _La sacra scrittura illustrata con monumenti
    fenico-assiri ed egiziani_, etc., etc.  (The Scriptures, illustrated
    with Phœnician-Assyrian and Egyptian monuments), which I am reading
    at present, and find very profound and interesting, and more
    particularly very original.  He has written and presented me a book,
    _Esposizione dei versetti del Giobbe intorno al cavallo_ (Explanation
    of verses of Job about a horse), and in these and other works he
    proves himself to be a great philologist and Oriental scholar.  I
    meet him almost daily, and I assure you that he seems to me to know
    everything he treats thoroughly, and not like Gayangos or Calderon,
    etc., etc.  His philosophic works have created a great stir here, and
    they do not please much the friars here; but as here they are not
    like the police barbarians there, they do not forbid it, as they
    cannot.  Lanci is well known in Russia and in Germany, and when I
    bring his works there, and you are there and have not read them, you
    will read them and judge for yourself.

    Wishing you well, and always at your service, I remain, always yours,

                                                       LUIS DE USOZ Y RIO.

                                * * * * *

                             TO MR. GEORGE BORROW
                       (_Translated from the Spanish_)

                                                NAPLES, 28 _August_, 1839.

    DEAR FRIEND,—I received your letter of the 28 July written from
    Sevilla, and I am waiting for that which you promise me from Tangier.

    I am glad that you liked Sevilla, and I am still more glad of the
    successful shipment of the beloved book.  In distributing it, you are
    rendering the greatest service that generous foreigners (I mean
    Englishmen) can render to the real freedom and enlightenment in
    Spain, and any Spaniard who is at heart a gentleman must be grateful
    for this service to the Society and to its agent.  In my opinion, if
    Spain had maintained the customs, character, and opinions that it had
    three centuries ago, it ought to have maintained also unity in
    religious opinions: but that at present the circumstances have
    changed, and the moral character and the advancement of my
    unfortunate country would not lose anything in its purification and
    progress by (the grant of) religious liberty.

    You are saying that I acted very light-mindedly in judging Mezzofanti
    without speaking to him.  You know that the other time when I was in
    Italy I had dealings and spoke with him, and that I said to you that
    he had a great facility for speaking languages, but that otherwise he
    was no good.  Because I have seen him several times in the Papal
    chapels with a certain air of an ass and certain grimaces of a
    blockhead that cannot happen to a man of talent.  I am told,
    moreover, that he is a spy, and that for that reason he was given the
    hat.  I know, moreover, that he has not written anything at all.  For
    that reason I do not wish to take the trouble of seeing him.

    As regards Lanci, I am not saying anything except that I am waiting
    until you have read his work without passion, and that if my books
    have arrived at Madrid, you can ask my brother in Santiago.

    You are judging of him and of Pahlin in the way you reproach me with
    judging Mezzofanti; I thank you, and I wish for the dedication
    Gabricote; and I also wish for your return to Madrid, so that in
    going to Toledo you would get a copy of Aristophanes with the order
    that will be given to you by my brother, who has got it.

    If for the Gabricote or other work you require my clumsy pen, write
    to Florence and send me a rough copy of what is to be done, in
    English or in Spanish, and I will supply the finished work.  From
    Florence I intend to go to London, and I should be obliged if you
    would give me letters and instructions that would be of use to me in
    literary matters, but you must know that my want of knowledge of
    _speaking_ English makes it necessary that the Englishmen who speak
    to me should know Spanish, French, or Italian.

    As regards robberies, of which you accuse Southern people, from the
    literatures of the North, do you think that the robberies committed
    by the Northerners from the Southern literature would be left behind?
    Erunt vitia donec homines.—Always yours,

                                                               ELEUTHEROS.

Yet another acquaintance of these Spanish days was Baron Taylor—Isidore
Justin Séverin Taylor, to give him his full name—who had a career of
wandering achievement, with Government pay, that must have appealed to
Borrow.  Although his father was an Englishman he became a naturalised
Frenchman, and he was for a time in the service of the French Government
as Director of the Théâtre Français, when he had no little share in the
production of the dramas of Victor Hugo and Dumas.  Later he was
instrumental in bringing the Luxor obelisk from Egypt to Paris.  He wrote
books upon his travels in Spain, Portugal and Morocco.  He wandered all
over Europe in search of art treasures for the French Government, and may
very well have met Borrow again and again.  Borrow tells us that he had
met Taylor in France, in Russia, and in Ireland, before he met him in
Andalusia, collecting pictures for the French Government.  Borrow’s
description of their meetings is inimitable:—

    Whenever he descries me, whether in the street or the desert, the
    brilliant hall or amongst Bedouin _haimas_, at Novogorod or Stambul,
    he flings up his arms and exclaims, “_O ciel_!  I have again the
    felicity of seeing my cherished and most respectable Borrow.”

The last and most distinguished of Borrow’s colleagues while in Spain was
George Villiers, fourth Earl of Clarendon, whom we judge to have been in
private life one of the most lovable men of his epoch.  George Villiers
was born in London in 1800, and was the grandson of the first Earl,
Thomas Villiers, who received his title when holding office in Lord
North’s administration, but is best known from his association in
diplomacy with Frederick the Great.  His grandson was born, as it were,
into diplomacy, and at twenty years of age was an _attaché_ to the
British Embassy in St. Petersburg.  Later he was associated with Sir John
Bowring in negotiating a commercial treaty with France.  In August, 1833,
he was sent as British Minister—“envoy extraordinary” he was called—to
Madrid, and he had been two years in that seething-pot of Spanish
affairs, with Christinos and Carlists at one another’s throats, when
Borrow arrived in the Peninsula.  His influence was the greater with a
succession of Spanish Prime Ministers in that in 1838 he had been largely
instrumental in negotiating the quadruple alliance between England,
France, Spain, and Portugal.  In March, 1839—exactly a year before Borrow
took his departure—he resigned his position at Madrid, having then for
some months exchanged the title of Sir George Villiers for that of Earl
of Clarendon through the death of his uncle; Borrow thereafter having to
launch his various complaints and grievances at his successor,
Mr.—afterwards Sir George—Jerningham, who, it has been noted, had his
home in Norfolk, at Costessey, four miles from Norwich.  Villiers
returned to England with a great reputation, although his Spanish policy
was attacked in the House of Lords.  In that same year, 1839, he joined
Lord Melbourne’s administration as Lord Privy Seal, O’Connell at the time
declaring that he ought to be made Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, so
sympathetic was he towards concession and conciliation in that then
feverishly excited country.  This office actually came to him in 1847,
and he was Lord-Lieutenant through that dark period of Ireland’s history,
including the Famine, the Young Ireland rebellion, and the Smith O’Brien
rising.  He pleased no one in Ireland.  No English statesman could ever
have done so under such ideals of government as England would have
tolerated then, and for long years afterwards.  The Whigs defended him,
the Tories abused him, in their respective organs.  He left Ireland in
1852 and was more than once mentioned as possible Prime Minister in the
ensuing years.  He was Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in Lord
Aberdeen’s administration during the Crimean War, and he held the same
office under Lord Palmerston, again under Lord John Russell in 1865, and
under Mr. Gladstone in 1868.  He might easily have become Prime Minister.
Greville in his _Diary_ writes of Prince Albert’s desire that he should
succeed Lord John Russell, but Clarendon said that no power on earth
would make him take that position.  He said he could not speak, and had
not had parliamentary experience enough.  He died in 1870, leaving a
reputation as a skilful diplomatist and a disinterested politician, if
not that of a great statesman.  He had twice refused the
Governor-Generalship of India, and three times a marquisate.

Sir George Villiers seems to have been very courteous to Borrow during
the whole of the time they were together in Spain.  It would have been
easy for him to have been quite otherwise.  Borrow’s Bible mission
synchronised with a very delicate diplomatic mission of his own, and in a
measure clashed with it.  The government of Spain was at the time
fighting the ultra-clericals.  Physical and moral strife were rife in the
land.  Neither Royalists nor Carlists could be expected to sympathise
with Borrow’s schemes, which were fundamentally to attack their Church.
But Villiers was at all times friendly, and, as far as he could be,
helpful.  Borrow seems to have had ready access to him, and he answered
his many letters.  He gave Borrow an opportunity of an interview with the
formidable Prime Minister Mendizábal, and he interviewed another minister
and persuaded him to permit Borrow to print and circulate his Bibles.  He
intervened successfully to release Borrow from his Madrid prison.  But
Villiers could not have had any sympathy with Borrow other than as a
British subject to be protected on the Roman citizen principle.  We do
not suppose that when _The Bible in Spain_ appeared he was one of those
who were captivated by its extraordinary qualities.  When Borrow crossed
his path in later life he received no special consideration, such as
would be given very promptly in our day by a Cabinet minister to a man of
letters of like distinction.  We find him on one occasion writing to the
ex-minister, now Lord Clarendon, asking his help for a consulship.
Clarendon replied kindly enough, but sheltered himself behind the
statement that the Prime Minister was overwhelmed with applications for
patronage.  Yet Clarendon, who held many high offices in the following
years, might have helped if he had cared to do so.  Some years later—in
1847—there was further correspondence when Borrow desired to become a
Magistrate of Suffolk.  Here again Clarendon wrote three courteous
letters, and appears to have done his best in an unenthusiastic way.  But
nothing came of it all.




CHAPTER XIX
MARY BORROW


AMONG the many Borrow manuscripts in my possession I find a page of
unusual pathos.  It is the inscription that Borrow wrote for his wife’s
tomb, and it is in the tremulous handwriting of a man weighed down by the
one incomparable tragedy of life’s pilgrimage:

    _Sacred to the Memory of Mary Borrow_,
    _the Beloved and Affectionate Wife of_
    _George Borrow_, _Esquire_, _who departed_
    _this Life on the_ 30_th_ _Jan._ 1869.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

The death of his wife saddened Borrow, and assisted to transform him into
the unamiable creature of Norfolk tradition.  But it is well to bear in
mind, when we are considering Borrow on his domestic and personal side,
that he was unquestionably a good and devoted husband throughout his
married life of twenty-nine years.  It was in the year 1832 that Borrow
and his wife first met.  He was twenty-nine; she was a widow of
thirty-eight.  She was undeniably very intelligent, and was keenly
sympathetic to the young vagabond of wonderful adventures on the highways
of England, now so ambitious for future adventure in distant lands.  Her
maiden name was Mary Skepper.  She was one of the two children of Edmund
Skepper and his wife Anne, who lived at Oulton Hall in Suffolk, whither
they had removed from Beccles in 1805.  Mary’s brother inherited the
Oulton Hall estate of three hundred acres, and she had a mortgage, the
interest of which yielded £450 per annum.  In July, 1817, Mary married,
at Oulton Church, Henry Clarke, a lieutenant in the Navy, who died eight
months later of consumption.  Two months after his death their child
Henrietta Mary, the “Hen.” who was Borrow’s life companion, was born.
There is a letter among my Borrow Papers addressed to the widow by her
husband’s father at this time.  It is dated 17th June, 1818, and runs as
follows:

    I read your very kind, affectionate, and respectful Letter of the
    15th Inst, with Feelings of Satisfaction and thankfulness—thankful
    that God has mercifully given you so pleasing a Pledge of the Love of
    my late dear, but lamented son, and I most sincerely hope and trust
    that dear little Henrietta will live to be the Joy and Consolation of
    your Life: and satisfyed I am that you are what I always esteemed you
    to be, _one_ of the best of Women; God grant! that you may be, as I
    am sure you deserve to be _one_ of the happiest—His Ways of
    Providence are past finding out; to you—they seem indeed to have been
    truly afflictive: but we cannot possibly say that they are really so;
    we cannot doubt His Wisdom nor ought we to distrust His Goodness, let
    us avow, then, where we have not the Power of fathoming—viz. the
    dispensations of God; in His good time He will show us, perhaps, that
    every painful Event which has happened was abundantly for the best—I
    am truly glad to hear that you and the sweet Babe, my little grand
    Daughter, are doing so well, and I hope I shall have the pleasure
    shortly of seeing you either at Oulton or Sisland.  I am sorry to add
    that neither Poor L. nor myself are well.—Louisa and my Family join
    me in kind love to you, and in best regards to your worthy Father,
    Mother, and Brother.

Mary Skepper was certainly a bright, intelligent girl, as I gather from a
manuscript poem before me written to a friend on the eve of leaving
school.  As a widow, living at first with her parents at Oulton Hall, and
later with her little daughter in the neighbouring cottage, she would
seem to have busied herself with all kinds of philanthropies, and she was
clearly in sympathy with the religious enthusiasms of certain
neighbouring families of Evangelical persuasion, particularly the Gurneys
and the Cunninghams.  The Rev. Francis Cunningham was rector of
Pakefield, near Lowestoft from 1814 to 1830.  He married Richenda, sister
of the distinguished Joseph John Gurney and of Elizabeth Fry, in 1816.
In 1830 he became vicar of St. Margaret’s, Lowestoft.  His brother, John
William Cunningham, was vicar of Harrow, and married a Verney of the
famous Buckinghamshire family.  This John William Cunningham was a great
light of the Evangelical Churches of his time, and was for many years
editor of _The Christian Observer_.  His daughter Mary Richenda married
Sir James Fitzjames Stephen, the well-known judge, and the brother of Sir
Leslie Stephen.  But to return to Francis Cunningham, whose acquaintance
with Borrow was brought about through Mrs. Clarke.  Cunningham was a
great supporter of the British and Foreign Bible Society, and was the
founder of the Paris branch.  It was speedily revealed to him that
Borrow’s linguistic abilities could be utilised by the Society, and he
secured the co-operation of his brother-in-law, Joseph John Gurney, in an
effort to find Borrow work in connection with the Society.

We do not meet Mary Clarke again until 1834, when we find a letter from
her to Borrow addressed to St. Petersburg, in which she notifies to him
that he has been “mentioned at many of the Bible Meetings this year,”
adding that “dear Mr. Cunningham” had spoken so nicely of him at an
Oulton gathering.  “As I am not afraid of making you proud,” she
continues, “I will tell you one of his remarks.  He mentioned you as one
of the most extraordinary and interesting individuals of the present
day.”  Henceforth clearly Mary Clarke corresponded regularly with Borrow,
and one or two extracts from her letters are given by Dr. Knapp.  Joseph
Jowett of the Bible Society forwarded Borrow’s letters from Russia to
Cunningham, who handed them to Mrs. Clarke and her parents.  Borrow had
proposed to continue his mission by leaving Russia for China, but this
Mary Clarke opposed:

    I must tell you that your letter chilled me when I read your
    intention of going as a Missionary or Agent, with the Manchu
    Scriptures in your hand, to the Tartars, that land of incalculable
    dangers.

In 1835 Borrow was back in England at Norwich with his mother, and on a
visit to Mary Clarke and the Skeppers at Oulton.  Mrs. Skepper died just
before his arrival in England—that is, in September, 1835—while her
husband died in February, 1836.  Her only brother died in the following
year.

Thus we see Mary Clarke, aged forty-three, left to fight the world with
her daughter, aged nineteen, and not only to fight the world but her own
family, particularly her brother’s widow, owing to certain ambiguities in
her father’s will.  It was these legal quarrels that led Mary Clarke and
her daughter to set sail for Spain, where Mary had had the indefatigable
and sympathetic correspondent during the previous year of trouble.
Borrow and Mary Clarke met, as we have seen, at Seville and there, at a
later period, they became “engaged.”  Mrs. Clarke and her daughter
Henrietta sailed for Spain in the _Royal Tar_, leaving London for Cadiz
in June, 1839.  Much keen correspondence between Borrow and Mrs. Clarke
had passed before the final decision to visit Spain.  His mother was one
of the few people who knew of Mrs. Clarke’s journey to Seville, and must
have understood, as mothers do, what was pending, although her son did
not.  When the engagement is announced to her—in November, 1839—she
writes to Mary Clarke a kindly, affectionate letter:

    I shall now resign him to your care, and may you love and cherish him
    as much as I have done.  I hope and trust that each will try to make
    the other happy.

There is no reason whatever to accept the suggestion that has been made
that Borrow married for money.  And this because he had said in one of
his letters, “It is better to suffer the halter than the yoke,” the kind
of thing that a man might easily say on the eve of making a proposal
which he was not sure would be accepted.  Nor can a casual remark of
Borrow’s—“marriage is by far the best way of getting possession of an
estate”—be counted as conclusive.  That Borrow was all his life devoted
to his wife I think is proved by his many letters to her that are given
in this volume.  Borrow’s further tribute to his wife and stepdaughter in
_Wild Wales_ is well known:

    Of my wife I will merely say that she is a perfect paragon of wives,
    can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset, and is the best
    woman of business in Eastern Anglia.  Of my stepdaughter—for such she
    is, though I generally call her daughter, and with good reason,
    seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to me—that she
    has all kinds of good qualities, and several accomplishments, knowing
    something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the
    Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar—not the
    trumpery German thing so called, but the real Spanish guitar.

Borrow belonged to the type of men who would never marry did not some
woman mercifully take them in hand.  Mrs. Clarke, when she set out for
Spain, had doubtless determined to marry Borrow.  It is clear that he had
no idea of marrying her.  Yet he was certainly “engaged,” as we learn
from a letter to Mr. Brackenbury, when he wrote a letter from Seville to
Mr. Brandram, dated 18th March, in which he said: “I wish very much to
spend the remaining years of my life in the northern parts of China, as I
think I have a call to those regions. . . .  I hope yet to die in the
cause of my Redeemer.”  Surely never did man take so curious a view of
the responsibilities of marriage.  Possibly here also Borrow was adapting
himself to the language of the Bible Society.  He must have known that
his proposal would be declined—as it was.

Very soon after the engagement Borrow experienced his third term of
imprisonment in Spain, this time, however, only for thirty hours, and all
because he had asked the Alcalde, or mayor of the district in which he
lived, for his passport, and had quarrelled with his worship over the
matter.  Borrow gave up the months of this winter of 1839 rather to
writing his first important book, _The Gypsies of Spain_, than to the
concerns of the Bible Society, which fidgeted exceedingly, no doubt
imaging heavy bills for expenses, with no corresponding reports of the
usual character to be read out at meetings.  Finally Borrow, with Mrs.
Clarke and her daughter, sailed from Cadiz on the 3rd April, 1840, as we
have already related.  He had with him his Jewish servant, Hayim Ben
Attar, and his Arabian horse, Sidi Habismilk, both of which were to
astonish the natives of the Suffolk broads.  The party reached London on
16th April and stayed at the Spread Eagle Inn, Gracechurch Street.  The
marriage took place at St. Peter’s Church, Cornhill, on 23rd April, 1840.

There are only two letters from Mrs. Borrow to her husband extant.  They
were written in the Hereford Square days between the years 1860 and
1869—the last year of Mrs. Borrow’s life.  The pair had been married some
twenty-five years at least, and it is made clear by those letters alone
that at the end of this period they were still a most happily assorted
couple.  Mrs. Borrow must have gone to Brighton for her health on two
separate occasions, each time accompanied by her daughter.  Borrow, who
had enjoyed many a pleasant ramble on his own account, as we shall
see—rambles which extended as far away as Constantinople—is “keeping
house” in Hereford Square, Brompton, the while.  It will be noted that
Mrs. Borrow signed herself “Carreta,” the pet name that her husband
always gave her.  It has been suggested that as “carreta” means a Spanish
dray-cart, “carita,” “my dear,” was probably meant.  But, careless as was
the famous word-master over the spelling of words in the tongues that he
never really mastered scientifically, he could scarcely have made so
obvious a blunder as this, and there must have been some particular
experience in the lives of husband and wife that led to the playful
designation. {145a}  Here are the two letters:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                        GRENVILLE PLACE, BRIGHTON, SUSSEX.

    MY DARLING HUSBAND,—I am thankful to say that I arrived here quite
    safe on Saturday, and on Wednesday I hope to see you at home.  We may
    not be home before the evening about six o’clock, sooner or later, so
    do not be anxious, as we shall be careful.  We took tea with the
    Edwards at six o’clock the day I came; they are a very kind, nice
    family.  You must take a walk when we come home, but remember now we
    have a young servant, and do not leave the house for very long
    together.  The air here is very fresh, and much cooler than in
    London, and I hope after the five days’ change I shall be benefited,
    but I wish to come home on Wednesday.  See to all the doors and
    windows of a night, and let Jane keep up the chain, and lock the back
    door by the hop plant before it gets dark.  Our love to Lady
    Soame.—And with our best love to you, believe me, your own

                                                                  CARRETA.

                                           _Sunday morning_, 10 _o’clock_.

    If I do not hear from you I shall conclude all is well, and you may
    do the same with regard to us.  Have the tea ready a little before
    six on Wednesday.  Henrietta is wonderfully improved by the change,
    and sends dear and best love to you.

                                * * * * *

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                     33 GRENVILLE PLACE, BRIGHTON, SUSSEX.
                                                       _Thursday morning_.

    MY DEAR HUSBAND,—As it is raining again this morning I write a few
    lines to you.  I cannot think that we have quite so much rain as you
    have at Brompton, for I was out _twice_ yesterday an hour in the
    morning in a Bath chair, and a little walk in the evening on the
    Marine Parade, and I have been out little or much every day, and hope
    I feel a little better.  Our dear Henrietta likewise says that she
    feels the better for the air and change.  As we are here I think we
    had better remain till Tuesday next, when the fortnight will be up,
    but I fear you feel very lonely.  I hope you get out when you can,
    and that you take care of your health.  I hope Ellen continues to
    attend to yr. comfort, and that when she gives orders to Mrs. Harvey
    or the Butcher that she shews you what they send.  I shall want the
    stair carpets down, and the drawing-room _nice_—blinds and shutters
    closed to prevent the sun, also bed-rooms prepared, with well _aired
    sheets_ and counterpane _by next Tuesday_.  I suppose we shall get to
    Hereford Square perhaps about five o’clock, but I shall write again.
    You had better dine at yr. usual time, and as we shall get a dinner
    here we shall want only tea.

    Henrietta’s kindest dear love and mine, remaining yr. true and
    affectionate wife.

                                                                  CARRETA.

No reader can peruse the following pages without recognising the true
affection for his wife that is transparent in Borrow’s letters to her.
Arthur Dalrymple’s remark that he had frequently seen Borrow and his wife
travelling—

    He stalking along with a huge cloak wrapped round him in all
    weathers, and she trudging behind him like an Indian squaw, with a
    carpet bag, or bundle, or small portmanteau in her arms, and
    endeavouring under difficulty to keep up with his enormous strides—

is clearly a travesty.  “Mrs. Borrow was devoted to her husband, and
looked after business matters; and he always treated her with exceeding
kindness,” is the verdict of Miss Elizabeth Jay, who was frequently
privileged to visit the husband and wife at Oulton.




CHAPTER XX
“THE CHILDREN OF THE OPEN AIR”


BEHOLD George Borrow, then, in a comfortable home on the banks of Oulton
Broad—a family man.  His mother—sensible woman—declines her son’s
invitation to live with the newly-married pair.  She remains in the
cottage at Norwich where her husband died.  The Borrows were married in
April, 1840, by May they had settled at Oulton.  It was a pleasantly
secluded estate, and Borrow’s wife had £450 a year.  He had, a month
before his marriage, written to Mr. Brandram to say that he had a work
nearly ready for publication, and “two others in a state of forwardness.”
The title of the first of these books he enclosed in his letter.  It was
_The Zincali_: _Or an Account of the Gypsies of Spain_.  Mr. Samuel
Smiles, in his history of the House of Murray—_A Publisher and his
Friends_—thus relates the circumstances of its publication:—

    In November 1840 a tall, athletic gentleman in black called upon Mr.
    Murray offering a MS. for perusal and publication. . . .  Mr. Murray
    could not fail to be taken at first sight with this extraordinary
    man.  He had a splendid physique, standing six feet two in his
    stockings, and he had brains as well as muscles, as his works
    sufficiently show.  The book now submitted was of a very uncommon
    character, and neither the author nor the publisher were very
    sanguine about its success.  Mr. Murray agreed, after perusal, to
    print and publish 750 copies of _The Gypsies in Spain_, and divide
    the profits with the author.

It was at the suggestion of Richard Ford, then the greatest living
English authority on Spain, that Mr. Murray published the book.  It did
not really commence to sell until _The Bible in Spain_ came a year or so
later to bring the author reputation.  From November, 1840, to June,
1841, only three hundred copies had been sold in spite of friendly
reviews in some half-dozen journals, including _The Athenæum_ and _The
Literary Gazette_.  The first edition, it may be mentioned, contained on
its title-page a description of the author as “late agent of the British
and Foreign Bible Society in Spain.”  There is very marked compression in
the edition now in circulation, and a perusal of the first edition
reveals many interesting features that deserve to be restored for the
benefit of the curious.  But nothing can make _The Zincali_ a great piece
of literature.  It was summarised by the _Edinburgh Review_ at the time
as “a hotch-potch of the jockey, tramper, philologist, and missionary.”
That description, which was not intended to be as flattering as it sounds
to-day, appears more to apply to _The Bible in Spain_.  But _The Zincali_
is too confused, too ill-arranged a book to rank with Borrow’s four great
works.  There are passages in it, indeed, so eloquent, so romantic, that
no lover of Borrow’s writings can afford to neglect them.  But this was
not the book that gypsy-loving Borrow, with the temperament of a Romany,
should have written, or could have written had he not been obsessed by
the “science” of his subject.  His real work in gypsydom was to appear
later in _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_.  For Borrow was not a man of
science—a philologist, a folk-lorist of the first order.

No one, indeed, who had read only _The Zincali_ among Borrow’s works
could see in it any suspicion of the writer who was for all time to throw
a glamour over the gypsy, to make the “children of the open air” a
veritable cult, to earn for him the title of “the walking lord of gypsy
lore,” and to lay the foundations of an admirable succession of books
both in fact and fiction—but not one as great as his own.  It is clear
that the city of Seville, with sarcastic letters from Bible Society
secretaries on one side, and some manner of love romance on the other,
was not so good a place for an author to produce a real book as Oulton
was to become.  Richard Ford’s judgment was sound when he said with quite
wonderful prescience:

    How I wish you had given us more about yourself, instead of the
    extracts from those blunder-headed old Spaniards, who knew nothing
    about gypsies!  I shall give you the _rap_, on that, and a hint to
    publish your whole adventures for the last twenty years. {148}

Henceforth Borrow was to write about himself and to become a great author
in consequence.  For in writing about himself as in _Lavengro_ and _The
Romany Rye_ he was to write exactly as he felt about the gypsies, and to
throw over them the glamour of his own point of view, the view of a man
who loved the broad highway and those who sojourned upon it.  In _The
Gypsies of Spain_ we have a conventional estimate of the gypsies.  “There
can be no doubt that they are human beings and have immortal souls,” he
says, even as if he were writing a letter to the Bible Society.  All his
anecdotes about the gypsies are unfavourable to them, suggestive only of
them as knaves and cheats.  From these pictures it is a far cry to the
creation of Jasper Petulengro and Isopel Berners.  The most noteworthy
figure in _The Zincali_ is the gypsy soldier of Valdepenas, an unholy
rascal.  “To lie, to steal, to shed human blood”—these are the most
marked characteristics with which Borrow endows the gypsies of Spain.
“Abject and vile as they have ever been, the gitános have nevertheless
found admirers in Spain,” says the author who came to be popularly
recognised as the most enthusiastic admirer of the gypsies in Spain and
elsewhere.  Read to-day by the lover of Borrow’s other books _The
Zincali_ will be pronounced a readable collection of anecdotes,
interspersed with much dull matter, with here and there a piece of
admirable writing.  But the book would scarcely have lived had it not
been followed by four works of so fine an individuality.  Well might Ford
ask Borrow for more about himself and less of the extracts from
“blunder-headed old Spaniards.”  When Borrow came to write about himself
he revealed his real kindness for the gypsy folk.  He gave us Jasper
Petulengro and the incomparable description of “the wind on the heath.”
He kindled the imagination of men, proclaimed the joys of vagabondage in
a manner that thrilled many hearts.  He had some predecessors and many
successors, but “none could then, or can ever again,” says the biographer
of a later Rye, “see or hear of Romanies without thinking of Borrow.”  In
her biography of one of these successors in gypsy lore, Charles Godfrey
Leland, Mrs. Pennell discusses the probability that Borrow and Leland met
in the British Museum.  That is admitted in a letter from Leland to
Borrow in my possession.  To this letter Borrow made no reply.  It was
wrong of him.  But he was then—in 1873—a prematurely old man, worn out
and saddened by neglect and a sense of literary failure.  For this and
for the other vagaries of those latter years Borrow will not be judged
harshly by those who read his story here.  Nothing could be more
courteous than Borrow’s one letter to Leland, written in the failing
handwriting—once so excellent—of the last sad decade of his life:

                             22 HEREFORD SQUARE, BROMPTON, _Nov._ 2, 1871.

    SIR,—I have received your letter and am gratified by the desire you
    express to make my acquaintance.  Whenever you please to come I shall
    be happy to see you.—Yours truly,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

The meeting did not, through Leland’s absence from London, then take
place.  Two years later it was another story.  The failing powers were
more noteworthy.  Borrow was by this time dead to the world, as the
documents before me abundantly testify.  It is not, therefore, necessary
to assume, as Leland’s friends have done, that Borrow never replied
because he was on the eve of publishing a book of his own about the
gypsies.

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                      LANGHAM HOTEL, PORTLAND PLACE, _March_ 31_st_, 1873.

    DEAR SIR,—I sincerely trust that the limited extent of our
    acquaintanceship will not cause this note to seem to you too
    presuming.  _Breviter_, I have thrown the results of my observations
    among English gypsies into a very unpretending little volume
    consisting almost entirely of facts gathered from the Romany, without
    any theory.  As I owe all my interest in the subject to your
    writings, and as I am sincerely grateful to you for the impulse which
    they gave me, I should like very much to dedicate my book to you.  Of
    course if your kindness permits I shall submit the proofs to you,
    that you may judge whether the work deserves the honour.  I should
    have sent you the MS., but not long after our meeting at the British
    Museum I left for Egypt, whence I have very recently returned, to
    find my publisher clamorous for the promised copy.

    It is _not_—God knows—a mean and selfish desire to help my book by
    giving it the authority of your name, which induces this request.
    But I am earnestly desirous for my conscience’ sake to publish
    nothing in the Romany which shall not be true and sensible, even as
    all that you have written is true and sensible.  Therefore, _should_
    you take the pains to glance over my proof, I should be grateful if
    you would signify to me any differences of opinion should there be
    ground for any.  Dr. A. F. Pott in his _Zigeuner_ (vol. ii. p. 224),
    intimates very decidedly that you took the word _shastr_ (Exhastra de
    Moyses) from Sanskrit and put it into Romany; declaring that it would
    be very important if _shaster_ were Romany.  I mention in my book
    that English gypsies call the New Testament (also any MS.) a
    _shaster_, and that a betting-book on a racecourse is called a
    _shaster_ “because it is written.”  I do not pretend in my book to
    such deep Romany as you have achieved—all that I claim is to have
    collected certain words, facts, phrases, etc., out of the Romany of
    the roads—corrupt as it is—as I have found it to-day.  I deal only
    with the gypsy of the _Decadence_.  With renewed apology for
    intrusion should it seem such, I remain, yours very respectfully,

                                                        CHARLES G. LELAND.

Francis Hindes Groome remarked when reviewing Borrow’s _Word Book_ in
1874, {151} that when _The Gypsies of Spain_ was published in 1841 “there
were not two educated men in England who possessed the slightest
knowledge of Romany.”  In the intervening thirty-three years all this was
changed.  There was an army of gypsy scholars or scholar gypsies of whom
Leland was one, Hindes Groome another, and Professor E. H. Palmer a
third, to say nothing of many scholars and students of Romany in other
lands.  Not one of them seemed when Borrow published his _Word Book of
the Romany_ to see that he was the only man of genius among them.  They
only saw that he was an inferior philologist to them all.  And so Borrow,
who prided himself on things that he could do indifferently quite as much
as upon things that he could do well, suffered once again, as he was so
often doomed to suffer, for the lack of appreciation which was all in all
to him, and his career went out in a veritable blizzard.  He published
nothing after his _Romano Lavo-Lil_ appeared in 1874.  He was then indeed
a broken and a bitter man, with no further interest in life.  Dedications
of books to him interested him not at all.  In any other mood, or a few
years earlier, Leland’s book, _The English Gypsies_, would have gladdened
his heart.  In his preface Leland expresses “the highest respect for the
labours of Mr. George Borrow in this field,” he quotes Borrow continually
and with sympathy, and renders him honour as a philologist that has
usually been withheld.  “To Mr. Borrow is due the discovery that the word
_jockey_ is of gypsy origin and derived from _chuckiri_, which means a
whip,” and he credits Borrow with the discovery of the origin of “tanner”
for sixpence; he vindicates him as against Dr. A. F. Pott—a prince among
students of gypsydom—of being the first to discover that the English
gypsies call the Bible the _shaster_.  But there is a wealth of
scientific detail in Leland’s books that is not to be found in Borrow’s,
as also there is in Francis Hindes Groome’s works.  What had Borrow to do
with science?  He could not even give the word “Rúmani” its accent, and
called it “Romany.”  He “quietly appropriated,” says Groome, “Bright’s
Spanish gypsy words for his own work, mistakes and all, without one word
of recognition.  I think one has the ancient impostor there.”  “His
knowledge of the strange history of the gypsies was very elementary, of
their manners almost more so, and of their folk-lore practically _nil_,”
says Groome elsewhere.  Yet Mr. Hindes Groome readily acknowledges that
Borrow is above all writers on the gypsies.  “He communicates a subtle
insight into gypsydom”—that is the very essence of the matter.
Controversy will continue in the future as in the present as to whether
the gypsies are all that Borrow thought them.  Perhaps “corruption has
crept in among them” as it did with the prize-fighters.  They have
intermarried with the gorgios, thrown over their ancient customs, lost
all their picturesque qualities, it may be.  But Borrow has preserved in
literature for all time, as not one of the philologists and folk-lore
students has done, a remarkable type of people.  But this is not to be
found in his first original work, _The Zincali_, nor in his last, _The
Romano Lavo-Lil_.  This glamour is to be found in _Lavengro_ and _The
Romany Rye_, to which books we shall come in due course.  Here we need
only refer to the fact that Borrow had loved the gypsies all his
life—from his boyish meeting with Petulengro until in advancing years the
prototype of that wonderful creation of his imagination—for this the
Petulengro of _Lavengro_ undoubtedly was—came to visit him at Oulton.
Well might Leland call him “the Nestor of Gypsydom.”




CHAPTER XXI
“THE BIBLE IN SPAIN”


IN an admirable appreciation of our author, the one in which he gives the
oft-quoted eulogy concerning him as “the delightful, the bewitching, the
never-sufficiently-to-be-praised George Borrow,” Mr. Birrell records the
solace that may be found by small boys in the ambiguities of a
title-page, or at least might have been found in it in his youth and in
mine.  In those days in certain Puritan circles a very strong line was
drawn between what was known as Sunday reading, and reading that might be
permitted on week-days.  The Sunday book must have a religious flavour.
There were magazines with that particular flavour, every story in them
having a pious moral withal.  Very closely watched and scrutinised was
the reading of young people in those days and in those circles.  Mr.
Birrell, doubtless, speaks from autobiographical memories when he tells
us of a small boy with whose friends _The Bible in Spain_ passed muster
on the strength of its title-page.  For Mr. Birrell is the son of a
venerated Nonconformist minister; and perhaps he, or at least those who
were of his household, had this religious idiosyncrasy.  It may be that
the distinction which pervaded the evangelical circles of Mr. Birrell’s
youth as to what were Sunday books, as distinct from books to be read on
week-days, has disappeared.  In any case think of the advantage of the
boy of that generation who was able to handle a book with so
unexceptionable a title as _The Bible in Spain_.  His elders would
succumb at once, particularly if the boy had the good sense to call their
attention to the sub-title—“The Journeys, Adventures, and Imprisonments
of an Englishman in an Attempt to Circulate the Scriptures in the
Peninsula.”  Nothing could be said by the most devout of seniors against
so prepossessing a title-page.  But what of the boy who had thus passed
the censorship?  What a revelation of adventure was open to him.  Perhaps
he would skip the “preachy” parts in which Borrow was doubtless sincere,
although the sincerity has so uncertain a ring to-day.  Here are five
passages, for example, which do not seem to belong to the book:

    In whatever part of the world I, a poor wanderer in the Gospel’s
    cause, may chance to be

                                  * * * * *

    very possibly the fate of St. Stephen might overtake me; but does the
    man deserve the name of a follower of Christ who would shrink from
    danger of any kind in the cause of Him whom he calls his Master?  “He
    who loses his life for my sake shall find it,” are words which the
    Lord Himself uttered.  These words were fraught with consolation to
    me, as they doubtless are to every one engaged in propagating the
    Gospel, in sincerity of heart, in savage and barbarian lands.

                                  * * * * *

    Unhappy land! not until the pure light of the Gospel has illumined
    thee, wilt thou learn that the greatest of all gifts is charity!

                                  * * * * *

    and I thought that to convey the Gospel to a place so wild and remote
    might perhaps be considered an acceptable pilgrimage in the eyes of
    my Maker.  True it is that but one copy remained of those which I had
    brought with me on this last journey; but this reflection, far from
    discouraging me in my projected enterprise, produced the contrary
    effect, as I called to mind that, ever since the Lord revealed
    Himself to man, it has seemed good to Him to accomplish the greatest
    ends by apparently the most insufficient means; and I reflected that
    this one copy might serve as an instrument for more good than the
    four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine copies of the edition of
    Madrid.

                                  * * * * *

    I shall not detain the course of my narrative with reflections as to
    the state of a Church which, though it pretends to be founded on
    scripture, would yet keep the light of scripture from all mankind, if
    possible.  But Rome is fully aware that she is not a Christian
    Church, and having no desire to become so, she acts prudently in
    keeping from the eyes of her followers the page which would reveal to
    them the truths of Christianity.

All this does not ring quite true, and in any case it is too much on the
lines of “Sunday reading” to please the small boy, who must, however,
have found a thousand things in that volume that were to his taste—some
of the wildest adventures, hairbreadth escapes, extraordinary meetings
again and again with unique people—with Benedict Mol, for example, who
was always seeking for treasure.  Gypsies, bull-fighters, quaint and
queer characters of every kind, come before us in rapid succession.
Rarely, surely, have so many adventures been crowded into the same number
of pages.  Only when Borrow remembers, as he has to do occasionally, that
he is an agent of the Bible Society does the book lose its vigour and its
charm.  We have already pointed out that the foundations of the volume
were contained in certain letters written by Borrow during his five years
in Spain to the secretaries of the Bible Society in London.  The recent
publication of these letters has revealed to us Borrow’s methods.  When
he had settled down at Oulton he took down his notebooks, one of which is
before me, but finding this was not sufficient, he asked the Bible
Society for the loan of his letters to them.  Other letters that he hoped
to use were not forthcoming, as the following note from Miss Gurney to
Mrs. Borrow indicates:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                             EARLHAM, 12_th_ _June_, 1840.

    DEAR MRS. BORROW,—I am sorry I cannot find any of Mr. Borrow’s
    letters from Spain.  I don’t think we ever had any, but my brother is
    from home and I therefore cannot inquire of him.

    I send you the only two I can find.  I am very glad he is going to
    publish his travels, which I have no doubt will be very interesting.
    It must be a pleasant object to assist him by copying the
    manuscripts.  If I should visit Lowestoft this summer I shall hope to
    see you, but I have no immediate prospect of doing so.  With kind
    regards to all your party, I am, Dear Mrs. Borrow, Yours sincerely,

                                                          C. GURNEY. {155}

The Bible Society, applied to in the same manner, lent Borrow all his
letters to that organisation and its secretaries.

Not all were returned.  Many came to Dr. Knapp when he purchased the half
of the Borrow papers that were sold after Borrow’s death; the remainder
are in my possession.

It is a nice point, seventy years after they were written, as to whom
they belong.  In any case the Bible Society must have kept copies of
everything, for when, in 1911, they came to publish the _Letters_ the
collection was sufficiently complete.  That publication revealed some
interesting sidelights.  It proved on the one hand that Borrow had drawn
more upon his diaries than upon his letters, although he frequently
reproduced fragments of his diaries in his letters.  It revealed further
the extraordinary frankness with which Borrow wrote to his employers.  It
is true that it further reveals the manner in which he throws a sop of
godliness to the worthy secretaries.  But the main point is in the
discovery revealed to us that Borrow was not an artist in his letters.
Borrow was never a good letter writer, although I think that many of the
letters that appear for the first time in these pages will prove that his
letters are very interesting as contributions to biography.  If some of
the letters that helped to make up _The Bible in Spain_ are interesting,
it is because in them Borrow incorporated considerable fragments of
anecdote and adventure from his note-books.  It is quite a mistake to
assume, as does Dr. Knapp, that the “Rev. and Dear Sir” at the head of a
letter was the only variation.  You will look in vain in the Bible
Society correspondence for many a pearl that is contained in _The Bible
in Spain_, and happily you will look in vain in _The Bible in Spain_ for
many an unctuous sentence which concludes some of the original letters.
In one case, indeed, a letter concludes with Heber’s hymn—

    “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains,”

with which Borrow’s correspondent must already have been sufficiently
familiar.  But Borrow could not be other than Borrow, and the secretaries
of the Bible Society had plentiful matter with which to astonish them.
The finished production, however, is a fascinating book.  You read it
again and it becomes still more entertaining.  No wonder that it took the
world by storm and made its author the lion of a season.  “A queer book
will be this same _Bible in Spain_,” wrote Borrow to John Murray in
August, 1841, “containing all my queer adventures in that queer country
. . . it will make two nice foolscap octavo volumes.”  It actually made
three volumes, and Borrow was as irritated at Mr. Murray’s delay in
publishing as that publisher afterwards became at Borrow’s own delay over
_Lavengro_.  The whole book was laboriously copied out by Mrs. Borrow.
When this copy was sent to Mr. Murray, it was submitted to his “reader,”
who reported “numerous faults in spelling and some in grammar,” to which
criticism Borrow retorted that the copy was the work of “a country
amanuensis.”  The book was published in December, 1842, but has the date
1843 on its title-page.  In its three-volumed form 4750 copies of the
book were issued by July, 1843, after which countless copies were sold in
cheaper one-volumed form.  Success had at last come to Borrow.  He was
one of the most talked-of writers of the day.  His elation may be
demonstrated by his discussion with Dawson Turner as to whether he should
leave the manuscript of _The Bible in Spain_ to the Dean and Chapter’s
Library at Norwich or to the British Museum, by his gratification at the
fact that Sir Robert Peel referred to his book in the House of Commons,
and by his pleasure in the many appreciative reviews which, indeed, were
for the most part all that an ambitious author could desire.  “Never,”
said _The Examiner_, “was book more legibly impressed with the
unmistakable mark of genius.”  “There is no taking leave of a book like
this,” said the _Athenæum_.  “Better Christmas fare we have never had it
in our power to offer our readers.”

The publication of _The Bible in Spain_ made Borrow famous for a time.
Hitherto he had been known only to a small religious community, the
coterie that ran the Bible Society.  Even the large mass of people who
subscribed to that Society knew its agent in Spain only by meagre
allusions in the Annual Reports.  Now the world was to talk about him,
and he enjoyed being talked about.  Borrow declared—in 1842—that the five
years he passed in Spain were the most happy years of his existence.  But
then he had not had a happy life during the previous years, as we have
seen, and in Russia he had a toilsome task with an added element of
uncertainty as to the permanence of his position.  The five years in
Spain had plentiful adventure, and they closed in a pleasant manner.  Yet
the year that followed, even though it found him almost a country squire,
was not a happy one.  Once again the world did not want him and his
books—not the _Gypsies of Spain_ for example.  Seven weeks after
publication it had sold only to the extent of some three hundred copies.
But the happiest year of Borrow’s life was undoubtedly the one that
followed the publication of _The Bible in Spain_.  Up to that time he had
been a mere adventurer; now he was that most joyous of beings—a
successful author; and here, from among his Papers, is a carefully
preserved relic of his social triumph:

                   TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., AT MR. MURRAY’S,
                         BOOKSELLER, ALBEMARLE STREET

                               4 CARLTON TERRACE, _Tuesday_, 30_th_ _May_.

   The Prussian Minister and Madam Bunsen would be very happy to see Mr.
   Borrow to-morrow, Wednesday evening, about half past nine o’clock or
   later, when some German national songs will be performed at their
   house, which may possibly suit Mr. Borrow’s taste.  They hoped to have
   met him last night at the Bishop of Norwich’s, but arrived there too
   late.  They had already commissioned Lady Hall (sister to Madam
   Bunsen) to express to Mr. Borrow their wish for his acquaintance.

In a letter to his wife he writes of this visit to the Prussian Minister,
where he had for company “Princes and Members of Parliament.”  “I was the
star of the evening,” he says; “I thought to myself, ‘what a
difference!’”  There is an independent version of the function in the
_Annals of the Harford Family_, where a correspondent writes:

   There was present the amusing author of _The Bible in Spain_, a man
   who is remarkable for his extraordinary powers as a linguist, and for
   the originality of his character, not to speak of the wonderful
   adventures he narrates, and the ease and facility with which he tells
   them.  He kept us laughing a good part of breakfast time by the oddity
   of his remarks, as well as the positiveness of his assertions, often
   rather startling, and, like his books, partaking of the marvellous.

Borrow’s next letter to his wife is more chastened:

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, SUFFOLK

                                            _Wednesday_, 58 JERMYN STREET.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I was glad to receive your letter; I half expected one
    on Tuesday.  I am, on the whole, very comfortable, and people are
    kind.  I passed last Sunday at Clapham with Mrs. Browne; I was glad
    to go there for it was a gloomy day.  They are now glad enough to ask
    me: I suppose I must stay in London through next week.  I have an
    invitation to two grand parties, and it is as well to have something
    for one’s money.  I called at the Bible Society—all remarkably civil,
    Joseph especially so.  I think I shall be able to manage with my own
    Dictionary.  There is now a great demand for Morrison.  Yesterday I
    again dined at the Murrays.  There was a family party; very pleasant.
    To-morrow I dine with an old school-fellow.  Murray is talking of
    printing a new edition to sell for five shillings: those rascals, the
    Americans, have, it seems, reprinted it, and are selling it for
    _eighteen_ pence.  Murray says he shall print ten thousand copies; it
    is chiefly wanted for the Colonies.  He says the rich people and the
    libraries have already got it, and he is quite right, for nearly
    three thousand copies have been sold at 27s. {159}  There is no
    longer the high profit to be made on books there formerly was, as the
    rascals abroad pirate the good ones, and in the present state of
    copyright there is no help; we can, however, keep the American
    edition out of the Colonies, which is something.  I have nothing more
    to say save to commend you not to go on the water without me; perhaps
    you would be overset; and do not go on the bridge again till I come.
    Take care of Habismilk and Craffs; kiss the little mare and old Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

The earliest literary efforts of Borrow in Spain were his two
translations of St. Luke’s Gospel—the one into Romany, the other into
Basque.  This last book he did not actually translate himself, but
procured “from a Basque physician of the name of Oteiza.”




CHAPTER XXII
RICHARD FORD


THE most distinguished of Borrow’s friends in the years that succeeded
his return from Spain was Richard Ford, whose interests were so largely
wrapped up in the story of that country.  Ford was possessed of a very
interesting personality, which was not revealed to the public until Mr.
Rowland E. Prothero issued his excellent biography in 1905, although Ford
died in 1858.  This delay is the more astonishing as Ford’s _Handbook for
Travellers in Spain_ was one of the most famous books of its day.  Ford’s
father, Sir Richard Ford, was a friend of William Pitt, and twice sat in
Parliament, being at one time Under-Secretary of State for the Home
Department.  He ended his official career as a police magistrate at Bow
Street, but deserves to be better known to fame as the creator of the
mounted police force of London.  Ford was born with a silver spoon in his
mouth, inheriting a fortune from his father, and from his mother an
extraordinary taste for art.  Although called to the Bar he never
practised, but spent his time in travelling on the Continent, building up
a valuable collection of books and paintings.  He was three times
married, and all these unions seem to have been happy, in spite of an
almost unpleasant celerity in the second alliance, which took place nine
months after the death of his first wife.  A very large portion of his
life he devoted to Spain, which he knew so intimately that in 1845 he
produced that remarkable _Handbook_ in two closely printed volumes, a
most repellent-looking book in appearance to those who are used to
contemporary typography, usually so attractive.  Ford, in fact, was so
full of his subject that instead of a handbook he wrote a work which
ought to have appeared in half a dozen volumes.  In later editions the
book was condensed into one of Mr. Murray’s usual guide-books, but the
curious may still enjoy the work in its earliest form, so rich in
discussions of the Spanish people, their art and architecture, their
history and their habits.  The greater part of the letters in Mr.
Prothero’s collection are addressed to Addington, who was our ambassador
to Madrid for some years, until he was superseded by George Villiers,
Lord Clarendon, with whom Borrow came so much in contact.  Those letters
reveal a remarkably cultivated mind and an interesting outlook on life,
an outlook that was always intensely anti-democratic.  It is impossible
to sympathise with him in his brutal reference to the execution by the
Spaniards of Robert Boyd, a young Irishman who was captured with Torrijos
by the Spanish Government in 1831.  Richard Ford apparently left Spain
very shortly before George Borrow entered that country.  Ford passed
through Madrid on his way to England in September, 1833.  He then settled
near Exeter, purchasing an Elizabethan cottage called Heavitree House,
with twelve acres of land, and devoted himself to turning it into a
beautiful mansion.  Presumably he first met Borrow in Mr. John Murray’s
famous drawing-room soon after the publication of _The Gypsies in Spain_.
He tells Addington, indeed, in a letter of 14th January, 1841:

    I have made acquaintance with an extraordinary fellow, George Borrow,
    who went out to Spain to convert the gypsies.  He is about to publish
    his failure, and a curious book it will be.  It was submitted to my
    perusal by the hesitating Murray.

Ford’s article upon Borrow’s book appeared in _The British and Foreign
Review_, and Ford was delighted that the book had created a sensation,
and that he had given sound advice as to publishing the manuscript.  When
_The Bible in Spain_ was ready, Ford was one of the first to read it.
Then he wrote to John Murray:

    I read Borrow with great delight all the way down per rail.  You may
    depend upon it that the book will sell, which after all is the rub.

And in that letter Ford describes the book as putting him in mind of _Gil
Blas_ with “a touch of Bunyan.”  Lockhart himself reviewed the book in
_The Quarterly_, so Ford had to go to the rival organ—_The Edinburgh
Review_—receiving £44 for the article, which sum, he tells us, he
invested in Château Margaux.

Ford’s first letter to Borrow in my collection is written in Spanish, but
I content myself with giving only a translation:

                TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., OULTON HALL, LOWESTOFT
                       (_Translated from the Spanish_)

                                 HEAVITREE HOUSE, EXETER, _Jan._ 19, 1842.

    DEAR FRIEND,—I was glad to hear from you of the successful
    termination of your literary work.  Fancy those rogues of Zincali!
    They have managed to make good money—I always thought Messrs. M. very
    decent people, it usually happens that those who have much to do with
    good class of people become themselves somewhat large-minded and
    liberal.  You must admit that I am a model critic, and that I cry,
    “Luck to the Books.”  Full well do I know how you thank the most
    noble and illustrious public!  Go ahead, therefore, and leave nothing
    forgotten in the ink-pot; but by all that is holy, shun the Spanish
    historians, who are liars and fools!  I regret very much that you
    should have left London; I leave here on Saturday with the intention
    of paying a visit of about three weeks to the maternal home, as is my
    custom in the month of the Christmas boxes.  Very much would I have
    liked to see you and discuss with you about things of Spain and other
    gypsy lore and fancy topics, but of which at present nothing do I
    understand.  I shall not fail to take with me the papers and
    documents which you kindly sent me to Cheltenham.  I will make them
    into a parcel and leave them with Messrs. Murray, so that you can
    send for them whenever you like.  I shall do my best to penetrate
    those mysteries and that strange people.  Mr. Murray, junior, writes
    in a pleased tone respecting _The Bible in Spain_.  I should like to
    write an article on a subject so full of interest.  Possibly my
    article on the gypsies will appear in the next number, and in such
    case it will prove more useful to you than if it appeared now.  The
    life and memory of reviews are very short.  They appear like
    butterflies, and die in a day.  The dead and the departed have no
    friends.  The living to the feast, the dead to the grave.  No sooner
    does a new number appear than the last one is already forgotten and
    joins the things of the past.  What do you think?  At a party
    recently in which a drawing was held, I drew the _Krallis de los
    Zincali_.  I beg to enclose the table (or index) for your Majesty’s
    guidance; really, I must have in my veins a few drops of the genuine
    wanderer.  Mr. Gagargos has been just appointed Spanish Consul in
    Tunis, where he will not lack means for progressing in the Arabic
    language and literature.—Yours, in all friendliness,

                                                             RICHARD FORD.

Here is a second letter of the following month:

                               _February_ 26_th_, HEAVITREE HOUSE, EXETER.

    BATUSCHCA BORROW,—I am glad that the paper pleased you, and I think
    it calculated to promote the sale, which a too copious extracting
    article does not always do, as people think that they have had the
    cream.  Napier sent me £44 for the thirty-two pages; this, with
    Kemble’s £50, 8s. for the _Zincali_, nearly reaches £100: I lay it
    out in claret, being not amiss to do in the world, and richer by many
    hundreds a year than last year, but with a son at Eton and daughters
    coming out, and an overgrown set of servants, money is never to be
    despised, and I find that expenditure by some infernal principle has
    a greater tendency to increase than income, and that when the latter
    increases it never does so in the ratio of the former—enough of that.
    How to write an article without being condensed—epigrammatical and
    _epitomical cream-skimming that is_—I know not, one has so much to
    say and so little space to say it in.

    I rejoice to hear of your meditated biography; really I am your wet
    nurse, and you ought to dedicate it to me; take time, but not too
    much; avoid, all attempts to write fine; just dash down the first
    genuine uppouring idea and thoughts in the plainest language and that
    which comes first, and then fine it and compress it.  Let us have a
    glossary; for people cry out for a Dragoman, and half your local
    gusto evaporates.

    I am amazed at the want of profits—’tis sad to think what meagre
    profits spring from pen and ink; but Cervantes died a beggar and is
    immortal.  It is the devil who comes into the market with ready
    money: _No_ solvendum in futuro: I well know that it is cash down
    which makes the mare to go; dollars will add spurs even to the Prince
    of Mustard’s paces.

    It is a bore not receiving even the crumbs which drop from such
    tables as those spread by Mr. Eyre: Murray, however, is a deep cove,
    _y muy pratico en cosas de libreteria_: and he knew that the _first
    out_ about Afghan would sell prodigiously.  I doubt now if Lady Sale
    would now be such a general Sale.  Murray builds solid castles in
    Eyre.  Los de España rezalo bene de ser siempre muy Cosas de España:
    Cachaza!  Cachaza! firme, firme!  Arriba! no dejei nada en el
    tintero; basta que sea nuevo y muy piquunte cor sal y ajo: a los
    Ingleses le gustan mucho las Longanizas de Abarbenel y los buenos
    Choriyos de Montanches:

    El handbook sa her concluido jeriayer: abora principia el trabajo:
    Tengo benho un monton de papel acombroso.  El menester reducirlo a la
    mitad y eso so hara castratandolo de lo bueno duro y particolar a
    romperse el alma:

    I had nothing to do whatever with the _manner_ in which the handbook
    puff was affixed to your book.  I wrote the said paper, but concluded
    that Murray would put it, as usual, in the flyleaf of the book, as he
    does in his others, and the _Q. Rev._

    Sabe mucho el hijo—ha imaginado altacar mi obresilla al flejo de
    vuestra immortalidad y lo que le toca de corazon, facilitarsele la
    venta.

    Yo no tengo nada en eso y quedé tanalustado amo Vm a la primera vista
    de aquella hoja volante.  Conque Mantengare Vm bueno y alegre y mande
    Vm siempre, a S: S: S: y buen Critico, L: I: M: B.,

                                                                     R. F.

During these years—1843 and onwards—Borrow was regularly corresponding
with Ford, as we learn from Ford’s own words:—

    Borrow writes me word that his Life is nearly ready, and it will run
    the Bible hull down.  If he tells truth it will be a queer thing.  I
    shall review it for _The Edinburgh_.

                TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., OULTON HALL, LOWESTOFT

                          123 PARK MANSIONS, _Thursday_, _April_ 13, 1843.

    BATUSCHCA B.,—Knowing that you seldom see a newspaper I send you one
    in which Peel speaks very handsomely of your labour.  Such a public
    testimonial is a good puff, and I hope will attract
    purchasers.—Sincerely yours,

                                                                     R. F.

This refers to a speech of Peel’s in the House of Commons, in which in
reply to a very trivial question by Dr. Bowring, then M.P. for Bolton,
upon the subject of the correspondence of the British Government with
Turkey, the great statesman urged:

    It might have been said to Mr. Borrow, with respect to Spain, that it
    would be impossible to distribute the Bible in that country in
    consequence of the danger of offending the prejudices which prevail
    there; yet he, a private individual, by showing some zeal in what he
    believed to be right, succeeded in triumphing over many obstacles.
    {164}

Borrow was elated with the compliment, and asked Mr. Murray two months
later if he could not advertise the eulogium with one of his books.

In June, 1844, while the _Handbook for Travellers in Spain_ was going to
press, Ford went on a visit to Borrow at Oulton Hall, and describes the
pair as “two rum coves in a queer country”; and further gives one of the
best descriptions of the place:

    His house hangs over a lonely lake covered with wild fowl, and is
    girt with dark firs through which the wind sighs sadly.

When the _Handbook for Travellers in Spain_ was published in 1845 it was
agreed that Borrow should write the review for _The Quarterly_.  Instead
of writing a review Borrow, possessed by that tactlessness which so
frequently overcame him, wrote an article on “Spain and the Spaniards,”
very largely of abuse, an absolutely useless production from the point of
view of Ford the author, and of Lockhart, his editor friend.  Borrow
never forgave Lockhart for returning this manuscript, but that it had no
effect on Ford’s friendship is shown by the letter on p. 167, dated 1846,
written long after the unfortunate episode, and another in Dr. Knapp’s
_Life_, dated 1851.

                    TO MRS. BORROW, OULTON HALL, LOWESTOFT

                                               _Oct._ 6, 1844, CHELTENHAM.

    MY DEAR MADAM,—I trouble you with a line to say that I have received
    a letter from Don Jorge, from Constantinople.  He evidently is now
    anxious to be quietly back again on the banks of your peaceful lake;
    he speaks favourably of his health, which has been braced up by
    change of air, scenery, and occupations, so I hope he will get
    through next winter without any bronchitis, and go on with his own
    biography.

    He asks me when _Handbook_ will be done?  Please to tell him that it
    is done and printing, but that it runs double the length which was
    contemplated: however, it will be a _queer_ book, and tell him that
    we reserve it until his return to _review_ it.  I am now on the point
    of quitting this pretty place and making for my home at Hevitre,
    where we trust to arrive next Thursday.

    Present my best compliments to your mother, and believe me, your
    faithful and obedient servant,

                                                                RCH. FORD.

    When you write to Don Jorge thank him for his letter.

                                * * * * *

                TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., OULTON HALL, LOWESTOFT

                                                    123 PARLIAMENT STREET,
                                        GROSVENOR SQUARE, _Feb._ 17, 1845.

    DEAR BORROW,—_El hombre propose pero Dios es que dispose_.  I had
    hoped to have run down and seen you and yours in your quiet Patmos;
    but the Sangrados will it otherwise.  I have never been quite free
    from a tickling pain since the bronchitis of last year, and it has
    recently assumed the form of extreme relaxation and irritation in the
    uvula, which is that pendulous appendage which hangs over the orifice
    of the throat.  Mine has become so seriously elongated that, after
    submitting for four days last week to its being burnt with caustic
    every morning in the hopes that it might thus crimp and contract
    itself, I have been obliged to have it amputated.  This has left a
    great soreness, which militates against talking and deglutition, and
    would render our charming chats after the Madeira over la cheminea
    del _cueldo_ inadvisable.  I therefore defer the visit: my Sangrado
    recommends me, when the summer advances, to fly away into change of
    air, change of scene; in short, must seek an _hejira_ as you made.
    How strange the coincidence! but those who have wandered much about
    require periodical migration, as the encaged quail twice a year beats
    its breast against the wires.

    I am not quite determined where to go, whether to Scotland and the
    sweet heath-aired hills, or to the wild rocks and clear trout streams
    of the Tyrol; it is a question between the gun and the rod.  If I go
    north assuredly si Dios quiere I will take your friendly and peaceful
    abode in my way.

    As to my immediate plans I can say nothing before Thursday, when the
    Sangrado is to report on some diagnosis which he expects.

    Meanwhile _Handbook_ is all but out, and Lockhart and Murray are
    eager to have you in the _Q. R._  I enclose you a note from the
    editor.  How feel you inclined?  I would send you down 30 sheets, and
    you might run your eye through them.  _There are plums in the
    pudding_.

                                                             RICHARD FORD.

A proof in slip form of the rejected review, with Borrow’s corrections
written upon it, is in my possession.  Our author pictures Gibraltar as a
human entity thus addressing Spain:

    Accursed land!  I hate thee, and far from being a defence, will
    invariably prove a thorn in thy side.

And so on through many sentences of excited rhetoric.  Borrow forgot
while he wrote that he had a book to review—a book, moreover, issued by
the publishing house which issued the periodical in which his review was
to appear.  And this book was a book in ten thousand—a veritable mine of
information and out of the way learning.  Surely this slight reference
amid many dissertations of his own upon Spain was to damn his friend’s
book with faint praise:

    A Handbook is a Handbook after all, a very useful thing, but
    still—the fact is that we live in an age of humbug, in which
    everything, to obtain note and reputation, must depend less upon its
    own intrinsic merit than on the name it bears.  The present book is
    about one of the best books ever written upon Spain; but we are
    afraid that it will never be estimated at its proper value; for after
    all a Handbook is a Handbook.

Yet successful as was Ford’s _Handbook_, it is doubtful but that Borrow
was right in saying that it had better have been called _Wanderings in
Spain_ or _Wonders of the Peninsula_.  How much more gracious was the
statement of another great authority on Spain—Sir William
Stirling-Maxwell—who said that “so great a literary achievement had never
before been performed under so humble a title.”  The article, however,
furnishes a trace of autobiography in the statement by Borrow that he had
long been in the habit of reading _Don Quixote_ once every nine years.
Yet he tells us that he prefers Le Sage’s _Gil Blas_ to _Don Quixote_,
“the characters introduced being certainly more true to nature.”  But
altogether we do not wonder that Lockhart declined to publish the
article.  Here is the last letter in my possession; after this there is
one in the Knapp collection dated 1851, acknowledging a copy of
_Lavengro_, in which Fords adds: “Mind when you come to see the
Exhibition you look in here, for I long to have a chat,” and so the
friendship appears to have collapsed as so many friendships do.  Ford
died at Heavitree in 1858:

                TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., OULTON HALL, LOWESTOFT

                                              HEAVITREE, _Jany._ 28, 1846.

    QUERIDO DON JORGE,—How are you getting on in health and spirits? and
    how has this absence of winter suited you?  Are you inclined for a
    run up to town next week?  I propose to do so, and Murray, who has
    got Washington Irving, etc., to dine with him on Wednesday the 4th,
    writes to me to know if I thought you could be induced to join us.
    Let me whisper in your ear, yea: it will do you good and give change
    of air, scene and thought: we will go and beat up the renowned Billy
    Harper, and see how many more ribs are stoved in.

    I have been doing a paper for the _Q. R._ on Spanish Architecture;
    how gets on the _Lavengro_?  I see the “gypsies” are coming out in
    the _Colonial_, which will have a vast sale.

    John Murray seems to be flourishing in spite of corn and railomania.

    Remember me kindly and respectfully to your Ladies, and beg them to
    tell you what good it will do you to have a frisk up to town, and a
    little quiet chat with your pal and amigo,

                                                             RICHARD FORD.




CHAPTER XXIII
IN EASTERN EUROPE


IN 1844 Borrow set out for the most distant holiday that he was ever to
undertake.  Passing through London in March, 1844, he came under the
critical eye of Elizabeth Rigby, afterwards Lady Eastlake, that
formidable critic who four years later—in 1848—wrote the cruel review of
_Jane Eyre_ in _The Quarterly_ that gave so much pain to Charlotte
Brontë.  She was not a nice woman.  These sharp, “clever” women-critics
rarely are; and Borrow never made a pleasant impression when such women
came across his path—instance Harriet Martineau, Frances Cobbe, and Agnes
Strickland.  We should sympathise with him, and not count it for a
limitation, as some of his biographers have done.  The future Lady
Eastlake thus disposes of Borrow in her one reference to him:

    _March_ 20.—Borrow came in the evening; now a fine man, but a most
    disagreeable one; a kind of character that would be most dangerous in
    rebellious times—one that would suffer or persecute to the utmost.
    His face is expressive of strong-headed determination.

Quoting this description of Borrow, Dr. Knapp describes it as
“shallow”—for “he was one of the kindest of men, as my documents show.”
The description is shallow enough, because the writer had no kind of
comprehension of Borrow; but then, perhaps, his champion had not.  Borrow
was neither one of the “kindest of men” nor the reverse.  He was a good
hater and a whole-hearted lover, and to be thus is to fill a certain
uncomfortable but not discreditable place in the scheme of things.  About
a month later Borrow was on the way to the East, travelling by Paris and
Vienna.

In May he is in Vienna, whence he writes to his wife:—

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                   VIENNA, _May_ 16, 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—I arrived here the day before yesterday, and so
    early as yesterday I had begun a letter for you, but I now commence
    another, as I have rather altered my intentions since that time.  I
    thought at first I should not like this place, for the difficulty of
    finding accommodation in the inns is very great.  I went to four, but
    found them all full, and though I at last got into one, it was in
    every respect inconvenient and uncomfortable; to-day, however, I have
    taken a lodging for a month, two handsome chambers at about 25
    shillings per week.  I do not like dark, gloomy places, as they
    affect my poor spirits terribly.  You will find the address farther
    on, and I wish you to write to me, for I long so much to hear from my
    dearest.  Since I last wrote I have traversed nearly the whole
    breadth of Germany.  On leaving Strasbourg I passed through what is
    called the Black Forest, a range of mountains covered with pine
    forests; the scenery was grand and beautiful to a degree.  I then
    came to wide plains, which crossing I reached Ulm and Augsburg, which
    last place, as you will see by the map, is in the heart of Germany.
    It is celebrated for what is called the Confession of Augsburg: that
    is, the declaration of faith which was published there by Luther and
    the other reformers.  I then went to Munich, a beautiful city, the
    capital of the Kingdom of Bavaria, where there is a most noble
    gallery of pictures; the porter is a giant about seven feet high.  I
    entered into discourse with him, and found him very good-natured and
    communicative.  From Munich I went to Ratisbon, a fine old place, and
    there I embarked in a steamer which goes down the Danube, the noblest
    river in Europe—you cannot conceive anything equal to the grandeur of
    its banks.  Almost all the way from Ratisbon to Vienna it runs
    amongst huge mountains covered with forests from the top to the
    bottom; the stream is wonderfully rapid, running like a mill flush;
    the waters are whitish, being continually fed by the snows of the
    Alps.  Here and there upon the banks you see the ruins of old
    castles, which add considerably to the effect of the scene; before
    reaching Vienna, however, it leaves the mountains and spreads itself
    over a wide plain, in the midst of which Vienna stands.  Since I last
    wrote to you I have had some strange adventures, but the strangest of
    all is the following.

    We were two days in coming down the Danube, and the first night we
    stopped at Lenz, a frontier town of Austria, in the heart of the
    mountains.  I was very tired and low-spirited, and, after looking
    about the town a little while, I went to the inn where I had put up
    and went to bed.  The evening was dull, sultry and oppressive; the
    room, however, where I lay, overlooked the Danube, and a refreshing
    coolness came from the water through the window, which I had left
    open.  I had composed myself and was just falling to sleep, when I
    was roused by a knock at the door.  “Come in,” I cried, and a man in
    a pair of high Hessian boots, and dressed in black, walked into the
    room.  I had seen him on board the steamer, and had held some
    conversation with him in French about Spain, concerning which he
    seemed very inquisitive.  He held something in his hand which I could
    not distinguish, as it was dark, so much so that I should have hardly
    recognized the man himself but for his Hessian boots.  He came
    straight to the bed and seized my hand.  “So it is you,” said he; “I
    almost thought I recognized you on board the vessel by your manner of
    discourse, but now I am certain: I have just seen your name below
    inscribed by your own hand in the travellers’ book.  How astonishing,
    that I should thus have met the very person whom I have long had the
    greatest desire to see!”  “Who are you?” said I; “I have not the
    pleasure of knowing you.”  “I am the Dean of Ratisbon,” said he; “and
    I come to beg, as the greatest of favours, that you would condescend
    to write your name in this book, which I always carry about with me
    when I travel.”  He then put into my hand Murray’s cheap edition of
    “The Bible in Spain,” and, ringing the bell, called for a light.  “I
    am a Roman Catholic,” said he, “but I know how to appreciate genius,
    especially such as yours.  Whenever you set foot in Ratisbon again,
    pray, pray take up your abode in my house . . .”

    Vienna is a very strange place; I do not much like it, but I think I
    can settle down here for a month tolerably well, especially now I
    have procured a nice lodging, and commence writing a little anew.
    God grant that I may be successful; perhaps if I am I may yet see
    better days, and get rid of the thoughts which have so long beset me.
    Though I have been here only two days, I have already seen a great
    deal, amongst other things the Emperor and the Empress; they go to
    the royal chapel every morning, which, though in the palace, is open
    to everybody.  It is a small but beautiful chapel, very simple, with
    a Christ on the Cross over the altar, a picture on the right hand
    side, and Maria with her crown of rays on the left; four tall
    Heyduks, or Hungarian soldiers, stand in front of the altar, with
    their backs to the people and their faces to the officiating priests.
    The singing was admirable; the _theatre band_, which is perhaps the
    best in the world, being all there, it was so powerful that the
    voices of the priests could scarcely be heard.  The Emperor sat in a
    kind of covered gallery, his head and the upper part of his body
    visible through a window; when the service was over, however, I had a
    full view of him.  I stood in one of the ante-rooms, through which he
    passed to the interior of the palace; the Empress was at his right
    hand.  He is a small, diminutive man, not much more than five feet
    high; his features, however, are pleasing and good-humoured.  The
    Empress is a head and shoulders taller, and is about the finest woman
    I ever saw; she looked what she is—Empress of one of the most
    powerful nations of the world.  What a beautiful country is Germany,
    in every point of view superior to France, which is anything but
    beautiful.  Notwithstanding its inhabitants call it “the lovely
    country,” I have traversed it from south to north, and from west to
    east, and have scarcely seen anything pretty about it, save
    Versailles, and that is all art, whereas in this country you see not
    a trace of art, nothing but wild and beautiful nature.  The people,
    moreover, are kind and good, and not continually boasting of
    themselves and country like the French.  About nine days ago I wrote
    to my dear mother from Augsburg; I hope she received the letter, and
    that she informed you, my dearest, as I entreated her to do.  I am
    now a great way from you; Vienna is one of the cities in Europe the
    most distant from England, double as far as Madrid, and more remote
    even than St. Petersburg; it is about one thousand miles from Paris.
    The Austrians are quite a distinct race, differing very much from the
    Prussians and the people of the North of Germany.  You scarcely see
    any foreigners here—few English or French—it is too far for a common
    trip, and the means of conveyance much more slow than in other parts.
    From here (D.V.) I intend to go to Hungary, which is close by, being
    only a day’s journey down the Danube; and from thence, when I have
    spoken with the Gypsies, I shall make the best of my way to
    Constantinople, and then home by Russia.  I want, if I possibly can,
    to compose my poor mind, for it is no use running about countries
    unless the mind is at rest.  I knew that before I left home, but I
    had become so unsettled and wretched, as you know, that I could not
    rest or do anything; the last winter did me no good, and, indeed, we
    have all of us some reason to remember it.  I go on taking those
    homœopathic globules, but whether they are of any use or effect I can
    scarcely say; there is one thing, however, which I am sure is of much
    greater use and comfort to me—it is the little book which my dearest
    gave me when I left her; I look into it every morning, and sometimes
    twice or thrice a day.  I have done everything you bid me when I set
    out, and I hope to God that when I return I shall find you well.  You
    are almost my only comfort here on earth, and without you I feel that
    I should be lost and wild, and my sensations, alas, never deceive me.
    I hope that in a week or two my dear mother will come over and see
    you, and that she will be a comfort to you, and you to her; poor,
    dear thing, she loves you, as well she has right, for a kind, dear,
    and true wife you have been to her son.  Take care of those —, _leurs
    oreilles sont toujours ouvertes_.  Don’t let us be blinded a third
    time.  I hope all the animals are well.  I saw to-day in the street
    two enormous parrots or mackaws to sell—one was quite white, and the
    other red.  I thought of poor, dear Hen.; I am making a collection of
    coins for her, gold and silver, and I hope at my return to bring her
    some French, Turkish, and Russian money.  I shall be glad to get
    home, for it is doleful to be alone, especially at night; I have,
    however, your little book, which I take in my hand, and which
    frequently puts me to sleep.  And now, my Carreta, I must conclude,
    having said all I have to say for the present.  This is my
    direction:—

                                                               Mr. Borrow,
                                                       Chez Mr. Guglielmi,
                                      Rothenthurmstrasse No 642, 3. étage,
                                                                   Vienna,
                                                                  Austria.

    God bless you, my dearest; I should like to hear from you.  You will
    probably receive this in about ten days, so that I could have an
    answer from you before I leave.  Kiss Hen. remember me to dear Lucy
    and Mr. and Mrs. Utting; and God bless you.

                                                                     G. B.

In June he is in Buda Pesth, whence he wrote to his wife:

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                       PESTH, HUNGARY, 14_th_ _June_ 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—I was so glad to get your letter which reached me
    about nine days ago; on receiving it, I instantly made preparations
    for quitting Vienna, but owing to two or three things which delayed
    me, I did not get away till the 20th; I hope that you received the
    last letter which I sent, as I doubt not that you are all anxious to
    hear from me.  You cannot think how anxious I am to get back to you,
    but since I am already come so far, it will not do to return before
    my object is accomplished.  Heaven knows that I do not travel for
    travelling’s sake, having a widely different object in view.  I came
    from Vienna here down the Danube, but I daresay I shall not go
    farther by the river, but shall travel through the country to
    Bucharest in Wallachia, which is the next place I intend to visit;
    but Hungary is a widely different country to Austria, not at all
    civilised, no coaches, etc., but only carts and wagons; however, it
    is all the same thing to me as I am quite used to rough it; Bucharest
    is about three hundred miles from here; the country, as I have said
    before, is wild, but the people are quite harmless—it is only in
    Spain that any danger is to be feared from your fellow creatures.  In
    Bucharest I shall probably stay a fortnight.  I have a letter to a
    French gentleman there from Baron Taylor.  Pesth is very much like
    Edinburgh—there is an old and a new town, and it is only the latter
    which is called Pesth, the name of the old is Buda, which stands on
    the side of an enormous mountain overlooking the new town, the Danube
    running between.  The two towns together contain about 120,000
    inhabitants; I delivered the letter which dear Woodfall was kind
    enough to send; it was to a person, a Scotchman, who is
    superintending in the building of the chain bridge over the Danube;
    he is a very nice person, and has shown me every kind of civility;
    indeed, every person here is very civil; yesterday I dined at the
    house of a rich Greek; the dinner was magnificent, the only drawback
    was that they pressed me too much to eat and drink; there was a deal
    of champagne, and they would make me drink it till I was almost sick,
    for it is a wine that I do not like, being far too sweet.  Since I
    have been here I have bathed twice in the Danube, and find myself
    much the better for it; I both sleep and eat better than I did.  I
    have also been about another chapter, and get on tolerably well; were
    I not so particular I should get on faster, but I wish that
    everything that I write in this next be first rate.  Tell Mama that
    this chapter begins with a dialogue between her and my father; I have
    likewise contrived to bring in the poor old dog in a manner which I
    think will be interesting.  I began this letter some days ago, but
    have been so pleasantly occupied that I have made little progress
    till now.  Clarke, poor fellow, does not know how to make enough of
    me.  He says he could scarcely believe his eyes when he first
    received the letter, as he has just got _The Bible in Spain_ from
    England, and was reading it.  This is the 17th, and in a few days I
    start for a place called Debreczen, from whence I shall proceed
    gradually on my journey.  The next letter which you receive will
    probably be from Transylvania, the one after that from Bucharest, and
    the third D.V. from Constantinople.  If you like you may write to
    Constantinople, directing it to the care of the English Ambassador,
    but be sure to pay the postage.

    Before I left Vienna Baron Hammer, the great Orientalist, called upon
    me; his wife was just dead, poor thing, which prevented him showing
    me all the civility which he would otherwise have done.  He took me
    to the Imperial Library.  Both my books were there, _Gypsies_ and
    _Bible_.  He likewise procured me a ticket to see the Imperial
    treasure.  (Tell Henrietta that I saw there the diamond of Charles
    the Bold; it is as large as a walnut.)  I likewise saw the finest
    opal, as I suppose, in the world; it was the size of a middling pear;
    there was likewise a hyacinth as big as a swan’s egg; I likewise saw
    a pearl so large that they had wrought the figure of a cock out of
    it, and the cock was somewhat more than an inch high, but the thing
    which struck me most was the sword of Tamerlane, generally called
    Timour the Tartar; both the hilt and scabbard were richly adorned
    with diamonds and emeralds, but I thought more of the man than I did
    of them, for he was the greatest conqueror the world ever saw (I have
    spoken of him in _Lavengro_ in the chapter about David Haggart).
    Nevertheless, although I have seen all these fine things, I shall be
    glad to get back to my Carreta and my darling mother and to dear Hen.
    From Debreczen I hope to write to kind dear Woodfall, and to Lord
    from Constantinople.  I must likewise write to Hasfeld.  The mulct of
    thirty pounds upon Russian passports is only intended for the
    subjects of Russia.  I see by the journals that the Emperor has been
    in England; I wonder what he is come about; however, the less I say
    about that the better, as I shall soon be in his country.  Tell Hen
    that I have got her a large piece of Austrian gold money, worth about
    forty-two shillings; it is quite new and very handsome; considerably
    wider than the Spanish ounce, only not near so thick, as might be
    expected, being of considerably less value; when I get to
    Constantinople I will endeavour to get a Turkish gold coin.  I have
    also got a new Austrian silver dollar and a half one; these are
    rather cumbersome, and I don’t care much about them—as for the large
    gold coin, I carry it in my pocket-book, which has been of great use
    to me hitherto.  I have not yet lost anything, only a pocket
    handkerchief or two as usual; but I was obliged to buy two other
    shirts at Vienna; the weather is so hot, that it is quite necessary
    to change them every other day; they were beautiful linen ones, and I
    think you will like them when you see.  I shall be so glad to get
    home and continue, if possible, my old occupation.  I hope my next
    book will sell; one comfort is that nothing like it has ever been
    published before.  I hope you all get on comfortably, and that you
    catch some fish.  I hope my dear mother is well, and that she will
    continue with you till the end of July at least; ah! that is my
    month, I was born in it, it is the pleasantest month in the year;
    would to God that my fate had worn as pleasant an aspect as the month
    in which I was born.  God bless you all.  Write to me, _to the care
    of the British Embassy_, Constantinople.  Kind remembrances to
    Pilgrim.

In the intervening journey between Pesth and Constantinople he must have
talked long and wandered far and wide among the gypsies, for Charles L.
Brace in his _Hungary in_ 1851 gives us a glimpse of him at Grosswardein
holding conversation with the gypsies:

    They described his appearance—his tall, lank, muscular form—and
    mentioned that he had been much in Spain, and I saw that it must be
    that most ubiquitous of travellers, Mr. Borrow.

The four following letters require no comment:

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                    DEBRECZEN, HUNGARY, 8_th_ _July_ 1844.

    MY DARLING CARRETA,—I write to you from Debreczen, a town in the
    heart of Hungary, where I have been for the last fortnight with the
    exception of three days during which I was making a journey to Tokay,
    which is about forty miles distant.  My reason for staying here so
    long was my liking the place where I have experienced every kind of
    hospitality; almost all the people in these parts are Protestants,
    and they are so fond of the very name of Englishman that when one
    arrives they scarcely know how to make enough of him; it is well the
    place is so remote that very few are ever seen here, perhaps not
    oftener than once in ten years, for if some of our scamps and swell
    mob were once to find their way there the good people of Hungary
    would soon cease to have much respect for the English in general; as
    it is they think that they are all men of honour and accomplished
    gentlemen whom it becomes them to receive well in order that they may
    receive from them lessons in civilisation; I wonder what they would
    think if they were to meet such fellows as Squarem and others whom I
    could mention.  I find my knowledge of languages here of great use,
    and the people are astonished to hear me speak French, Italian,
    German, Russian, and occasionally Gypsy.  I have already met with
    several Gypsies; those who live abroad in the wildernesses are quite
    black; the more civilised wander about as musicians, playing on the
    fiddle, at which they are very expert, they speak the same languages
    as those in England, with slight variations, and upon the whole they
    understand me very well.  Amongst other places I have been to Tokay,
    where I drank some of the wine.  I am endeavouring to bring two or
    three bottles to England, for I thought of my mother and yourself and
    Hen., and I have got a little wooden case made; it is very sweet and
    of a pale straw colour; whether I shall be able to manage it I do not
    know; however, I shall make the attempt.  At Tokay the wine is only
    two shillings the bottle, and I have a great desire that you should
    taste some of it.  I sincerely hope that we shall soon all meet
    together in health and peace.  I shall be glad enough to get home,
    but since I am come so far it is as well to see as much as possible.
    Would you think it, the Bishop of Debreczen came to see me the other
    day and escorted me about the town, followed by all the professors of
    the college; this was done merely because I was an Englishman and a
    Protestant, for here they are almost all of the reformed religion and
    full of love and enthusiasm for it.  It is probable that you will
    hear from Woodfall in a day or two; the day before yesterday I wrote
    to him and begged him to write to you to let you know, as I am
    fearful of a letter miscarrying and your being uneasy.  This is
    unfortunately post day and I must send away the letter in a very
    little time, so that I cannot say all to you that I could wish; I
    shall stay here about a week longer, and from here shall make the
    best of my way to Transylvania and Bucharest; I shall stay at
    Bucharest about a fortnight, and shall then dash off for
    Constantinople—I shan’t stay there long—but when once there it
    matters not as it is a civilised country from which start steamers to
    any part where you may want to go.  I hope to receive a letter from
    you there.  You cannot imagine what pleasure I felt when I got your
    last.  Oh, it was such a comfort to me!  I shall have much to tell
    you when I get back.  Yesterday I went to see a poor wretch who is
    about to be hanged; he committed a murder here two years ago, and the
    day after tomorrow he is to be executed—they expose the people here
    who are to suffer three days previous to their execution—I found him
    in a small apartment guarded by soldiers, with hundreds of people
    staring at him through the door and the windows; I was admitted into
    the room as I went with two officers; he had an enormous chain about
    his waist and his feet were manacled; he sat smoking a pipe; he was,
    however, very penitent, and said that he deserved to die, as well he
    might; he had murdered four people, beating out their brains with a
    club; he was without work, and requested of an honest man here to
    receive him into his house one night until the morning.  In the
    middle of the night he got up, and with his brother, who was with
    him, killed every person in the house and then plundered it; two days
    after, he was taken; his brother died in prison; I gave him a little
    money, and the gentleman who was with me gave him some good advice;
    he looked most like a wild beast, a huge mantle of skin covered his
    body; for nine months he had not seen the daylight; but now he is
    brought out into a nice clean apartment, and allowed to have
    everything he asks for, meat, wine, tobacco—nothing is refused him
    during these last three days.  I cannot help thinking that it is a
    great cruelty to keep people so long in so horrid a situation; it is
    two years nearly since he has been condemned.  Do not be anxious if
    you do not hear from me regularly for some time.  There is no escort
    post in the countries to which I am going.  God bless my mother,
    yourself, and Hen.

                                                                     G. B.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                             HERMANSTADT, _July_ 30, 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—I write to you a line or two from this place; it
    is close upon the frontier of Wallachia.  I hope to be in Bucharest
    in a few days—I have stopped here for a day owing to some difficulty
    in getting horses—I shall hasten onward as quick as possible.  In
    Bucharest there is an English Consul, so that I shall feel more at
    home than I do here.  I am only a few miles now from the termination
    of the Austrian dominions, their extent is enormous, the whole length
    of Hungary and Transylvania; I shall only stay a few days in
    Bucharest and shall then dash off straight for Constantinople; I have
    no time to lose as there is a high ridge of mountains to cross called
    the Balkans, where the winter commences at the beginning of
    September.  I thought you would be glad to hear from me, on which
    account I write.  I sent off a letter about a week ago from
    Klausenburg, which I hope you will receive.  I have written various
    times from Hungary, though whether the letters have reached you is
    more than I can say.  I wrote to Woodfall from Debreczen.  I have
    often told you how glad I shall be to get home and see you again.  If
    I have tarried, it has only been because I wished to see and learn as
    much as I could, for it was no use coming to such a distance for
    nothing.  By the time I return I shall have made a most enormous
    journey, such as very few have made.  The place from which I write is
    very romantic, being situated at the foot of a ridge of enormous
    mountains which extend to the clouds, they look higher than the
    Pyrenees.  My health, thank God, is very good.  I bathed to-day and
    feel all the better for it; I hope you are getting on well, and that
    all our dear family is comfortable.  I hope my dear mother is well.
    Oh, it is so pleasant to hope that I am still not alone in the world,
    and that there are those who love and care for me and pray for me.  I
    shall be very glad to get to Constantinople, as from there there is
    no difficulty; and a great part of the way to Russia is by sea, and
    when I am in Russia I am almost at home.  I shall write to you again
    from Bucharest if it please God.  It is not much more than eighty
    miles from here, but the way lies over mountains, so that the journey
    will take three or four days.  We travel here in tilted carts drawn
    by ponies; the carts are without springs, so that one is terribly
    shaken.  It is, however, very healthy, especially when one has a
    strong constitution.  The carts are chiefly made of sticks and
    wickerwork; they are, of course, very slight, and indeed if they were
    not so they would soon go to pieces owing to the jolting.  I read
    your little book every morning; it is true that I am sometimes wrong
    with respect to the date, but I soon get right again; oh, I shall be
    so glad to see you and my mother and old Hen. and Lucy and the whole
    dear circle.  I hope Crups is well, and the horse.  Oh, I shall be so
    glad to come back.  God bless you, my heart’s darling, and dear Hen.;
    kiss her for me, and my mother.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                              BUCHAREST, _August_ 5, 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—I write you a few lines from the house of the
    Consul, Mr. Colquhoun, to inform you that I arrived at Bucharest
    quite safe: the post leaves to-day, and Mr. C. has kindly permitted
    me to send a note along with the official despatches.  I am quite
    well, thank God, but I thought you would like to hear from me.
    Bucharest is in the province of Wallachia and close upon the Turkish
    frontier.  I shall remain here a week or two as I find the place a
    very interesting one; then I shall proceed to Constantinople.  I
    wrote to you from Hermanstadt last week and the week previous from
    Clausenburgh, and before I leave I shall write again, and not so
    briefly as now.  I have experienced every possible attention from Mr.
    C., who is a very delightful person, and indeed everybody is very
    kind and attentive.  I hope sincerely that you and Hen. are quite
    well and happy, and also my dear mother.  God bless you, dearest.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                             BUCHAREST, _August_ 14, 1844.

    MY DARLING CARRETA,—To-morrow or the next day I leave Bucharest for
    Constantinople.  I wrote to you on my arrival a few days ago, and
    promise to write again before my departure.  I shall not be sorry to
    get to Constantinople, as from thence I can go wherever I think
    proper without any difficulty.  Since I have been here, Mr.
    Colquhoun, the British Consul-General, has shown me every civility,
    and upon the whole I have not passed the time disagreeably.  I have
    been chiefly occupied of late in rubbing up my Turkish a little,
    which I had almost forgotten; there was a time when I wrote it better
    than any other language.  It is coming again rapidly, and I make no
    doubt that in a little time I should speak it almost as well as
    Spanish, for I understand the groundwork.  In Hungary and Germany I
    picked up some curious books, which will help to pass the time at
    home when I have nothing better to do.  It is a long way from here to
    Constantinople, and it is probable that I shall be fifteen or sixteen
    days on the journey, as I do not intend to travel very fast.  It is
    possible that I shall stay a day or two at Adrianople, which is half
    way.  If you should not hear from me for some time don’t be alarmed,
    as it is possible that I shall have no opportunities of writing till
    I get to Constantinople.  Bucharest, where I am now, is close on the
    Turkish frontier, being only half a day’s journey.  Since I have been
    here, I have bought a Tartar dress and a couple of Turkish shirts.  I
    have done so in order not to be stared at as I pass along.  It is
    very beautiful and by no means dear.  Yesterday I wrote to M.  Since
    I have been here I have seen some English newspapers, and see that
    chap H. has got in with M.  Perhaps his recommendation was that he
    had once insulted us.  However, God only knows.  I think I had never
    much confidence in M.  I can read countenances as you know, and have
    always believed him to be selfish and insincere.  I, however, care
    nothing about him, and will not allow, D.V., any conduct of his to
    disturb me.  I shall be glad to get home, and if I can but settle
    down a little, I feel that I can accomplish something great.  I hope
    that my dear mother is well, and that you are all well.  God bless
    you.  It is something to think that since I have been away I have to
    a certain extent accomplished what I went about.  I am stronger and
    better and hardier, my cough has left me, there is only occasionally
    a little huskiness in the throat.  I have also increased my stock of
    languages, and my imagination is brightened.  Bucharest is a strange
    place with much grandeur and much filth.  Since I have been here I
    have dined almost every day with Mr. C., who wants me to have an
    apartment in his house.  I thought it, however, better to be at an
    inn, though filthy.  I have also dined once at the Russian
    Consul-General’s, whom I knew in Russia.  Now God bless you my
    heart’s darling; kiss also Hen., write to my mother, and remember me
    to all friends.

                                                                G. BORROW.

The best letter that I have of this journey, and indeed the best letter
of Borrow’s that I have read, is one from Constantinople to his wife—the
only letter by him from that city:

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                  CONSTANTINOPLE, 16_th_ _September_ 1844.

    MY DARLING CARRETA,—I am about to leave Constantinople and to return
    home.  I have given up the idea of going to Russia; I find that if I
    go to Odessa I shall have to remain in quarantine for fourteen days,
    which I have no inclination to do; I am, moreover, anxious to get
    home, being quite tired of wandering, and desirous of being once more
    with my loved ones.  This is a most interesting place, but
    unfortunately it is extremely dear.  The Turks have no inns, and I am
    here at an English one, at which, though everything is comfortable,
    the prices are very high.  To-day is Monday, and next Friday I
    purpose starting for Salonica in a steamboat—Salonica is in Albania.
    I shall then cross Albania, a journey of about three hundred miles,
    and get to Corfu, from which I can either get to England across Italy
    and down the Rhine, or by way of Marseilles and across France.  I
    shall not make any stay in Italy if I go there, as I have nothing to
    see there.  I shall be so glad to be at home with you once again, and
    to see my dear mother and Hen.  Tell Hen. that I picked up for her in
    one of the bazaars a curious Armenian coin; it is silver, small, but
    thick, with a most curious inscription upon it.  I gave fifteen
    piastres for it.  I hope it and the rest will get safe to England.  I
    have bought a chest, which I intend to send by sea, and I have picked
    up a great many books and other things, and I wish to travel light; I
    shall, therefore, only take a bag with a few clothes and shirts.  It
    is possible that I shall be at home soon after your receiving this,
    or at most three weeks after.  I hope to write to you again from
    Corfu, which is a British island with a British garrison in it, like
    Gibraltar; the English newspapers came last week.  I see those
    wretched French cannot let us alone, they want to go to war; well,
    let them; they richly deserve a good drubbing.  The people here are
    very kind in their way, but home is home, especially such a one as
    mine, with true hearts to welcome me.  Oh, I was so glad to get your
    letters; they were rather of a distant date, it is true, but they
    quite revived me.  I hope you are all well, and my dear mother.
    Since I have been here I have written to Mr. Lord.  I was glad to
    hear that he has written to Hen.  I hope Lucy is well; pray remember
    me most kindly to her, and tell her that I hope to see her soon.  I
    count so of getting into my summer-house again, and sitting down to
    write; I have arranged my book in my mind, and though it will take me
    a great deal of trouble to write it, I feel that when it is written
    it will be first-rate.  My journey, with God’s help, has done me a
    great deal of good.  I am stronger than I was, and I can now sleep.
    I intend to draw on England for forty or fifty pounds; if I don’t
    want the whole of it, it will be all the same.  I have still some
    money left, but I have no wish to be stopped on my journey for want
    of it.  I am sorry about what you told me respecting the railway,
    sorry that the old coach is driven off the road.  I shall patronise
    it as little as possible, but stick to the old route and Thurton
    George.  What a number of poor people will these railroads deprive of
    their bread.  I am grieved at what you say about poor M.; he can take
    her into custody, however, and oblige her to support the children;
    such is law, though the property may have been secured to her, she
    can be compelled to do that.  Tell Hen. that there is a mosque here,
    called the mosque of Sultan Bajazet; it is full of sacred pigeons;
    there is a corner of the court to which the creatures flock to be
    fed, like bees, by hundreds and thousands; they are not at all
    afraid, as they are never killed.  Every place where they can roost
    is covered with them, their impudence is great; they sprang
    originally from two pigeons brought from Asia by the Emperor of
    Constantinople.  They are of a deep blue.  God bless you, dearest.

                                                                     G. B.

He returned home by way of Venice and Rome as the following two letters
indicate:

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                              VENICE, 22_nd_ _Octr._ 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—I arrived this day at Venice, and though I am
    exceedingly tired I hasten to write a line to inform you of my
    well-being.  I am now making for home as fast as possible, and I have
    now nothing to detain me.  Since I wrote to you last I have been
    again in quarantine for two days and a half at Trieste, but I am glad
    to say that I shall no longer be detained on that account.  I was
    obliged to go to Trieste, though it was much out of my way, otherwise
    I must have remained I know not how long in Corfu, waiting for a
    direct conveyance.  After my liberation I only stopped a day at Corfu
    in order that I might lose no more time, though I really wished to
    tarry there a little longer, the people were so kind.  On the day of
    my liberation, I had four invitations to dinner from the officers.
    I, however, made the most of my time, and escorted by one Captain
    Northcott, of the Rifles, went over the fortifications, which are
    most magnificent.  I saw everything that I well could, and shall
    never forget the kindness with which I was treated.  The next day I
    went to Trieste in a steamer, down the whole length of the Adriatic.
    I was horribly unwell, for the Adriatic is a bad sea, and very
    dangerous; the weather was also very rough; after stopping at Trieste
    a day, besides the quarantine, I left for Venice, and here I am, and
    hope to be on my route again the day after to-morrow.  I shall now
    hurry through Italy by way of Ancona, Rome, and Civita Vecchia to
    Marseilles in France and from Marseilles to London, in not more than
    six days’ journey.  Oh, I shall be so glad to get back to you and my
    mother (I hope she is alive and well) and Hen.  I am glad to hear
    that we are not to have war with those silly people, the French.  The
    idea made me very uneasy, for I thought how near Oulton lay to the
    coast.  You cannot imagine what a magnificent old town Venice is; it
    is clearly the finest in Italy, although in decay; it stands upon
    islands in the sea, and in many places is intersected with canals.
    The Grand Canal is four miles long, lined with palaces on either
    side.  I, however, shall be glad to leave it, for there is no place
    to me like Oulton, where live two of my dear ones.  I have told you
    that I am very tired, so that I cannot write much more, and I am
    presently going to bed, but I am sure that you will be glad to hear
    from me, however little I may write.  I think I told you in my last
    letter that I had been to the top of Mount Olympus in Thessaly.  Tell
    Hen. that I saw a whole herd of wild deer bounding down the cliffs,
    the noise they made was like thunder; I also saw an enormous
    eagle—one of Jupiter’s birds, his real eagles, for, according to the
    Grecian mythology, Olympus was his favourite haunt.  I don’t know
    what it was then, but at present the most wild savage place I ever
    saw; an immense way up I came to a forest of pines; half of them were
    broken by thunderbolts, snapped in the middle, and the ruins lying
    around in the most hideous confusion; some had been blasted from top
    to bottom and stood naked, black, and charred, in indescribable
    horridness; Jupiter was the god of thunder, and he still seems to
    haunt Olympus.  The worst is there is little water, so that a person
    might almost perish there of thirst; the snow-water, however, when it
    runs into the hollows is the most delicious beverage ever tasted—the
    snow, however, is very high up.  My next letter, I hope, will be from
    Marseilles, and I hope to be there in a very few days.  Now, God
    bless you, my dearest; write to my mother, and kiss Hen., and
    remember me kindly to Lucy and the Atkinses.

                                                                     G. B.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, OULTON, LOWESTOFT

                                                      ROME, 1 _Nov._ 1844.

    MY DEAREST CARRETA,—My last letter was from Ancona; the present is,
    as you see, from Rome.  From Ancona I likewise wrote to Woodfall
    requesting he would send a letter of credit for twelve or fifteen
    pounds, directing to the care of the British Consul at Marseilles.  I
    hope you received your letter and that he received his, as by the
    time I get to Marseilles I shall be in want of money by reason of the
    roundabout way I have been obliged to come.  I am quite well, thank
    God, and hope to leave here in a day or two.  It is close by the sea,
    and France is close by, but I am afraid I shall be obliged to wait
    some days at Marseilles before I shall get the letter, as the post
    goes direct from no part of Italy, though it is not more than six
    days’ journey, or seven at most, from Ancona to London.  It was that
    wretched quarantine at Corfu that has been the cause of all this
    delay, as it caused me to lose the passage by the steamer [original
    torn here] Ancona, which forced me to go round by Trieste and Venice,
    five hundred miles out of my way, at a considerable expense.  Oh, I
    shall be so glad to get home.  As I told you before, I am quite well;
    indeed, in better health than I have been for years, but it is very
    vexatious to be stopped in the manner I have been.  God bless you, my
    darling.  Write to my mother and kiss her,

                                                                G. BORROW.




CHAPTER XXIV
LAVENGRO


_The Bible in Spain_ bears on its title-page the date 1843.  In the
intervening eight or nine years he had travelled much—suffered much.
During all these years he had been thinking about, talking about, his
next book, making no secret of the fact that it was to be an
Autobiography.  Even before _The Bible in Spain_ was issued he had
written to Mr. John Murray foreshadowing a book in which his father,
William Taylor, and others were to put in an appearance.  In the
“Advertisement” to _The Romany Rye_ he tells us that “the principal part
of _Lavengro_ was written in the year ’43, that the whole of it was
completed before the termination of the year ’46, and that it was in the
hands of the publisher in the year ’48.”  As the idea grew in his mind,
his friend, Richard Ford, gave him much sound advice:

    Never mind nimminy-pimminy people thinking subjects _low_.  Things
    are low in manner of handling.  Draw Nature in rags and poverty, yet
    draw her truly, and how picturesque!  I hate your silver fork, kid
    glove, curly-haired school.

And so in the following years, now to Ford, now to Murray, he traces his
progress, while in 1844 he tells Dawson Turner that he is “at present
engaged in a kind of Biography in the Robinson Crusoe style.”  But in the
same year he went to Buda-Pesth, Venice, and Constantinople.  The first
advertisement of the book appeared in _The Quarterly Review_ in July,
1848, when _Lavengro_, _An Autobiography_, was announced.  Later in the
same year Mr. Murray advertised the book as _Life_, _A Drama_, and Dr.
Knapp, who had in his collection the original proof-sheets of _Lavengro_,
reproduced the title-page of the book which then stood as _Life_, _A
Drama_, and bore the date 1849.  Borrow’s procrastination in delivering
the complete book worried John Murray exceedingly.  Not unnaturally, for
in 1848 he had offered the book at his annual sale dinner to the
booksellers who had subscribed to it liberally.  Eighteen months later
Murray was still worrying Borrow for the return of the proof-sheets of
the third and last volume.  Not until January, 1850, do we hear of it as
_Lavengro_, _An Autobiography_, and under this title it was advertised in
_The Quarterly Review_ for that month as “nearly ready for publication.”
In April, 1850, we find Woodfall, John Murray’s printer, writing letter
after letter urging celerity, to which Mrs. Borrow replies, excusing the
delay on account of her husband’s indifferent health.  They have been
together in lodgings at Yarmouth.  “He had many plunges into the briny
Ocean, which seemed to do him good.”  Murray continued to exhort, but the
final chapter did not reach him.  “My sale is fixed for December 12th,”
he writes in November, “and if I cannot show the book then I must throw
it up.”  This threat had little effect, for on 13th December we find
Murray still coaxing his dilatory author, telling him with justice that
there were passages in his book “equal to Defoe.”  The very printer, Mr.
Woodfall, joined in the chase.  “The public is quite prepared to devour
your book,” he wrote, which was unhappily not the case.  Nor was Ford a
happier prophet, although a true friend when he wrote—“I am sure it will
be _the_ book of the year when it is brought forth.”  The activity of
Mrs. Borrow in this matter of the publication of _Lavengro_ is
interesting.  “My husband . . . is, I assure you, doing all he can as
regards the completion of the book,” she writes to Mr. Murray in
December, 1849, and in November of the following year Murray writes to
her to say that he is engraving Phillips’s portrait of Borrow for the
book.  “I think a cheering letter from you will do Mr. Borrow good,” she
writes later.  Throughout the whole correspondence between publisher and
printer we are impressed by Mrs. Borrow’s keen interest in her husband’s
book, her anxiety that he should be humoured.  Sadly did Borrow need to
be humoured, for if he had cherished the illusion that his book would
really be the “Book of the Year” he was to suffer a cruel disillusion.
Scarcely any one wanted it.  All the critics abused it.  In _The
Athenæum_ it was bluntly pronounced a failure.  “The story of _Lavengro_
will content no one,” said Sir William Stirling-Maxwell in _Fraser’s
Magazine_.  The book “will add but little to Mr. Borrow’s reputation,”
said _Blackwood_.  The only real insight into the book’s significance was
provided by Thomas Gordon Hake in a letter to _The New Monthly Review_,
in which journal the editor, Harrison Ainsworth, had already pronounced a
not very favourable opinion.  “_Lavengro’s_ roots will strike deep into
the soil of English letters,” wrote Dr. Hake, and he then pronounced a
verdict now universally accepted.  George Henry Lewes once happily
remarked that he would make an appreciation of Boswell’s _Life of
Johnson_ a test of friendship.  Many of us would be almost equally
inclined to make such a test of Borrow’s _Lavengro_.  Tennyson declared
that an enthusiasm for Milton’s _Lycidas_ was a touchstone of taste in
poetry.  May we not say that an enthusiasm for Borrow’s _Lavengro_ is now
a touchstone of taste in English prose literature?

But the reception of _Lavengro_ by the critics, and also by the public,
may be said to have destroyed Borrow’s moral fibre.  Henceforth, it was a
soured and disappointed man who went forth to meet the world.  We hear
much in the gossip of contemporaries of Borrow’s eccentricities, it may
be of his rudeness and gruffness, in the last years of his life.  Only
those who can realise the personality of a self-contained man, conscious,
as all genius has ever been, of its achievement, and conscious also of
the failure of the world to recognise, will understand—and will
sympathise.

Borrow, as we have seen, took many years to write _Lavengro_.  “I am
writing the work,” he told Dawson Turner, “in precisely the same manner
as _The Bible in Spain_, viz., on blank sheets of old account-books,
backs of letters, etc.,” and he recalls Mahomet writing the Koran on
mutton bones as an analogy to his own “slovenliness of manuscript.”  I
have had plenty of opportunity of testing this slovenliness in the
collection of manuscripts of portions of _Lavengro_ that have come into
my possession.  These are written upon pieces of paper of all shapes and
sizes, although at least a third of the book in Borrow’s very neat
handwriting is contained in a leather notebook, of which I give examples
of the title-page and opening leaf in facsimile.  The title-page
demonstrates the earliest form of Borrow’s conception.  Not only did he
then contemplate an undisguised autobiography, but even described
himself, as he frequently did in his conversation, as “a Norfolk man.”
Before the book was finished, however, he repudiated the autobiographical
note, and by the time he sat down to write _The Romany Rye_ we find him
fiercely denouncing his critics for coming to such a conclusion.  “The
writer,” he declares, “never said it was an autobiography; never
authorised any person to say it was one.”  Which was doubtless true, in a
measure.  Yet I find among my Borrow Papers the following letter from
Whitwell Elwin, who, writing from Booton Rectory on 21st October, 1853,
and addressing him as “My dear Mr. Borrow,” said:

    I hoped to have been able to call upon you at Yarmouth, but a heavy
    cold first, and now occupation, have interfered with my intentions.
    I daresay you have seen the mention made of your _Lavengro_ in the
    article on Haydon in the current number of _The Quarterly Review_,
    and I thought you might like to know that every syllable, both
    comment and extract, was inserted by the writer (a man little given
    to praise) of his own _accord_.  Murray sent him your book, and that
    was all.  No addition or modification was made by myself, and it is
    therefore the unbiassed judgment of a _very critical_ reviewer.
    Whenever you appear again before the public I shall endeavour to do
    ample justice to your past and present merits, and there is one point
    in which you could aid those who understand you and your books in
    bringing over general readers to your side.  I was myself acquainted
    with many of the persons you have sketched in your _Lavengro_, and I
    can testify to the extraordinary vividness and accuracy of the
    portraits.  What I have seen, again, of yourself tells me that
    romantic adventures are your natural element, and I should _a priori_
    expect that much of your history would be stranger than fiction.  But
    you must remember that the bulk of readers have no personal
    acquaintance with you, or the characters you describe.  The
    consequence is that they fancy there is an immensity of romance mixed
    up with the facts, and they are irritated by the inability to
    distinguish between them.  I am confident, from all I have heard,
    that this was the source of the comparatively cold reception of
    _Lavengro_.  I should have partaken the feeling myself if I had not
    had the means of testing the fidelity of many portions of the book,
    from which I inferred the equal fidelity of the rest.  I think you
    have the remedy in your own hands, viz., by giving the utmost
    possible matter-of-fact air to your sequel.  I do not mean that you
    are to tame down the truth, but some ways of narrating a story make
    it seem more credible than others, and if you were so far to defer to
    the ignorance of the public they would enter into the full spirit of
    your rich and racy narrative.  You naturally look at your life from
    your own point of view, and this in itself is the best; but when you
    publish a book you invite the reader to participate in the events of
    your career, and it is necessary then to look a little at things from
    _his_ point of view.  As he has not your knowledge you must stoop to
    him.  I throw this out for your consideration.  My sole wish is that
    the public should have a right estimate of you, and surely you ought
    to do what is in your power to help them to it.  I know you will
    excuse the liberty I take in offering this crude suggestion.  Take it
    for what it is worth, but anyhow . . .

To this letter, as we learn from Elwin’s _Life_, “instead of roaring like
a lion,” as Elwin had expected, he returned quite a “lamb-like note.”

Read by the light in which we all judge the book to-day, this estimate by
Elwin was about as fatuous as most contemporary criticisms of a
masterpiece.  Which is only to say that it is rarely given to
contemporary critics to judge accurately of the great work that comes to
them amid a mass that is not great.  That Elwin, although not a good
editor of Pope, was a sound critic of the literature of a period anterior
to his own is demonstrated by the admirable essays from his pen that have
been reprinted with an excellent memoir of him by his son.  In this
memoir we have a capital glimpse of our hero:

    Among the notables whom he had met was Borrow, whose _Lavengro_ and
    _Romany Rye_ he afterwards reviewed in 1857 under the title of
    “Roving Life in England.”  Their interview was characteristic of
    both.  Borrow was just then very sore with his snarling critics, and
    on some one mentioning that Elwin was a _quartering_ reviewer, he
    said, “Sir, I wish you a better employment.”  Then hastily changing
    the subject he called out, “What party are _you_ in the
    Church—Tractarian, Moderate, or Evangelical?  I am happy to say I am
    the old _High_.”  “I am happy to say I am _not_,” was Elwin’s
    emphatic reply.  Borrow boasted of his proficiency in the Norfolk
    dialect, which he endeavoured to speak as broadly as possible.  “I
    told him,” said Elwin, “that he had not cultivated it with his usual
    success.”  As the conversation proceeded it became less disputatious,
    and the two ended by becoming so cordial that they promised to visit
    each other.  Borrow fulfilled his promise in the following October,
    when he went to Booton, and was “full of anecdote and reminiscence,”
    and delighted the rectory children by singing them songs in the gypsy
    tongue.  Elwin during this visit urged him to try his hand at an
    article for the _Review_.  “Never,” he said; “I have made a
    resolution never to have anything to do with such a blackguard
    trade.”

While writing of Whitwell Elwin and his association with Borrow, which
was sometimes rather strained as we shall see when _The Romany Rye_ comes
to be published, it is interesting to turn to Elwin’s final impression of
Borrow, as conveyed in a letter which the recipient has kindly placed at
my disposal.  It was written from Booton Rectory, and is dated 27th
October, 1893:

    I used occasionally to meet Borrow at the house of Mr. Murray, his
    publisher, and he once stayed with me here for two or three days
    about 1855.  He always seemed to me quite at ease “among refined
    people,” and I should not have ascribed his dogmatic tone, when he
    adopted it, to his resentment at finding himself out of keeping with
    his society.  A spirit of self-assertion was engrained in him, and it
    was supported by a combative temperament.  As he was proud of his
    bodily prowess, and rather given to parade it, so he took the same
    view of an argument as of a battle with fists, and thought that
    manliness required him to be determined and unflinching.  But this,
    in my experience of him, was not his ordinary manner, which was calm
    and companionable, without rudeness of any kind, unless some
    difference occurred to provoke his pugnacity.  I have witnessed
    instances of his care to avoid wounding feelings needlessly.  He
    never kept back his opinions which, on some points, were shallow and
    even absurd; and when his antagonist was as persistently positive as
    himself, he was apt to be over vehement in contradiction.  I have
    heard Mr. Murray say that once in a dispute with Dr. Whewell at a
    dinner the language on both sides grew so fiery that Mrs. Whewell
    fainted.

    He told me that his composition cost him a vast amount of labour,
    that his first draughts were diffuse and crude, and that he wrote his
    productions several times before he had condensed and polished them
    to his mind.  There is nothing choicer in the English language than
    some of his narratives, descriptions, and sketches of character, but
    in his best books he did not always prune sufficiently, and in his
    last work, _Wild Wales_, he seemed to me to have lost the faculty
    altogether.  Mr. Murray long refused to publish it unless it was
    curtailed, and Borrow, with his usual self-will and self-confidence,
    refused to retrench the trivialities.  Either he got his own way in
    the end, or he revised his manuscript to little purpose.

    Probably most of what there was to tell of Borrow has been related by
    himself.  It is a disadvantage in _Lavengro_ and _Romany Rye_ that we
    cannot with certainty separate fact from fiction, for he avowed in
    talk that, like Goethe, he had assumed the right in the interests of
    his autobiographical narrative to embellish it in places; but the
    main outline, and larger part of the details, are the genuine record
    of what he had seen and done, and I can testify that some of his
    minor personages who were known to me in my boyhood are described
    with perfect accuracy.

Two letters by Mr. Elwin to Borrow, from my Borrow Papers, both dated
1853—two years after _Lavengro_ was written—may well have place here:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                         BOOTON, NORWICH, _Oct._ 26, 1853.

    MY DEAR MR. BORROW,—I shall be rejoiced to see you here, and I hope
    you will fasten a little luggage to the bow of your saddle, and spend
    as much time under my roof as you can spare.  I am always at home.
    Mrs. Elwin is sure to be in the house or garden, and I, at the worst,
    not further off than the extreme boundary of my parish.  Pray come
    and that quickly.  Your shortest road from Norwich is through
    Horsford, and from thence to the park wall of Haverland Hall, which
    you skirt.  This will bring you out by a small wayside public house,
    well known in these parts, called “The Rat-catchers.”  At this point
    you turn sharp to the left, and keep the straight road till you come
    to a church with a new red brick house adjoining, which is your
    journey’s end.

    The conclusion of your note to me is so true in sentiment, and so
    admirable in expression, that I hope you will introduce it into your
    next work.  I wish it had been said in the article on Haydon.  Cannot
    you strew such criticisms through the sequel to _Lavengro_?  They
    would give additional charm and value to the work.  Believe me, very
    truly yours,

                                                                 W. ELWIN.

    You are of course aware that if _I_ had spoken of _Lavengro_ in the
    _Q. R._ I should have said much more, but as I hoped for my turn
    hereafter, I preferred to let the passage go forth unadulterated.

                                * * * * *

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                  BOOTON RECTORY, NORWICH, _Nov._ 5, 1853.

    MY DEAR MR. BORROW,—You bore your mishap with a philosophic patience,
    and started with an energy which gives the best earnest that you
    would arrive safe and sound at Norwich.

    I was happy to find yesterday morning, by the arrival of your kind
    present, a sure notification that you were well home.

    Many thanks for the tea, which we drink with great zest and
    diligence.  My legs are not as long as yours, nor my breath either.
    You soon made me feel that I must either turn back or be left behind,
    so I chose the former.  Mrs. Elwin and my children desire their kind
    regards.  They one and all enjoyed your visit.  Believe me, very
    truly yours,

                                                                 W. ELWIN.

I have said that I possess large portions of _Lavengro_ in manuscript.
Borrow’s always helpful wife, however, copied out the whole manuscript
for the publishers, and this “clean copy” came to Dr. Knapp, who found
even here a few pages of very valuable writing deleted, and these he has
very rightly restored in Mr. Murray’s edition of _Lavengro_.  Why Borrow
took so much pains to explain that his wife had copied _Lavengro_, as the
following document implies, I cannot think.  I find in his handwriting
this scrap of paper signed by Mary Borrow, and witnessed by her daughter:

                                                        _Janry._ 30, 1869,

    This is to certify that I transcribed _The Bible in Spain_,
    _Lavengro_, and some other works of my husband George Borrow, from
    the original manuscripts.  A considerable portion of the transcript
    of _Lavengro_ was lost at the printing-office where the work was
    printed.

                                                              MARY BORROW.

    Witness: Henrietta M., daughter of Mary Borrow.

It only remains here to state the melancholy fact once again that
_Lavengro_, great work of literature as it is now universally
acknowledged to be, was not “the book of the year.”  The three thousand
copies of the first issue took more than twenty years to sell, and it was
not until 1872 that Mr. Murray resolved to issue a cheaper edition.  The
time was not ripe for the cult of the open road, the zest for “the wind
on the heath” that our age shares so keenly.




CHAPTER XXV
A VISIT TO CORNISH KINSMEN


IF Borrow had been a normal man of letters he would have been quite
satisfied to settle down at Oulton, in a comfortable home, with a devoted
wife.  The question of money was no longer to worry him.  He had moreover
a money-making gift, which made him independent in a measure of his
wife’s fortune.  From _The Bible in Spain_ he must have drawn a very
considerable amount, considerable, that is, for a man whose habits were
always somewhat penurious.  _The Bible in Spain_ would have been followed
up, were Borrow a quite other kind of man, by a succession of books
almost equally remunerative.  Even for one so prone to hate both books
and bookmen there was always the wind on the heath, the gypsy encampment,
the now famous “broad,” not then the haunt of innumerable trippers.  But
Borrow ever loved wandering more than writing.  Almost immediately after
his marriage—in 1840—he hinted to the Bible Society of a journey to
China; a year later, in June, 1841, he suggested to Lord Clarendon that
Lord Palmerston might give him a consulship: he consulted Hasfeld as to a
possible livelihood in Berlin, and Ford as to travel in Africa.  He seems
to have endured residence at Oulton with difficulty during the succeeding
three years, and in 1844 we find him engaged upon the continental travel
that we have already recorded.  In 1847 he had hopes of the consulship at
Canton, but Bowring wanted it for himself, and a misunderstanding over
this led to an inevitable break of old friendship.  Borrow’s passionate
love of travel was never more to be gratified at the expense of others.
He tried, indeed, to secure a journey to the East from the British Museum
Trustees, and then gave up the struggle.  Further wanderings, which were
many, were to be confined to Europe and indeed to England, Scotland,
Ireland, and the Isle of Man.  His first journey, however, was not at his
own initiative.  Mrs. Borrow’s health was unequal to the severe winters
at Oulton, and so the Borrows made their home at Yarmouth from 1853 to
1860.  During these years he gave his vagabond propensities full play.
No year passed without its record of wandering.  His first expedition was
the outcome of a burst of notoriety that seems to have done for Borrow
what the success of his _Bible in Spain_ could not do—reveal his identity
to his Cornish relations.  The _Bury Post_ of 17th September, 1853,
recorded that Borrow had at the risk of his life saved at least one
member of a boat’s crew wrecked on the coast at Yarmouth:

    The moment was an awful one, when George Borrow, the well-known
    author of _Lavengro_ and _The Bible in Spain_, dashed into the surf
    and saved one life, and through his instrumentality the others were
    saved.  We ourselves have known this brave and gifted man for years,
    and, daring as was his deed, we have known him more than once to risk
    his life for others.  We are happy to add that he has sustained no
    material injury.

This paragraph in the Bury St. Edmunds newspaper was copied into the
_Plymouth Mail_, and was there read by the Borrows of Cornwall, who had
heard nothing of their relative, Thomas Borrow the army captain, and his
family for fifty years or more.  One of Borrow’s cousins by marriage,
Robert Taylor of Penquite, invited him to his father’s homeland, and
Borrow accepted, glad, we may be sure, of any excuse for a renewal of his
wanderings.  And so on the 23rd of December, 1853, Borrow made his way
from Yarmouth to Plymouth by rail, and thence walked twenty miles to
Liskeard, where quite a little party of Borrow’s cousins were present to
greet him.  The Borrow family consisted of Henry Borrow of Looe Down, the
father of Mrs. Taylor, William Borrow of Trethinnick, Thomas Nicholas and
Elizabeth Borrow, all first cousins, except Anne Taylor.  Anne, talking
to a friend, describes Borrow on this visit better than any one else has
done:

    A fine tall man of about six feet three; well-proportioned and not
    stout; able to walk five miles an hour successively; rather florid
    face without any hirsute appendages; hair white and soft; eyes and
    eyebrows dark; good nose and very nice mouth; well-shaped
    hands;—altogether a person you would notice in a crowd.

Borrow stayed at Penquite with his cousins from 24th December to 9th
January, then he went on a walking tour to Land’s End, through Truro and
Penzance; he was back at Penquite from 26th January to 1st February, and
then took a week’s tramp to Tintagel, King Arthur’s Castle, and Pentire.
Naturally he made inquiries into the language, already extinct, but
spoken within the memory of the older inhabitants.  “My relations are
most excellent people,” he wrote to his wife from London on his way back,
“but I could not understand more than half of what they said.”

I have only one letter to Mrs. Borrow written during this tour:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                           PENQUITE, 27_th_ _Janry._ 1854.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—I just write you a line to inform you that I have
    got back safe here from the Land’s End.  I have received your two
    letters, and hope you received mine from the Land’s End.  It is
    probable that I shall yet visit one or two places before I leave
    Cornwall.  I am very much pleased with the country.  When you receive
    this if you please write a line _by return of post_ I think you may;
    the Trethinnick people wish me to stay with them for a day or two.
    When you see the Cobbs pray remember me to them; I am sorry Horace
    has lost his aunt, he will _miss her_.  Love to Hen.  Ever yours,
    dearest,

                                                                G. BORROW.

    (Keep this.)

It was the failure of _The Romany Rye_ that prevented Borrow from writing
the Cornish book that he had caused to be advertised in the flyleaf of
that work.  Borrow would have made a beautiful book upon Cornwall.  Even
the title, _Penquite and Pentyre_; _or_, _The Head of the Forest and the
Headland_, has music in it.  And he had in these twenty weeks made
himself wonderfully well acquainted not only with the topography of the
principality, but with its folklore and legend.  The gulf that ever
separated the Borrow of the notebook and the unprepared letter from the
Borrow of the finished manuscript was extraordinary, and we may deplore
with Mr. Walling the absence of this among Borrow’s many unwritten books.

Borrow was back in Yarmouth at the end of February, 1854—he had not fled
the country as Dalrymple had suggested—but in July he was off again for
his great tour in Wales, in which he was accompanied by his wife and
daughter.  Of that tour we must treat in another and later chapter, for
_Wild Wales_ was not published until 1862.  The year following his great
tour in Wales he went on a trip to the Isle of Man.




CHAPTER XXVI
IN THE ISLE OF MAN


THE holiday which Borrow gave himself the year following his visit to
Wales, that is to say, in September, 1855, is recorded in his unpublished
diaries.  He never wrote a book as the outcome of that journey, although
he caused one to be advertised under the title of _Bayr Jairgey and Glion
Doo_: _Wanderings in Search of Manx Literature_.  Borrow, it will be
remembered, learnt the Irish language as a mere child, much to his
father’s disgust.  Although he never loved the Irish people, the Celtic
Irish, that is to say, whose genial temperament was so opposed to his
own, he did love the Irish language, which he more than once declared had
incited him to become a student of many tongues.  He never made the
mistake into which so many have fallen of calling it “Erse.”  He was
never an accurate student of the Irish language, but among Englishmen he
led the way in the present-day interest in that tongue—an interest which
is now so pronounced among scholars of many nationalities, and has made
in Ireland so definite a revival of a language that for a time seemed to
be on the way to extinction.  Two translations from the Irish are to be
found in his _Targum_ published so far back as 1835, and many other
translations from the Irish poets were among the unpublished manuscripts
that he left behind him.  It would therefore be with peculiar interest
that he would visit the Isle of Man which, at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, was an Irish-speaking land, but in 1855 was at a
stage when the language was falling fast into decay.  What survived of it
was still Irish with trifling variations in the spelling of words.
“Cranu,” a tree, for example, had become “Cwan,” and so on—although the
pronunciation was apparently much the same.  When the tall, white-haired
Englishman talked to the older inhabitants who knew something of the
language they were delighted.  “Mercy upon us,” said one old woman, “I
believe, sir, you are of the old Manx!”  Borrow was actually wandering in
search of Manx literature, as the title of the book that he announced
implied.  He inquired about the old songs of the island, and of
everything that survived of its earlier language.  Altogether Borrow must
have had a good time in thus following his favourite pursuit.

But these stories are less human than a notebook in my hands.  This is a
long leather pocket-book, in which, under the title of “Expedition to the
Isle of Man,” we have, written in pencil, a quite vivacious account of
his adventures.  It records that Borrow and his wife and daughter set out
through Bury to Peterborough, Rugby, and Liverpool.  It tells of the
admiration with which Peterborough’s “noble cathedral” inspired him.
Liverpool he calls a “London in miniature”:

    Strolled about town with my wife and Henrietta; wonderful docks and
    quays, where all the ships of the world seemed to be gathered—all the
    commerce of the world to be carried on; St. George’s Crescent; noble
    shops; strange people walking about, an Herculean mulatto, for
    example; the old china shop; cups with Chinese characters upon them;
    an horrible old Irishwoman with naked feet; Assize Hall a noble
    edifice.

The party left Liverpool on 20th August, and Borrow, when in sight of the
Isle of Man, noticed a lofty ridge of mountains rising to the clouds:

    Entered into conversation with two of the crew—Manx sailors—about the
    Manx language; one, a very tall man, said he knew only a very little
    of it as he was born on the coast, but that his companion, who came
    from the interior, knew it well; said it was a mere gibberish.  This
    I denied, and said it was an ancient language, and that it was like
    the Irish; his companion, a shorter man, in shirt sleeves, with a
    sharp, eager countenance, now opened his mouth and said I was right,
    and said that I was the only gentleman whom he had ever heard ask
    questions about the Manx language.  I spoke several Irish words which
    they understood.

When he had landed he continued his investigations, asking every peasant
he met the Manx for this or that English word:

    “Are you Manx?” said I.  “Yes,” he replied, “I am Manx.”  “And what
    do you call a river in Manx?”  “A river,” he replied.  “Can you speak
    Manx?” I demanded.  “Yes,” he replied, “I speak Manx.”  “And you call
    a river a river?”  “Yes,” said he, “I do.”  “You don’t call it owen?”
    said I.  “I do not,” said he.  I passed on, and on the other side of
    the bridge went for some time along an avenue of trees, passing by a
    stone water-mill, till I came to a public-house on the left hand.
    Seeing a woman looking out of the window, I asked her to what place
    the road led.  “To Castletown,” she replied.  “And what do you call
    the river in Manx?” said I.  “We call it an owen,” said she.  “So I
    thought,” I replied, and after a little further discourse returned,
    as the night was now coming fast on.

One man whom Borrow asked if there were any poets in Man replied that he
did not believe there were, that the last Manx poet had died some time
ago at Kirk Conoshine, and this man had translated Parnell’s _Hermit_
beautifully, and the translation had been printed.  He inquired about the
Runic Stones, which he continually transcribed.  Under date Thursday,
30th August, we find the following:

    This day year I ascended Snowdon, and this morning, which is very
    fine, I propose to start on an expedition to Castletown and to return
    by Peel.

Very gladly would I follow Borrow more in detail through this interesting
holiday by means of his diary, {197} but it would make my book too long.
As he had his wife and daughter with him there are no letters by him from
the island.

Three years later we find that Borrow has not forgotten the friends of
that Manx holiday.  This letter is from the Vicar of Malew in
acknowledgment of a copy of _The Romany Rye_ published in the interval:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                               MALEW VICARAGE, BALLASALLA,
                                             ISLE OF MAN, 27 _Jany._ 1859.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I return you my most hearty thanks for your most
    handsome present of _Romany Rye_, and no less handsome letter
    relative to your tour in the Isle of Man and the literature of the
    Manx.  Both I value very highly, and from both I shall derive useful
    hints for my introduction to the new edition of the _Manx Grammar_.
    I hope you will have no objection to my quoting a passage or two from
    the advertisement of your forthcoming book; and if I receive no
    intimation of your dissent, I shall take it for granted that I have
    your kind permission.  The whole notice is so apposite to my purpose,
    and would be so interesting to every Manxman, that I would fain
    insert the whole bodily, did the Author and the limits of an
    Introduction permit.  The _Grammar_ will, I think, go to press in
    March next.  It is to be published under the auspices of “The Manx
    Society,” instituted last year “for the publication of National
    documents of the Isle of Man.”  As soon as it is printed I hope to
    beg the favour of your acceptance of a copy.—I am, my dear Sir, your
    deeply obliged humble servant,

                                                             WILLIAM GILL.




CHAPTER XXVII
OULTON BROAD AND YARMOUTH


GEORGE BORROW wandered far and wide, but he always retraced his footsteps
to East Anglia, of which he was so justly proud.  From his marriage in
1840 until his death in 1881 he lived twenty-seven years at Oulton or at
Yarmouth.  “It is on sand alone that the sea strikes its true music,”
Borrow once remarked, “Norfolk sand”—and it was in the waves and on the
sands of the Norfolk coast that Borrow spent the happiest hours of his
restless life.  Oulton Cottage is only about two miles from Lowestoft,
and so, walking or driving, these places were quite near one another.
But both are in Suffolk.  Was it because Yarmouth—ten miles distant—is in
Norfolk that it was always selected for seaside residence?  I suspect
that the careful Mrs. Borrow found a wider selection of “apartments” at a
moderate price.  In any case the sea air of Yarmouth was good for his
wife, and the sea bathing was good for him, and so we find that husband
and wife had seven separate residences at Yarmouth during the years of
Oulton life. {199}  But Oulton was ever to be Borrow’s headquarters, even
though between 1860 and 1874 he had a house in London.  Borrow was
thirty-seven years of age when he settled down at Oulton.  He was, he
tells us in _The Romany Rye_, “in tolerably easy circumstances and
willing to take some rest after a life of labour.”  Their home was a
cottage on the Broad, for the Hall, which was also Mrs. Borrow’s
property, was let on lease to a farmer.  The cottage, however, was an
extremely pleasant residence with a lawn running down to the river.  A
more substantial house has been built on this site since Borrow’s day.
The summer-house is generally assumed to be the same, but has certainly
been re-roofed since the time when Henrietta Clarke drew the picture of
it that is reproduced in this book.  Probably the whole summer-house is
new, but at any rate the present structure stands on the site of the old
one.  Here Borrow did his work, wrote and wrote and wrote, until he had,
as he said, “mountains of manuscripts.”  Here first of all he completed
_The Zincali_ (1841), commenced in Seville; then he wrote or rather
arranged _The Bible in Spain_ (1843), and then at long intervals,
diversified by extensive travel holidays, he wrote _Lavengro_ (1851),
_The Romany Rye_ (1857), and _Wild Wales_ (1860)—these are the five books
and their dates that we most associate with Borrow’s sojourn at Oulton.
When _Wild Wales_ was published he had removed to London.

By far the best glimpses of Borrow during these years of Suffolk life are
those contained in a letter contributed by his friend, Elizabeth Harvey,
to _The Eastern Daily Press_ of Norwich over the initials “E. H.”:

    When I knew Mr. Borrow he lived in a lovely cottage whose garden
    sloped down to the edge of Oulton Broad.  He had a wooden room built
    on the very margin of the water, where he had many strange old books
    in various languages.  I remember he once put one before me, telling
    me to read it.  “Oh, I can’t,” I replied.  He said, “You ought, it’s
    your own language.”  It was an old Saxon book.  He used to spend a
    great deal of his time in this room writing, translating, and at
    times singing strange words in a stentorian voice, while passers-by
    on the lake would stop to listen with astonishment and curiosity to
    the singular sounds.  He was 6 feet 3 inches, a splendid man, with
    handsome hands and feet.  He wore neither whiskers, beard, nor
    moustache.  His features were very handsome, but his eyes were
    peculiar, being round and rather small, but very piercing, and now
    and then fierce.  He would sometimes sing one of his Romany songs,
    shake his fist at me and look quite wild.  Then he would ask, “Aren’t
    you afraid of me?”  “No, not at all,” I would say.  Then he would
    look just as gentle and kind, and say, “God bless you, I would not
    hurt a hair of your head.”  He was an expert swimmer, and used to go
    out bathing, and dive under water an immense time.  On one occasion
    he was bathing with a friend, and after plunging in nothing was seen
    of him for some while.  His friend began to be alarmed, when he heard
    Borrow’s voice a long way off exclaiming, “There, if that had been
    written in one of my books they would have said it was a lie,
    wouldn’t they?”  He was very fond of animals, and the animals were
    fond of him.  He would go for a walk with two dogs and a cat
    following him.  The cat would go a quarter of a mile or so and then
    turn back home.  He delighted to go for long walks and enter into
    conversation with any one he might meet on the road, and lead them
    into histories of their lives, belongings, and experiences.  When
    they used some word peculiar to Norfolk (or Suffolk) countrymen he
    would say, “Why, that’s a Danish word.”  By and by the man would use
    another peculiar expression, “Why, that’s Saxon”; a little later on
    another, “Why, that’s French.”  And he would add, “Why, what a
    wonderful man you are to speak so many languages.”  One man got very
    angry, but Mr. Borrow was quite unconscious that he had given any
    offence.  He spoke a great number of languages, and at the Exhibition
    of 1851, whither he went with his stepdaughter, he spoke to the
    different foreigners in their own language, until his daughter saw
    some of them whispering together and looking as if they thought he
    was “uncanny,” and she became alarmed and drew him away.  He,
    however, did not like to hear the English language adulterated with
    the introduction of foreign words.  If his wife or friends used a
    foreign word in conversation, he would say, “What’s that, trying to
    come over me with strange languages.”

    I have gone for many a walk with him at Oulton.  He used to go on,
    singing to himself or quite silent, quite forgetting me until he came
    to a high hill, when he would turn round, seize my hand, and drag me
    up.  Then he would sit down and enjoy the prospect.  He was a great
    lover of nature, and very fond of his trees.  He quite fretted if, by
    some mischance, he lost one.  He did not shoot or hunt.  He rode his
    Arab at times, but walking was his favourite exercise.  He was
    subject to fits of nervous depression.  At times also he suffered
    from sleeplessness, when he would get up and walk to Norwich (25
    miles), and return the next night recovered.  His fondness for the
    gypsies has been noticed.  At Oulton he used to allow them to encamp
    in his grounds, and he would visit them, with a friend or alone, talk
    to them in Romany, and sing Romany songs.  He was very fond of ghost
    stories and believed in the supernatural.  He was keenly sympathetic
    with any one who was in trouble or suffering.  He was no man of
    business and very guileless, and led a very harmless, quiet life at
    Oulton, spending his evenings at home with his wife and
    step-daughter, generally reading all the evening.  He was very
    hospitable in his own home, and detested meanness.  He was moderate
    in eating and drinking, took very little breakfast, but ate a very
    great quantity at dinner, and then had only a draught of cold water
    before going to bed.  He wrote much in praise of “strong ale,” and
    was very fond of good ale, of whose virtue he had a great idea.  Once
    I was speaking of a lady who was attached to a gentleman, and he
    asked, “Well, did he make her an offer?”  “No,” I said.  “Ah,” he
    exclaimed, “if she had given him some good ale he would.”  But
    although he talked so much about ale I never saw him take much.  He
    was very temperate, and would eat what was set before him, often not
    thinking of what he was doing, and he never refused what was offered
    him.  He took much pleasure in music, especially of a light and
    lively character.  My sister would sing to him, and I played.  One
    piece he seemed never to tire of hearing.  It was a polka, “The
    Redowa,” I think, and when I had finished he used to say, “Play that
    again, E—.”  He was very polite and gentlemanly in ladies’ society,
    and we all liked him.

It is refreshing to read this tribute, from which I have omitted nothing
salient, because a very disagreeable Borrow has somehow grown up into a
tradition.  I note in reading some of the reviews of Dr. Knapp’s _Life_
that he is charged, or half-charged, with suppressing facts, “because
they do not reflect credit upon the subject of his biography.”  Now,
there were really no facts to suppress.  Borrow was at times a very
irritable man, he was a very self-centred one.  His egotism might even be
pronounced amazing by those who had never met an author.  But those of us
who have, recognise that with very few exceptions they are all egotists,
although some conceal it from the unobservant more deftly than others.
Many authors of power have died young and unrecognised; but recognition
has usually come to those men of genius who have lived into middle age.
It did not come to Borrow.  He had therefore a right to be soured.  This
sourness found expression in many ways.  Borrow, most sound of churchmen,
actually quarrelled with his vicar over the tempers of their respective
dogs.  Both the vicar, the Rev. Edwin Proctor Denniss, and his
parishioner wrote one another acrid letters.  Here is Borrow’s parting
shot:

    Circumstances over which Mr. Borrow has at present no control will
    occasionally bring him and his family under the same roof with Mr.
    Denniss; that roof, however, is the roof of the House of God, and the
    prayers of the Church of England are wholesome from whatever mouth
    they may proceed.

Surely that is a kind of quarrel we have all had in our day, and we think
ourselves none the less virtuous in consequence.  Then there was Borrow’s
very natural ambition to be made a magistrate of Suffolk.  He tells Mr.
John Murray in 1842 that he has caught a bad cold by getting up at night
in pursuit of poachers and thieves.  “A terrible neighbourhood this,” he
adds, “not a magistrate dare do his duty.”  And so in the next year he
wrote again to the same correspondent:

    Present my compliments to Mr. Gladstone, and tell him that the _Bible
    in Spain_ will have no objection to becoming one of the “Great
    Unpaid.”

Mr. Gladstone, although he had admired _The Bible in Spain_, and indeed
had even suggested the modification of one of its sentences, did nothing.
Lockhart, Lord Clarendon, and others who were applied to were equally
powerless or indifferent.  Borrow never got his magistracy.  To-day no
man of equal eminence in literature could possibly have failed of so
slight an ambition.  Moreover, Borrow wanted to be a J.P., not from mere
snobbery as many might, but for a definite, practical object.  I am
afraid he would not have made a very good magistrate, and perhaps inquiry
had made that clear to the authorities.  Lastly, there was Borrow’s
quarrel with the railway which came through his estate.  He had thoughts
of removing to Bury, where Dr. Hake lived, or to Troston Hall, once the
home of the interesting Capell Lofft.  But he was not to leave Oulton.
In intervals of holidays, journeys, and of sojourn in Yarmouth it was to
remain his home to the end.  In 1849 his mother joined him at Oulton.
She had resided for thirty-three years at the Willow Lane Cottage.  She
was now seventy-seven years of age.  She lived on near her son as a
tenant of his tenant at Oulton Hall until her death nine years later,
dying in 1858 in her eighty-seventh year.  She lies buried in Oulton
Churchyard, with a tomb thus inscribed:

    Sacred to the memory of Ann Borrow, widow of Captain Thomas Borrow.
    She died on the 16th of August 1858, aged eighty-six years and seven
    months.  She was a good wife and a good mother.

During these years at Oulton we have many glimpses of Borrow.  Dr.
Jessopp, for example, has recorded in _The Athenæum_ newspaper his own
hero-worship for the author of _Lavengro_, whom he was never to meet.
This enthusiasm for _Lavengro_ was shared by certain of his Norfolk
friends of those days:

    Among those friends were two who, I believe, are still alive, and who
    about the year 1846 set out, without telling me of their intention,
    on a pilgrimage to Oulton to see George Borrow in the flesh.  In
    those days the journey was not an inconsiderable one; and though my
    friends must have known that I would have given my ears to be of the
    party, I suppose they kept their project to themselves for reasons of
    their own.  Two, they say, are company and three are none; two men
    could ride in a gig for sixty miles without much difficulty, and an
    odd man often spoils sport.  At any rate, they left me out, and one
    day they came back full of malignant pride and joy and exultation,
    and they flourished their information before me with boastings and
    laughter at my ferocious jealousy; for they had seen, and talked
    with, and eaten and drunk with, and sat at the feet of the veritable
    George Borrow, and had grasped his mighty hand.  To me it was too
    provoking.  But what had they to tell?

    They found him at Oulton, living, as they affirmed, in a house which
    belonged to Mrs. Borrow and which her first husband had left her.
    The household consisted of himself, his wife, and his wife’s
    daughter; and among his other amusements he employed himself in
    training some young horses to follow him about like dogs and come at
    the call of his whistle.  As my two friends were talking with him
    Borrow sounded his whistle in a paddock near the house, which, if I
    remember rightly, was surrounded by a low wall.  Immediately two
    beautiful horses came bounding over the fence and trotted up to their
    master.  One put his nose into Borrow’s outstretched hand and the
    other kept snuffing at his pockets in expectation of the usual bribe
    for confidence and good behaviour.  Borrow could not but be flattered
    by the young Cambridge men paying him the frank homage they offered,
    and he treated them with the robust and cordial hospitality
    characteristic of the man.  One or two things they learnt which I do
    not feel at liberty to repeat.

Mr. Arthur W. Upcher of Sheringham Hall, Cromer, also provided in _The
Athenæum_ a quaint reminiscence of Borrow in which he recalled that
Lavengro had called upon Miss Anna Gurney.  This lady had, assuredly with
less guile, treated him much as Frances Cobbe would have done.  She had
taken down an Arabic grammar, and put it into his hand, asking for
explanation of some difficult point which he tried to decipher; but
meanwhile she talked to him continuously.  “I could not,” said Borrow,
“study the Arabic grammar and listen to her at the same time, so I threw
down the book and ran out of the room.”  He soon after met Mr. Upcher, to
whom he made an interesting revelation:

    He told us there were three personages in the world whom he had
    always a desire to see; two of these had slipped through his fingers,
    so he was determined to see the third.  “Pray, Mr. Borrow, who were
    they?”  He held up three fingers of his left hand and pointed them
    off with the forefinger of the right: the first Daniel O’Connell, the
    second Lamplighter (the sire of Phosphorus, Lord Berners’s winner of
    the Derby), the third, Anna Gurney.  The first two were dead and he
    had not seen them; now he had come to see Anna Gurney, and this was
    the end of his visit.

At one moment of the correspondence we obtain an interesting glimpse of a
great man of science.  Mr. Darwin sent the following inquiry through Dr.
Hooker, afterwards Sir Joseph Hooker, and it reached Borrow through his
friend Thomas Brightwell:

    Is there any Dog in Spain closely like our English Pointer, in
    _shape_ and size, and _habits_,—namely in pointing, backing, and not
    giving tongue.  Might I be permitted to quote Mr. Borrow’s answer to
    the query?  Has the improved English pointer been introduced into
    Spain?

                                                                C. DARWIN.

Borrow took constant holidays during these Oulton days.  We have
elsewhere noted his holidays in Eastern Europe, in the Isle of Man, in
Wales, and in Cornwall.  Letters from other parts of England would be
welcome, but I can only find two, and these are but scraps.  Both are
addressed to his wife, each without date:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                     OXFORD, _Feb._ 2_nd._

    DEAR CARRETA,—I reached this place yesterday and hope to be home
    to-night (Monday).  I walked the whole way by Kingston, Hampton,
    Sunbury (Miss Oriel’s place), Windsor, Wallingford, etc., a good part
    of the way was by the Thames.  There has been much wet weather.
    Oxford is a wonderful place.

    Kiss Hen., and God bless you!

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                       TUNBRIDGE WELLS, _Tuesday evening_.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I have arrived here safe—it is a wonderful place, a
    small city of palaces amidst hills, rocks, and woods, and is full of
    fine people.  Please to carry up stairs and lock in the drawer the
    little paper sack of letters in the parlour; lock it up with the bank
    book and put this along with it—also be sure to keep the window of my
    room fastened and the door locked, and keep the key in your pocket.
    God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

One of the very last letters of Borrow that I possess is to an unknown
correspondent.  It is from a rough “draft” in his handwriting:

                                            OULTON, LOWESTOFT, _May_ 1875.

    SIR,—Your letter of the eighth of March I only lately received,
    otherwise I should have answered it sooner.  In it you mention
    Chamberlayne’s work, containing versions of the Lord’s Prayer
    translated into a hundred languages, and ask whether I can explain
    why the one which purports to be a rendering into Waldensian is
    evidently made in some dialect of the Gaelic.  To such explanation as
    I can afford you are welcome, though perhaps you will not deem it
    very satisfactory.  I have been acquainted with Chamberlayne’s work
    for upwards of forty years.  I first saw it at St. Petersburg in
    1834, and the translation in question very soon caught my attention.
    I at first thought that it was an attempt at imposition, but I soon
    relinquished that idea.  I remembered that Helvetia was a great place
    for Gaelic.  I do not mean in the old time when the Gael possessed
    the greater part of Europe, but at a long subsequent period:
    Switzerland was converted to Christianity by Irish monks, the most
    active and efficient of whom was Gall.  These people founded schools
    in which together with Christianity the Irish or Gaelic language was
    taught.  In process of time, though the religion flourished, the
    Helveto Gaelic died away, but many pieces in that tongue survived,
    some of which might still probably be found in the recesses of St.
    Gall.  The noble abbey is named after the venerable apostle of
    Christianity in Helvetia; so I deemed it very possible that the
    version in question might be one of the surviving fruits of Irish
    missionary labour in Helvetia, not but that I had my doubts, and
    still have, principally from observing that the language though
    certainly not modern does not exhibit any decided marks of high
    antiquity.  It is much to be regretted that Chamberlayne should have
    given the version to the world under a title so calculated to perplex
    and mislead as that which it bears, and without even stating how or
    where he obtained it.  This, sir, is all I have to say on the very
    obscure subject about which you have done me the honour to consult
    me.—Yours truly,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.




CHAPTER XXVIII
IN SCOTLAND AND IRELAND


BORROW has himself given us—in _Lavengro_—a picturesque record of his
early experiences in Scotland.  It is passing strange that he published
no account of his two visits to the North in maturer years.  Why did he
not write _Wild Scotland_ as a companion volume to _Wild Wales_?  He
preserved in little leather pocket-books or leather-covered
exercise-books copious notes of both tours.  Two of his notebooks came
into the possession of the late Dr. Knapp, Borrow’s first biographer, and
are thus described in his Bibliography:

    _Note Book of a Tour in Scotland_, _the Orkneys and Shetland in Oct.
    and Dec._ 1858.  1 large vol. leather.

    _Note Book of Tours around Belfast and the Scottish Borders from
    Stranraer to Berwick-upon-Tweed in July and August_ 1866.  1 vol.
    leather.

Of these Dr. Knapp made use only to give the routes of Borrow’s journeys
so far as he was able to interpret them.  It may be that he was doubtful
as to whether his purchase of the manuscript carried with it the
copyright of its contents, as it assuredly did not; it may be that he
quailed before the minute and almost undecipherable handwriting.  But
similar notebooks are in my possession, and there are, happily, in these
days typists—you pay them by the hour, and it means an infinity of time
and patience—who will copy the most minute and the most obscure
documents.  There are some of the notebooks of the Scottish tour of 1858
before me, and what is of far more importance—Borrow’s letters to his
wife while on this tour.  Borrow lost his mother in August, 1858, and
this event was naturally a great blow to his heart.  A week or two later
he suffered a cruel blow to his pride also, nothing less than the return
of the manuscript of his much-prized translation from the Welsh of _The
Sleeping Bard_—and this by his “prince of publishers,” John Murray.
“There is no money in it,” said the publisher, and he was doubtless
right.  The two disasters were of different character, but both unhinged
him.  He had already written _Wild Wales_, although it was not to be
published for another four years.  He had caused to be advertised—in
1857—a book on Cornwall, but it was never written in any definitive form,
and now our author had lost heart, and the Cornish book—_Penquite and
Pentyre_—and the Scots book never saw the light.  In these autumn months
of 1858 geniality and humour had parted from Borrow; this his diary makes
clear.  He was ill.  His wife urged a tour in Scotland, and he prepared
himself for a rough, simple journey, of a kind quite different from the
one in Wales.  The north of Scotland in the winter was scarcely to be
thought of for his wife and step-daughter Henrietta.  He tells us in one
of these diaries that he walked “several hundred miles in the Highlands.”
His wife and daughter were with him in Wales, as every reader of _Wild
Wales_ will recall, but the Scots tour was meant to be a more formidable
pilgrimage, and they went to Great Yarmouth instead.  The first half of
the tour—that of September—is dealt with in letters to his wife, the
latter half is reflected in his diary.  The letters show Borrow’s
experiences in the earlier part of his journey, and from his diaries we
learn that he was in Oban on 22nd October, Aberdeen on 5th November,
Inverness on the 9th, and thence he went to Tain, Dornoch, Wick, John o’
Groat’s, and to the island towns, Stromness, Kirkwall, and Lerwick.  He
was in Shetland on the 1st of December—altogether a bleak, cheerless
journey, we may believe, even for so hardy a tramp as Borrow, and the
tone of the following extract from one of his rough notebooks in my
possession may perhaps be explained by the circumstance.  Borrow is on
the way to Loch Laggan and visits a desolate churchyard, Coll Harrie, to
see the tomb of John Macdonnel or Ian Lom:

    I was on a Highland hill in an old Popish burying-ground.  I entered
    the ruined church, disturbed a rabbit crouching under an old
    tombstone—it ran into a hole, then came out running about like
    wild—quite frightened—made room for it to run out by the doorway,
    telling it I would not hurt it—went out again and examined the tombs.
    . . .  Would have examined much more but the wind and rain blew
    horribly, and I was afraid that my hat, if not my head, would be
    blown into the road over the hill.  Quitted the place of old Highland
    Popish devotion—descended the hill again with great difficulty—grass
    slippery and the ground here and there quaggy, resumed the
    road—village—went to the door of house looking down the valley—to ask
    its name—knock—people came out, a whole family, looking sullen and
    all savage.  The stout, tall young man with the grey savage
    eyes—civil questions—half-savage answers—village’s name
    Achaluarach—the neighbourhood—all Catholic—chiefly Macdonnels; said
    the English, _my countrymen_, had taken the whole country—“but not
    without paying for it,” I replied—said I was soaking wet with a kind
    of sneer, but never asked me in.  I said I cared not for wet.  A
    savage, brutal Papist and a hater of the English—the whole family
    with bad countenances—a tall woman in the background probably the
    mother of them all.  Bade him good-day, he made no answer and I went
    away.  Learnt that the river’s name was Spean.

He passed through Scotland in a disputative vein, which could not have
made him a popular traveller.  He tells a Roman Catholic of the Macdonnel
clan to read his Bible and “trust in Christ, not in the Virgin Mary and
graven images.”  He went up to another man who accosted him with the
remark that “It is a soft day,” and said, “You should not say a ‘soft’
day, but a wet day.”  Even the Spanish, for whom he had so much contempt
and scorn when he returned from the Peninsula, are “in many things a wise
people”—after his experiences of the Scots.  There is abundance of
Borrow’s prejudice, intolerance, and charm in this fragment of a diary;
but the extract I have given is of additional interest as showing how
Borrow wrote all his books.  The notebooks that he wrote in Spain and
Wales were made up of similar disjointed jottings.  Here is a note of
more human character interspersed with Borrow’s diatribes upon the
surliness of the Scots.  He is at Invergarry, on the banks of Loch Oich.
It is the 5th of October:

    Dinner of real haggis; meet a conceited schoolmaster.  This night, or
    rather in the early morning, I saw in the dream of my sleep my dear
    departed mother—she appeared to be coming out of her little
    sleeping-room at Oulton Hall—overjoyed I gave a cry and fell down at
    her knee, but my agitation was so great that it burst the bonds of
    sleep, and I awoke.

But the letters to Mrs. Borrow are the essential documents here, and not
the copious diaries which I hope to publish elsewhere.  The first letter
to “Carreta” is from Edinburgh, where Borrow arrived on Sunday, 19th
September, 1858:

                 TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN PLACE,
                              YARMOUTH, NORFOLK

                               EDINBURGH, _Sunday_ (_Sept._ 19_th_, 1858).

    DEAR CARRETA,—I just write a line to inform you that I arrived here
    yesterday quite safe.  We did not start from Yarmouth till past three
    o’clock on Thursday morning; we reached Newcastle about ten on
    Friday.  As I was walking in the street at Newcastle a sailor-like
    man came running up to me, and begged that I would let him speak to
    me.  He appeared almost wild with joy.  I asked him who he was, and
    he told me he was a Yarmouth north beach man, and that he knew me
    very well.  Before I could answer, another sailor-like, short, thick
    fellow came running up, who also seemed wild with joy; he was a
    comrade of the other.  I never saw two people so out of themselves
    with pleasure, they literally danced in the street; in fact, they
    were two of my old friends.  I asked them how they came down there,
    and they told me that they had been down fishing.  They begged a
    thousand pardons for speaking to me, but told me they could not help
    it.  I set off for Alnwick on Friday afternoon, stayed there all
    night, and saw the castle next morning.  It is a fine old place, but
    at present is undergoing repairs—a Scottish king was killed before
    its walls in the old time.  At about twelve I started for Edinburgh.
    The place is wonderfully altered since I was here, and I don’t think
    for the better.  There is a Runic stone on the castle brae which I am
    going to copy.  It was not there in my time.  If you write direct to
    me at the Post Office, Inverness.  I am thinking of going to Glasgow
    to-morrow, from which place I shall start for Inverness by one of the
    packets which go thither by the North-West and the Caledonian Canal.
    I hope that you and Hen. are well and comfortable.  Pray eat plenty
    of grapes and partridges.  We had upon the whole a pleasant passage
    from Yarmouth; we lived plainly but well, and I was not at all
    ill—the captain seemed a kind, honest creature.  Remember me kindly
    to Mrs. Turnour and Mrs. Clarke, and God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

In his unpublished diary Borrow records his journey from Glasgow through
beautiful but over-described scenery to Inverness, where he stayed at the
Caledonian Hotel:

                 TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN PLACE,
                                   YARMOUTH

                                       INVERNESS, _Sunday_ (_Sept._ 26th).

    DEAR CARRETA,—This is the third letter which I have written to you.
    Whether you have received the other two, or will receive this, I am
    doubtful.  I have been several times to the post office, but we found
    no letter from you, though I expected to find one awaiting me when I
    arrived.  I wrote last on Friday.  I merely want to know once how you
    are, and if all is well I shall move onward.  It is of not much use
    staying here.  After I had written to you on Friday I crossed by the
    ferry over the Firth and walked to Beauly, and from thence to
    Beaufort or Castle Downie; at Beauly I saw the gate of the pit where
    old Fraser used to put the people whom he owed money to—it is in the
    old ruined cathedral, and at Beaufort saw the ruins of the house
    where he was born.  Lord Lovat lives in the house close by.  There is
    now a claimant to the title, a descendant of Old Fraser’s elder
    brother who committed a murder in the year 1690, and on that account
    fled to South Wales.  The present family are rather uneasy, and so
    are their friends, of whom they have a great number, for though they
    are flaming Papists they are very free of their money.  I have told
    several of their cousins that the claimant has not a chance as the
    present family have been so long in possession.  They almost blessed
    me for saying so.  There, however, can be very little doubt that the
    title and estate, more than a million acres, belong to the claimant
    by strict law.  Old Fraser’s brother was called Black John of the
    Tasser.  The man whom he killed was a piper who sang an insulting
    song to him at a wedding.  I have heard the words and have translated
    them; he was dressed very finely, and the piper sang:

    “You’re dressed in Highland robes, O John,
       But ropes of straw would become ye better;
    You’ve silver buckles your shoes upon
       But leather thongs for them were fitter.”

    Whereupon John drew his dagger and ran it into the piper’s belly; the
    descendants of the piper are still living at Beauly.  I walked that
    day thirty-four miles between noon and ten o’clock at night.  My
    letter of credit is here.  This is a dear place, but not so bad as
    Edinburgh.  _If you have written_, don’t write any more till you hear
    from me again.  God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

“Swindled out of a shilling by rascally ferryman,” is Borrow’s note in
his diary of the episode that he relates to his wife of crossing the
Firth.  He does not tell her, but his diary tells us, that he changed his
inn on the day he wrote this letter: the following jottings from the
diary cover the period:

    _Sept._ 29_th_.—Quit the “Caledonian” for “Union Sun”—poor
    accommodation—could scarcely get anything to eat—unpleasant day.
    Walked by the river—at night saw the comet again from the bridge.

    _Sept._ 30_th_.—Breakfast.  The stout gentleman from Caithness, Mr.
    John Miller, gave me his card—show him mine—his delight.

    _Oct._ 1_st_.—Left Inverness for Fort Augustus by
    steamer—passengers—strange man—tall gentleman—half
    doctor—breakfast—dreadful hurricane of wind and rain—reach Fort
    Augustus—inn—apartments—Edinburgh ale—stroll over the bridge to a
    wretched village—wind and rain—return—fall asleep before
    fire—dinner—herrings, first-rate—black ale, Highland mutton—pudding
    and cream—stroll round the fort—wet grass—stormy-like—wind and
    rain—return—kitchen—kind, intelligent woman from Dornoch—no
    Gaelic—shows me a Gaelic book of spiritual songs by one
    Robertson—talks to me about Alexander Cumming, a fat blacksmith and
    great singer of Gaelic songs.

But to return to Borrow’s letters to his wife:

                TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
                                 GT. YARMOUTH

                                      INVERNESS, _September_ 29_th_, 1858.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—I have got your letter, and glad enough I was to get
    it.  The day after to-morrow I shall depart from here for Fort
    Augustus at some distance up the lake.  After staying a few days
    there, I am thinking of going to the Isle of Mull, but I will write
    to you if possible from Fort Augustus.  I am rather sorry that I came
    to Scotland—I was never in such a place in my life for cheating and
    imposition, and the farther north you go the worse things seem to be,
    and yet I believe it is possible to live very cheap here, that is if
    you have a house of your own and a wife to go out and make bargains,
    for things are abundant enough, but if you move about you are at the
    mercy of innkeepers and suchlike people.  The other day I was
    swindled out of a shilling by a villain to whom I had given it for
    change.  I ought, perhaps, to have had him up before a magistrate
    provided I could have found one, but I was in a wild place and he had
    a clan about him, and if I had had him up I have no doubt I should
    have been out-sworn.  I, however, have met one fine, noble old
    fellow.  The other night I lost my way amongst horrible moors and
    wandered for miles and miles without seeing a soul.  At last I saw a
    light which came from the window of a rude hovel.  I tapped at the
    window and shouted, and at last an old man came out; he asked me what
    I wanted, and I told him I had lost my way.  He asked me where I came
    from and where I wanted to go, and on my telling him he said I had
    indeed lost my way, for I had got out of it at least four miles, and
    was going away from the place I wanted to get to.  He then said he
    would show me the way, and went with me several miles over most
    horrible places.  At last we came to a road where he said he thought
    he might leave me, and wished me good-night.  I gave him a shilling.
    He was very grateful and said, after considering, that as I had
    behaved so handsomely to him he would not leave me yet, as he thought
    it possible I might yet lose my way.  He then went with me three
    miles farther, and I have no doubt that, but for him, I should have
    lost my way again, the roads were so tangled.  I never saw such an
    old fellow, or one whose conversation was so odd and entertaining.
    This happened last Monday night, the night of the day in which I had
    been swindled of the shilling by the other; I could write a history
    about those two shillings.

                                * * * * *

                TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
                                 GT. YARMOUTH

                                       INVERNESS, 30_th_ _September_ 1858.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I write another line to tell you that I have got your
    second letter—it came just in time, as I leave to-morrow.  In your
    next, address to George Borrow, Post Office, Tobermory, Isle of Mull,
    Scotland.  You had, however, better write without delay, as I don’t
    know how long I may be there; and be sure only to write once.  I am
    glad we have got such a desirable tenant for our Maltings, and should
    be happy to hear that the cottage was also let so well.  However, let
    us be grateful for what has been accomplished.  I hope you wrote to
    Cooke as I desired you, and likewise said something about how I had
    waited for Murray. . . .  I met to-day a very fat gentleman from
    Caithness, at the very north of Scotland; he said he was descended
    from the Norse.  I talked to him about them, and he was so pleased
    with my conversation that he gave me his card, and begged that I
    would visit him if I went there.  As I could do no less, I showed him
    my card—I had but one—and he no sooner saw the name than he was in a
    rapture.  I am rather glad that you have got the next door, as the
    locality is highly respectable.  Tell Hen. that I copied the Runic
    stone on the Castle Hill, Edinburgh.  It was brought from Denmark in
    the old time.  The inscription is imperfect, but I can read enough of
    it to see that it was erected by a man to his father and mother.  I
    again write the direction for your next: George Borrow, Esq., Post
    Office, Tobermory, Isle of Mull, Scotland.  God bless you and Hen.
    Ever yours,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
                                 GT. YARMOUTH

                           FORT AUGUSTUS, _Sunday_, _October_ 7_th_, 1858.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I write a line lest you should be uneasy.  Before
    leaving the Highlands I thought I would see a little more about me.
    So last week I set on a four days’ task, a walk of a hundred miles.
    I returned here late last Thursday night.  I walked that day
    forty-five miles; during the first twenty the rain poured in torrents
    and the wind blew in my face.  The last seventeen miles were in the
    dark.  To-morrow I proceed towards Mull.  I hope that you got my
    letters, and that I shall find something from you awaiting me at the
    post office.  The first day I passed over Corryarrick, a mountain
    3000 feet high.  I was nearly up to my middle in snow.  As soon as I
    had passed it I was in Badenoch.  The road on the farther side was
    horrible, and I was obliged to wade several rivulets, one of which
    was very boisterous and nearly threw me down.  I wandered through a
    wonderful country, and picked up a great many strange legends from
    the people I met, but they were very few, the country being almost a
    desert, chiefly inhabited by deer.  When amidst the lower mountains I
    frequently heard them blaring in the woods above me.  The people at
    the inn here are by far the nicest I have met; they are kind and
    honourable to a degree.  God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
                                   YARMOUTH

                                                      (Fragment? undated.)

    On Tuesday I am going through the whole of it to Icolmkill—I should
    start to-morrow—but I must get my shoes new soles, for they have been
    torn to pieces by the roads, and likewise some of my things mended,
    for they are in a sad condition.

    I shall return from Thurso to Inverness, as I shall want some more
    money to bring me home.  So pray do not let the credit be withdrawn.
    What a blessing it is to have money, but how cautious people ought to
    be not to waste it.  Pray remember me most kindly to our good friend
    Mr. Hills.  Send the Harveys the pheasant as usual with my kind
    regards.  I think you should write to Mr. Dalton of Bury telling him
    that I have been unwell, and that I send my kind regards and respects
    to him.  I send dear Hen a paper in company with this, in which I
    have enclosed specimens of the heather, the moss and the fern, or
    “raineach,” of Mull.—God bless you both.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    Do not delay in sending the order.  Write at the same time telling me
    how you are.

                                * * * * *

       TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK

                                            INVERNESS, _Nov._ 7_th_, 1858.

    DEAR CARRETA,—After I wrote to you I walked round Mull and through
    it, over Benmore.  I likewise went to Icolmkill, and passed
    twenty-four hours there.  I saw the wonderful ruin and crossed the
    island.  I suffered a great deal from hunger, but what I saw amply
    repaid me; on my return to Tobermory I was rather unwell, but got
    better.  I was disappointed in a passage to Thurso by sea, so I was
    obliged to return to this place by train.  On Tuesday, D.V., I shall
    set out on foot, and hope to find your letter awaiting me at the post
    office at Thurso.  On coming hither by train I nearly lost my things.
    I was told at Huntly that the train stopped ten minutes, and
    meanwhile the train drove off _purposely_; I telegraphed to Keith in
    order that my things might be secured, describing where they were,
    under the seat.  The reply was that there was nothing of the kind
    there.  I instantly said that I would bring an action against the
    company, and walked off to the town, where I stated the facts to a
    magistrate, and gave him my name and address.  He advised me to bring
    my action.  I went back and found the people frightened.  They
    telegraphed again—and the reply was that the things were safe.  There
    is nothing like setting oneself up sometimes.  I was terribly afraid
    I should never again find my books and things.  I, however, got them,
    and my old umbrella, too.  I was sent on by the mail train, but lost
    four hours, besides undergoing a great deal of misery and excitement.
    When I have been to Thurso and Kirkwall I shall return as quick as
    possible, and shall be glad to get out of the country.  As I am here,
    however, I wish to see all I can, for I never wish to return.  Whilst
    in Mull I lived very cheaply—it is not costing me more than seven
    shillings a day.  The generality of the inns, however, in the
    lowlands are incredibly dear—half-a-crown for breakfast, consisting
    of a little tea, a couple of small eggs, and bread and butter—_two_
    shillings for attendance.  Tell Hen. that I have some moss for her
    from Benmore—also some seaweed from the farther shore of Icolmkill.
    God bless you.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK

                                               THURSO, 21_st_ _Nov._ 1858.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—I reached this place on Friday night, and was glad
    enough to get your kind letter.  I shall be so glad to get home to
    you.  Since my last letter to you I have walked nearly 160 miles.  I
    was terribly taken in with respect to distances—however, I managed to
    make my way.  I have been to Johnny Groat’s House, which is about
    twenty-two miles from this place.  I had tolerably fine weather all
    the way, but within two or three miles of that place a terrible storm
    arose; the next day the country was covered with ice and snow.  There
    is at present here a kind of Greenland winter, colder almost than I
    ever knew the winter in Russia.  The streets are so covered with ice
    that it is dangerous to step out; to-morrow D. and I pass over into
    Orkney, and we shall take the first steamer to Aberdeen and
    Inverness, from whence I shall make the best of my way to England.
    It is well that I have no farther to walk, for walking now is almost
    impossible—the last twenty miles were terrible, and the weather is
    worse now than it was then.  I was terribly deceived with respect to
    steamboats.  I was told that one passed over to Orkney every day, and
    I have now been waiting two days, and there is not yet one.  I have
    had quite enough of Scotland.  When I was at Johnny Groat’s I got a
    shell for dear Hen, which I hope I shall be able to bring or send to
    her.  I am glad to hear that you have got out the money on the
    mortgage so satisfactorily.  One of the greatest blessings in this
    world is to be independent.  My spirits of late have been rather bad,
    owing principally to my dear mother’s death.  I always knew that we
    should miss her.  I dreamt about her at Fort Augustus.  Though I have
    walked so much I have suffered very little from fatigue, and have got
    over the ground with surprising facility, but I have not enjoyed the
    country so much as Wales.  I wish that you would order a hat for me
    against I come home; the one I am wearing is very shabby, having been
    so frequently drenched with rain and storm-beaten.  I cannot say the
    exact day that I shall be home but you may be expecting me.  The
    worst is that there is no depending on the steamers, for there is
    scarcely any traffic in Scotland in winter.  My appetite of late has
    been very poorly, chiefly, I believe, owing to badness of food and
    want of regular meals.  Glad enough, I repeat, shall I be to get home
    to you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK

                   KIRKWALL, ORKNEY, _November_ 27_th_, 1858.  _Saturday_.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I am, as you see, in Orkney, and I expect every minute
    the steamer which will take me to Shetland and Aberdeen, from which
    last place I go by train to Inverness, where my things are, and
    thence home.  I had a stormy passage to Stromness, from whence I took
    a boat to the Isle of Hoy, where I saw the wonderful Dwarf’s House
    hollowed out of the stone.  From Stromness I walked here.  I have
    seen the old Norwegian Cathedral; it is of red sandstone, and looks
    as if cut out of rock.  It is different from almost everything of the
    kind I ever saw.  It is stern and grand to a degree.  I have also
    seen the ruins of the old Norwegian Bishop’s palace in which King
    Hacon died; also the ruins of the palace of Patrick, Earl of Orkney.
    I have been treated here with every kindness and civility.  As soon
    as the people knew who I was they could scarcely make enough of me.
    The Sheriff, Mr. Robertson, a great Gaelic scholar, said he was proud
    to see me in his house; and a young gentleman of the name of Petrie,
    Clerk of Supply, has done nothing but go about with me to show me the
    wonders of the place.  Mr. Robertson wished to give me letters to
    some gentleman at Edinburgh.  I, however, begged leave to be excused,
    saying that I wished to get home, as, indeed, I do, for my mind is
    wearied by seeing so many strange places.  On my way to Kirkwall I
    saw the stones of Stennis—immense blocks of stone standing up like
    those of Salisbury Plain.  All the country is full of Druidical and
    Pictish remains.  It is, however, very barren, and scarcely a tree is
    to be seen, only a few dwarf ones.  Orkney consists of a multitude of
    small islands, the principal of which is Pomona, in which Kirkwall
    is.  The currents between them are terrible.  I hope to be home a few
    days after you receive these lines, either by rail or steamer.  This
    is a fine day, but there has been dreadful weather here.  I hope we
    shall have a prosperous passage.  I have purchased a little Kirkwall
    newspaper, which I send you with this letter.  I shall perhaps post
    both at Lerwick or Aberdeen.  I sent you a Johnny Groat’s newspaper,
    which I hope you got.  Don’t tear either up, for they are curious.
    God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                   TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK

                                            STIRLING,_ Dec._ 14_th_, 1858.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I write a line to tell you that I am well and that I am
    on my way to England, but I am stopped here for a day, for there is
    no conveyance.  Wherever I can walk I get on very well—but if you
    depend on coaches or any means of conveyance in this country you are
    sure to be disappointed.  This place is but thirty-five miles from
    Edinburgh, yet I am detained for a day—there is no train.  The waste
    of that day will prevent me getting to Yarmouth from Hull by the
    steamer.  Were it not for my baggage I would walk to Edinburgh.  I
    got to Aberdeen, where I posted a letter for you.  I was then obliged
    to return to Inverness for my luggage—125 miles.  Rather than return
    again to Aberdeen, I sent on my things to Dunkeld and walked the 102
    miles through the Highlands.  When I got here I walked to Loch Lomond
    and Loch Katrine, thirty-eight miles over horrible roads.  I then got
    back here.  I have now seen the whole of Scotland that is worth
    seeing, and walked 600 miles.  I shall be glad to be out of the
    country; a person here must depend entirely upon himself and his own
    legs.  I have not spent much money—my expenses during my wanderings
    averaged a shilling a day.  As I was walking through Strathspey,
    singularly enough I met two or three of the Phillips.  I did not know
    them, but a child came running after me to ask me my name.  It was
    Miss P. and two of the children.  I hope to get to you in two or
    three days after you get this.  God bless you and dear Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

In spite of Borrow’s vow never to visit Scotland again, he was there
eight years later—in 1866—but only in the Lowlands.  His stepdaughter,
Hen., or Henrietta Clarke, had married Dr. MacOubrey, of Belfast, and
Borrow and his wife went on a visit to the pair.  But the incorrigible
vagabond in Borrow was forced to declare itself, and leaving his wife and
daughter in Belfast he crossed to Stranraer by steamer on 17th July,
1866, and tramped through the lowlands, visiting Ecclefechan and Gretna
Green.  We have no record of his experiences at these places.  The only
literary impression of the Scots tour of 1866, apart from a brief
reference in Dr. Knapp’s _Life_, is an essay on Kirk Yetholm in _Romano
Lavo-Lil_.  We would gladly have exchanged it for an account of his
visits to Abbotsford and Melrose, two places which he saw in August of
this year.

In his letter of 27th November from Kirkwall it will be seen that Borrow
records the kindness received from “a young gentleman of the name of
Petrie.”  It is pleasant to find that when he returned to England he did
not forget that kindness, as the next letter demonstrates:

                       TO GEORGE PETRIE, ESQ., KIRKWALL

                          39 CAMPERDOWN PLACE, YARMOUTH,_ Jany._ 14, 1859.

    MY DEAR SIR,—Some weeks ago I wrote to Mr. Murray [and] requested him
    to transmit to you two works of mine.  Should you not have received
    them by the time this note reaches you, pray inform me and I will
    write to him again.  They may have come already, but whenever they
    may come to hand, keep them in remembrance of one who will never
    forget your kind attention to him in Orkney.

    On reaching Aberdeen I went to Inverness by rail.  From there I sent
    off my luggage to Dunkeld, and walked thither by the Highland road.
    I never enjoyed a walk more—the weather was tolerably fine, and I was
    amidst some of the finest scenery in the world.  I was particularly
    struck with that of Glen Truim.  Near the top of the valley in sight
    of the Craig of Badenoch on the left hand side of the way, I saw an
    immense cairn, probably the memorial of some bloody clan battle.  On
    my journey I picked up from the mouth of an old Highland woman a most
    remarkable tale concerning the death of Fian or Fingal.  It differs
    entirely from the Irish legends which I have heard on the subject—and
    is of a truly mythic character.  Since visiting Shetland I have
    thought a great deal about the Picts, but cannot come to any
    satisfactory conclusion.  Were they Celts? were they Laps?  Macbeth
    could hardly have been a Lap, but then the tradition of the country
    that they were a diminutive race, and their name was Pight or Pict,
    which I almost think is the same as petit—pixolo—puj—pigmy.  It is a
    truly perplexing subject—quite as much so as that of Fingal, and
    whether he was a Scotsman or an Irishman I have never been able to
    decide, as there has been so much to be said on both sides of the
    question.  Please present my kind remembrances to Mrs. Petrie and all
    friends, particularly Mr. Sheriff Robertson, who first did me the
    favour of making me acquainted with you.—And believe me to remain,
    dear Sir, ever sincerely yours,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    Thank you for the newspaper—the notice was very kind, but rather too
    flattering.

On the same day that Borrow wrote, Mr. Petrie sent his acknowledgment of
the books, and so the letters crossed:

    I was very agreeably surprised on opening a packet, which came to me
    per steamer ten days ago, to find that it contained a present from
    you of your highly interesting and valuable works _Lavengro_ and
    _Romany Rye_.  Coming from any person such books would have been
    highly prized by me, and it is therefore specially gratifying to have
    them presented to me by their author.  Please to accept of my sincere
    and heartfelt thanks for your kind remembrance of me and your
    valuable gift.  May I request you to confer an additional favour on
    me by sending me a slip of paper to be pasted on each of the five
    volumes, stating that they were presented to me by you.  I would like
    to hand them down as an heirloom to my family.  I am afraid you will
    think that I am a very troublesome acquaintance.

    I would have written sooner, but I expected to have had some
    information to give you about some of the existing superstitions of
    Orkney which might perhaps have some interest for you.  I have,
    however, been much engrossed with county business during the last
    fortnight, and must therefore reserve my account of these matters
    till another opportunity.

    Mr. Balfour, our principal landowner in Orkney, is just now writing
    an article on the ancient laws and customs of the county to be
    prefixed to a miscellaneous collection of documents, chiefly of the
    sixteenth century.  He is taking the opportunity to give an account
    of the nature of the tenures by which the ancient Jarls held the
    Jarldom, and the manner in which the odalret became gradually
    supplanted.  I have furnished him with several of the documents, and
    am just now going over it with him.  It is for the Bannatyne Club in
    Edinburgh that he is preparing it, but I have suggested to him to
    have it printed for general sale, as it is very interesting, and
    contains a great mass of curious information condensed into a
    comparatively small space.  Mr. Balfour is very sorry that he had not
    the pleasure of meeting you when you were here.

My last glimpse of George Borrow in Scotland during his memorable trip of
the winter of 1858 is contained in a letter that I received some time ago
from the Rev. J. Wilcock of St. Ringan’s Manse, Lerwick, which runs as
follows:

                                                        _Nov._ 18th, 1903.

    DEAR SIR,—As I see that you are interested in George Borrow, would
    you allow me to supply you with a little notice of him which has not
    appeared in print?  A friend here—need I explain that this is written
    from the capital of the Shetlands?—a friend, I say, now dead, told me
    that one day early in the forenoon, during the winter, he had walked
    out from the town for a stroll into the country.  About a mile out
    from the town is a piece of water called the Loch of Clickimin, on a
    peninsula, in which is an ancient (so-called) “Pictish Castle.”  His
    attention was attracted by a tall, burly stranger, who was surveying
    this ancient relic with deep interest.  As the water of the loch was
    well up about the castle, converting the plot of ground on which it
    stood almost altogether into an island, the stranger took off shoes
    and stockings and trousers, and waded all round the building in order
    to get a thorough view of it.  This procedure was all the more
    remarkable from the fact, as above mentioned, that the season was
    winter.  I believe that there was snow on the ground at the time.  My
    friend noticed on meeting him again in the course of the same walk
    that he was very lightly clothed.  He had on a cotton shirt, a loose
    open jacket, and on the whole was evidently indifferent to the rigour
    of our northern climate at that time of the year.

In addition to the visit to Belfast in 1866, Borrow was in Ireland the
year following his Scots tour of 1858, that is to say from July to
November, 1859.  He went, accompanied by his wife and daughter, by
Holyhead to Dublin, where, as Dr. Knapp has discovered, they resided at
75 St. Stephen’s Green, South.  Borrow, as was his custom, left his
family while he was on a walking tour which included Connemara and on
northward to the Giant’s Causeway.  He was keenly interested in the two
Societies in Dublin engaged upon the study of ancient Irish literature,
and he became a member of the Ossianic Society in July of this year.  I
have a number of Borrow’s translations from the Irish in my possession,
but no notebooks of his tour on this occasion.

All Irishmen who wish their country to preserve its individuality should
have a kindly feeling for George Borrow.  Opposed as he was to the
majority of the people in religion and in politics, he was about the only
Englishman of his time who took an interest in their national literature,
language and folk-lore.  Had he written such another travel book about
Ireland as he wrote about Wales he would certainly have added to the sum
of human pleasure.

I find only one letter to his wife during this Irish journey:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                 BALLINA, COUNTY MAYO, _Thursday Morning_.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—I write to you a few lines.  I have now walked 270
    miles, and have passed through Leinster and Connaught.  I have
    suffered a good deal of hardship, for this is a very different
    country to walk in from England.  The food is bad and does not agree
    with me.  I shall be glad to get back, but first of all I wish to
    walk to the Causeway.  As soon as I have done that I shall get on
    railroad and return, as I find there is a railroad from Londonderry
    to Dublin.  Pray direct to me at Post Office, Londonderry.  I have at
    present about seven pounds remaining, perhaps it would bring me back
    to Dublin; however, to prevent accidents, have the kindness to
    enclose me an order on the Post Office, Londonderry, for five pounds.
    I expect to be there next Monday, and to be home by the end of the
    week.  Glad enough I shall be to get back to you and Hen.  I got your
    letter at Galway.  What you said about poor Flora was comforting—pray
    take care of her.  Don’t forget the order.  I hope to write in a day
    or two a kind of duplicate of this.  I send Hen. heath from
    Connemara, and also seaweed from a bay of the Atlantic.  I have
    walked across Ireland; the country people are civil; but I believe
    all classes are disposed to join the French.  The idolatry and popery
    are beyond conception.  God bless you, dearest.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    Love to Hen. and poor Flora.  (Keep this.)




CHAPTER XXIX
“THE ROMANY RYE”


GEORGE BORROW’S three most important books had all a very interesting
history.  We have seen the processes by which _The Bible in Spain_ was
built up from note-books and letters.  We have seen further the most
curious apprenticeship by which _Lavengro_ came into existence.  The most
distinctly English book—at least in a certain absence of
cosmopolitanism—that Victorian literature produced was to a great extent
written on scraps of paper during a prolonged Continental tour which
included Constantinople and Budapest.  In _Lavengro_ we have only half a
book, the whole work, which included what came to be published as _The
Romany Rye_, having been intended to appear in four volumes.  The first
volume was written in 1843, the second in 1845, after the Continental
tour, which is made use of in the description of the Hungarian, and the
third volume in the years between 1845 and 1848.  Then in 1852 Borrow
wrote out an “advertisement” of a fourth volume, which runs as follows:

    Shortly will be published in one volume.  Price 10s.  _The Rommany
    Rye_, Being the fourth volume of _Lavengro_.  By George Borrow,
    author of _The Bible in Spain_.

But this volume did not make an appearance “shortly.”  Its author was far
too much offended with the critics, too disheartened it may be to care to
offer himself again for their gibes.  The years rolled on, much of the
time being spent at Yarmouth, a little of it at Oulton.  There was a
visit to Cornwall in 1854, and another to Wales in the same year.  The
Isle of Man was selected for a holiday in 1855, and not until 1857 did
_The Romany Rye_ appear.  The book was now in two volumes, and we see
that the word Romany had dropped an “m”:

    The Romany Rye: A Sequel to “Lavengro.”  By George Borrow, author of
    “The Bible in Spain,” “The Gypsies of Spain,” etc., “Fear God, and
    take your own part.”  In Two Volumes.  London: John Murray, Albemarle
    Street, 1857.

We are introduced once more to many old favourites, to Petulengro, to the
Man in Black, and above all to Isopel Berners.  The incidents of
_Lavengro_ are supposed to have taken place between the 24th May, 1825,
and the 18th July of that year.  In _The Romany Rye_ the incidents
apparently occur between 19th July and 3rd August, 1825.  In the opinion
of that most eminent of gypsy experts, Mr. John Sampson, the whole of the
episodes in the five volumes occurred in seventy-two days.  Mr. Sampson
agrees with Dr. Knapp in locating Mumper’s Dingle in Momber or Monmer
Lane, Willenhall, Shropshire.  The dingle has disappeared—it is now
occupied by the Monmer Lane Ironworks—but you may still find Dingle
Bridge and Dingle Lane.  The book has added to the glamour of gypsydom,
and to the interest in the gypsies which we all derive from _Lavengro_,
but Mr. Sampson makes short work of Borrow’s gypsy learning on its
philological side.  “No gypsy,” he says, “ever uses _chal_ or _engro_ as
a separate word, or talks of the _dukkering dook_ or of _penning a
dukkerin_.”  “Borrow’s genders are perversely incorrect”; and “Romany”—a
word which can never get out of our language, let philologists say what
they will—should have been “Romani.”  “‘Haarsträubend’ is the fitting
epithet,” says Mr. Sampson, “which an Oriental scholar, Professor Richard
Pischel of Berlin, finds to describe Borrow’s etymologies.”  But all this
is very unimportant, and the book remains in the whole of its forty-seven
chapters not one whit less a joy to us than does its predecessor
_Lavengro_, with its visions of gypsies and highwaymen and boxers.

But then there is its “Appendix.”  That appendix of eleven petulant
chapters undoubtedly did Borrow harm in his day and generation.  Now his
fame is too great, and his genius too firmly established for these
strange dissertations on men and things to offer anything but amusement
or edification.  They reveal, for example, the singularly non-literary
character of this great man of letters.  Much—too much—has been made of
his dislike of Walter Scott and his writings.  As a matter of fact Borrow
tells us that he admired Scott both as a prose writer and as a poet.
“Since Scott he had read no modern writer.  Scott was greater than
Homer,” he told Frances Cobbe.  But he takes occasion to condemn his
“Charlie o’er the water nonsense,” and declares that his love of and
sympathy with certain periods and incidents have made for sympathy with
what he always calls “Popery.”  Well, looking at the matter from an
entirely opposite point of view, Cardinal Newman declared that the
writings of Scott had had no inconsiderable influence in directing his
mind towards the Church of Rome.

    During the first quarter of this century a great poet was raised up
    in the North, who, whatever were his defects, has contributed by his
    works, in prose and verse, to prepare men for some closer and more
    practical approximation to Catholic truth.  The general need of
    something deeper and more attractive than what had offered itself
    elsewhere may be considered to have led to his popularity; and by
    means of his popularity he re-acted on his readers, stimulating their
    mental thirst, feeding their hopes, setting before them visions,
    which, when once seen, are not easily forgotten, and silently
    indoctrinating them with nobler ideas, which might afterwards be
    appealed to as first principles.

And thus we see that Borrow had a certain prescience in this matter.  But
Borrow, in good truth, cared little for modern English literature.  His
heart was entirely with the poets of other lands—the Scandinavians and
the Kelts.  In Virgil he apparently took little interest, nor in the
great poetry of Greece, Rome and England, although we find a reference to
Theocritus and Dante in his books.  Fortunately for his fame he had read
_Gil Blas_, _Don Quixote_, and, above all, _Robinson Crusoe_, which last
book, first read as a boy of six, coloured his whole life.  Defoe and
Fielding and Bunyan were the English authors to whom he owed most.  Of
Byron he has quaint things to say, and of Wordsworth things that are
neither quaint nor wise.  We recall the man in the field in the
twenty-second chapter of _The Romany Rye_ who used Wordsworth’s poetry as
a soporific.  And throughout his life Borrow’s position towards his
contemporaries in literature was ever contemptuous.  He makes no mention
of Carlyle or Ruskin or Matthew Arnold, and they in their turn, it may be
added, make no mention of him or of his works.  Thackeray he snubbed on
one of the few occasions they met, and Browning and Tennyson were alike
unrevealed to him.  Borrow indeed stands quite apart from the great
literature of a period in which he was a striking and individual figure.
Lacking appreciation in this sphere of work, he wrote of “the
contemptible trade of author,” counting it less creditable than that of a
jockey.

But all this is a digression from the progress of our narrative of the
advent of _The Romany Rye_.  The book was published in an edition of 1000
copies in April, 1857, and it took thirty years to dispose of 3750
copies.  Not more than 2000 copies of his book were sold in Great Britain
during the twenty-three remaining years of Borrow’s life.  What wonder
that he was embittered by his failure!  The reviews were far from
favourable, although Mr. Elwin wrote not unkindly in an article in the
_Quarterly Review_ called “Roving Life in England.”  No critic, however,
was as severe as _The Athenæum_, which had called _Lavengro_ “balderdash”
and referred to _The Romany Rye_ as the “literary dough” of an author
“whose dullest gypsy preparation we have now read.”  In later years,
when, alas! it was too late, _The Athenæum_, through the eloquent pen of
Theodore Watts, made good amends.  But William Bodham Donne wrote to
Borrow with adequate enthusiasm:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                12 ST. JAMES’S SQUARE,_ May_ 24_th_, 1857.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I received your book some days ago, but would not write
    to you before I was able to read it, at least once, since it is
    needless, I hope, for me to assure you that I am truly gratified by
    the gift.

    Time to read it I could not find for some days after it was sent
    hither, for what with winding up my affairs here, the election of my
    successor, preparations for flitting, etc., etc., I have been
    incessantly occupied with matters needful to be done, but far less
    agreeable to do than reading _The Romany Rye_.  All I have said of
    _Lavengro_ to yourself personally, or to others publicly or
    privately, I say again of _The Romany Rye_.  Everywhere in it the
    hand of the master is stamped boldly and deeply.  You join the chisel
    of Dante with the pencil of Defoe.

    I am rejoiced to see so many works announced of yours, for you have
    more that is worth knowing to tell than any one I am acquainted with.
    For your coming progeny’s sake I am disposed to wish you had worried
    the literary-craft less.  Brand and score them never so much, they
    will not turn and repent, but only spit the more froth and venom.  I
    am reckoning on my emancipation with an eagerness hardly proper at my
    years, but I cannot help it, so thoroughly do I hate London, and so
    much do I love the country.  I have taken a house, or rather a
    cottage, at Walton on Thames, just on the skirts of Weybridge, and
    there I hope to see you before I come into Norfolk, for I am afraid
    my face will not be turned eastward for many weeks if not months.

    Remember me kindly to Mrs. Borrow and Miss Clarke, and believe me, my
    dear Sir, very truly and thankfully yours,

                                                             WM. B. DONNE.

And perhaps a letter from the then Town Clerk of Oxford is worth
reproducing here:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                        TOWN CLERK’S OFFICE, OXFORD, 19_th_ _August_ 1857.

    SIR,—We have, attached to our Corporation, an ancient jocular court
    composed of 13 of the poor old freemen who attend the elections and
    have a king who sits attired in scarlet with a crown and sentences
    interlopers (non-freemen) to be cold-burned, _i.e._ a bucket or so of
    water introduced to the offender’s sleeve by means of the city pump;
    but this infliction is of course generally commuted by a small
    pecuniary compensation.

    They call themselves “Slaveonians” or “Sclavonians.”  The only notice
    we have of them in the city records is by the name of “Slovens Hall.”
    Reading _Romany Rye_ I notice your account of the Sclaves and venture
    to trouble you with this, and to enquire whether you think that the
    Sclaves might be connected through the Saxons with the ancient
    municipal institutions of this country.  You are no doubt aware that
    Oxford is one of the most ancient Saxon towns, being a royal
    bailiwick and fortified before the Conquest,—Yours truly,

                                                         GEORGE P. HESTER.

In spite of contemporary criticism, _The Romany Rye_ is a great book, or
rather it contains the concluding chapters of a great book.  Sequels are
usually proclaimed to be inferior to their predecessors.  But _The Romany
Rye_ is not a sequel.  It is part of _Lavengro_, and is therefore
Borrow’s most imperishable monument.




CHAPTER XXX
EDWARD FITZGERALD


EDWARD FITZGERALD once declared that he was about the only friend with
whom Borrow had never quarrelled.  There was probably no reason for this
exceptional amity other than the “genius for friendship” with which
FitzGerald has been rightly credited.  There were certainly, however,
many points of likeness between the two men which might have kept them at
peace.  Both had written copiously and out of all proportion to the
public demand for their work.  Both revelled in translation.
FitzGerald’s eight volumes in a magnificent American edition consist
mainly of translations from various tongues which no man presumably now
reads.  All the world has read and will long continue to read his
translation or paraphrase of Omar Khayyám’s _Rubáiyát_.  “Old Fitz,” as
his friends called him, lives by that, although his letters are among the
best in literature.  Borrow wrote four books that will live, but had
publishers been amenable he would have published forty, and all as
unsaleable as the major part of FitzGerald’s translations.  Both men were
Suffolk squires, and yet delighted more in the company of a class other
than their own, FitzGerald of boatmen, Borrow of gypsies; both were
counted eccentrics in their respective villages.  Perhaps alone among the
great Victorian authors they lived to be old without receiving in their
lives any popular recognition of their great literary achievements, if we
except the momentary recognition of _The Bible in Spain_.  But FitzGerald
had a more cultivated mind than Borrow.  He loved literature and literary
men whilst Borrow did not.  His criticism of books is of the best, and
his friendships with bookmen are among the most interesting in literary
history.  “A solitary, shy, kind-hearted man,” was the verdict upon him
of the frequently censorious Carlyle.  When Anne Thackeray asked her
father which of his friends he had loved best, he answered “Dear old
Fitz, to be sure,” and Tennyson would have said the same.  Borrow had
none of these gifts as a letter-writer and no genius for friendship.  The
charm of his style, so indisputable in his best work, is absent from his
letters; and his friends were alienated one after another.  Borrow’s
undisciplined intellect and narrow upbringing were a curse to him, from
the point of view of his own personal happiness, although they helped him
to achieve exactly the work for which he was best fitted.  Borrow’s
acquaintance with FitzGerald was commenced by the latter, who, in July,
1853, sent from Boulge Hall, Suffolk, to Oulton Hall, in the same county,
his recently published volume _Six Dramas of Calderon_.  He apologises
for making so free with “a great man; but, as usual, I shall feel least
fear before a man like yourself who both do fine things in your own
language and are deep read in those of others.”  He also refers to “our
common friend Donne,” so that it is probable that they had met at Donne’s
house.  The next letter, also published by Dr. Knapp, that FitzGerald
writes to Borrow is dated from his home in Great Portland Street in 1856.
He presents his friend with a Turkish Dictionary, and announces his
coming marriage to Miss Barton, “Our united ages amount to 96!—a
dangerous experiment on both sides”—as it proved.  The first reference to
Borrow in the FitzGerald _Letters_ issued by his authorised publishers is
addressed to Professor Cowell in January, 1857:

    I was with Borrow a week ago at Donne’s, and also at Yarmouth three
    months ago: he is well, but not yet agreed with Murray.  He read me a
    long translation he had made from the Turkish: which I could not
    admire, and his taste becomes stranger than ever.

But Borrow’s genius if not his taste was always admired by FitzGerald, as
the following letter among my Borrow Papers clearly indicates.  Borrow
had published _The Romany Rye_ at the beginning of May:

                     TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ., OULTON HALL

                                    GOLDINGTON HALL, BEDFORD, _May_ 24/57.

    MY DEAR SIR,—Your Book was put into my hands a week ago just as I was
    leaving London; so I e’en carried it down here, and have been reading
    it under the best Circumstances:—at such a Season—in the Fields as
    they now are—and in company with a Friend I love best in the
    world—who scarce ever reads a Book, but knows better than I do what
    they are made of from a hint.

    Well, lying in a Paddock of his, I have been travelling along with
    you to Horncastle, etc.,—in a very delightful way for the most part;
    something as I have travelled, and love to travel, with Fielding,
    Cervantes, and Robinson Crusoe—and a smack of all these there seems
    to me, with something beside, in your book.  But, as will happen in
    Travel, there were some spots I didn’t like so well—didn’t like _at
    all_: and sometimes wished to myself that I, a poor “Man of Taste,”
    had been at your Elbow (who are a Man of much more than Taste) to
    divert you, or get you by some means to pass lightlier over some
    places.  But you wouldn’t have heeded me, and won’t heed me, and
    _must_ go your own way, I think—And in the parts I least like, I am
    yet thankful for honest, daring, and original Thought and Speech such
    as one hardly gets in these mealy-mouthed days.  It was very kind of
    you to send me your book.

    My Wife is already established at a House called “Albert’s Villa,” or
    some such name, at Gorlestone—but a short walk from you: and I am to
    find myself there in a few days.  So I shall perhaps tell you more of
    my thoughts ere long.  Now I shall finish this large Sheet with a
    Tetrastich of one Omar Khayyam who was an Epicurean Infidel some 500
    years ago:

                [Picture: A tetrastich of Omar Khayyám] {229}

                                                  and am yours very truly,
                                                        EDWARD FITZGERALD.

In a letter to Cowell about the same time—June 5, 1857—FitzGerald writes
that he is about to set out for Gorleston, Great Yarmouth:

    Within hail almost lives George Borrow, who has lately published, and
    given me, two new volumes of Lavengro called _Romany Rye_, with some
    excellent things, and some very bad (as I have made bold to write to
    him—how shall I face him!)  You would not like the book at all I
    think.

It was Cowell, it will be remembered, who introduced FitzGerald to the
Persian poet Omar, and afterwards regretted the act.  The first edition
of _The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám_ appeared two years later, in 1859.
Edward Byles Cowell was born in Ipswich in 1826, and he was educated at
the Ipswich Grammar School.  It was in the library attached to the
Ipswich Library Institution that Cowell commenced the study of Oriental
languages.  In 1842 he entered the business of his father and grandfather
as a merchant and maltster.  When only twenty years of age he commenced
his friendship with Edward FitzGerald, and their correspondence may be
found in Dr. Aldis Wright’s _FitzGerald Correspondence_.  In 1850 he left
his brother to carry on the business and entered himself at Magdalen
Hall, Oxford, where he passed six years.  At intervals he read Greek with
FitzGerald and, later, Persian.  FitzGerald commenced to learn this last
language, which was to bring him fame, when he was forty-four years of
age.  In 1856 Cowell was appointed to a Professorship of English History
at Calcutta, and from there he sent FitzGerald a copy of the manuscript
of _Omar Khayyám_, afterwards lent by FitzGerald to Borrow.  Much earlier
than this—in 1853—FitzGerald had written to Borrow:

    At Ipswich, indeed, is a man whom you would like to know, I think,
    and who would like to know you; one Edward Cowell: a great scholar,
    if I may judge. . . .  Should you go to Ipswich do look for him! a
    great deal more worth looking for (I speak with no sham modesty, I am
    sure) than yours,—E. F. G.

Twenty-six years afterwards—in 1879—we find FitzGerald writing to Dr.
Aldis Wright to the effect that Cowell had been seized with “a wish to
learn Welsh under George Borrow”:

    And as he would not venture otherwise, I gave him a Note of
    Introduction, and off he went, and had an hour with the old Boy, who
    was hard of hearing and shut up in a stuffy room, but cordial enough;
    and Cowell was glad to have seen the Man, and tell him that it was
    his _Wild Wales_ which first inspired a thirst for this language into
    the Professor.

There is one short letter from FitzGerald to Borrow in Dr. Aldis Wright’s
_FitzGerald Letters_.  It is dated June, 1857, and from it we learn that
FitzGerald lent Borrow the Calcutta manuscript of _Omar Khayyám_, upon
which he based his own immortal translation, and from a letter to W. H.
Thompson in 1861 we learn that Cowell, who had inspired the writing of
FitzGerald’s _Omar Khayyám_, Donne and Borrow were the only three friends
to whom he had sent copies of his “peccadilloes in verse” as he calls his
remarkable translation, and this two years after it was published.  A
letter, dated July 6, 1857, asks for the return of FitzGerald’s copy of
the Ouseley manuscript of _Omar Khayyám_, Borrow having clearly already
returned the Calcutta manuscript.  This letter concludes on a pathetic
note:

    My old Parson Crabbe is bowing down under epileptic fits, or
    something like, and I believe his brave old white head will soon sink
    into the village church sward.  Why, _our_ time seems coming.  Make
    way, gentlemen!

Borrow comes more than once into the story of FitzGerald’s great
translation of _Omar Khayyám_, which in our day has caused so great a
sensation, and deserves all the enthusiasm that it has excited as the

    “. . . golden Eastern lay,
    Than which I know no version done
    In English more divinely well,”

to quote Tennyson’s famous eulogy.  Cowell, to his after regret, for he
had none of FitzGerald’s _dolce far niente_ paganism, had sent FitzGerald
from Calcutta, where he was, the manuscript of Omar Khayyam’s _Rubáiyát_
in Persian, and FitzGerald was captured by it.  Two years later, as we
know, he produced the translation, which was so much more than a
translation.  “Omar breathes a sort of consolation to me,” he wrote to
Cowell.  “Borrow is greatly delighted with your MS. of Omar which I
showed him,” he says in another letter to Cowell (23rd June, 1857),
“delighted at the terseness so unusual in Oriental verse.”

The next two letters by FitzGerald from my Borrow Papers are of the year
1859, the year of the first publication of the _Rubáiyát_:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                              10 MARINE PARADE, LOWESTOFT.

    MY DEAR BORROW,—I have come here with three nieces to give them sea
    air and change.  They are all perfectly quiet, sensible, and
    unpretentious girls; so as, if you will come over here any day or
    days, we will find you board and bed too, for a week longer at any
    rate.  There is a good room below, which we now only use for meals,
    but which you and I can be quite at our sole ease in.  Won’t you
    come?

    I purpose (and indeed have been some while intentioning) to go over
    to Yarmouth to look for you.  But I write this note in hope it may
    bring you hither also.

    Donne has got his soldier boy home from India—Freddy—I always thought
    him a very nice fellow indeed.  No doubt life is happy enough to all
    of them just now.  Donne has been on a visit to the Highlands—which
    seems to have pleased him—I have got an MS. of Bahram and his Seven
    Castles (Persian), which I have not yet cared to look far into.  Will
    you?  It is short, fairly transcribed, and of some repute in its own
    country, I hear.  Cowell sent it me from Calcutta; but it almost
    requires _his_ company to make one devote one’s time to Persian,
    when, with what remains of one’s old English eyes, one can read the
    Odyssey and Shakespeare.

    With compliments to the ladies, believe me, Yours very truly,

                                                        EDWARD FITZGERALD.

    I didn’t know you were back from your usual summer tour till Mr. Cobb
    told my sister lately of having seen you.

                                * * * * *

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                   BATH HOUSE, LOWESTOFT, _October_ 10/59.

    DEAR BORROW,—This time last year I was here and wrote to ask about
    you.  You were gone to Scotland.  Well, where are you now?  As I also
    said last year: “If you be in Yarmouth and have any mind to see me I
    will go over some day; or here I am if you will come here.  And I am
    quite alone.  As it is I would bus it to Yarmouth but I don’t know if
    you and yours be there at all, nor if there, whereabout.  If I don’t
    hear at all I shall suppose you are not there, on one of your
    excursions, or not wanting to be rooted out; a condition I too well
    understand.  I was at Gorleston some months ago for some while; just
    after losing my greatest friend, the Bedfordshire lad who was crushed
    to death, coming home from hunting, his horse falling on him.  He
    survived indeed two months, and I had been to bid him eternal adieu,
    so had no appetite for anything but rest—rest—rest.  I have just seen
    his widow off from here.  With kind regards to the ladies, Yours very
    truly,

                                                        EDWARD FITZGERALD.

In a letter to George Crabbe the third, and the grandson of the poet, in
1862, FitzGerald tells him that he has just been reading Borrow’s _Wild
Wales_, “which _I_ like well because I can hear him talking it.  But I
don’t know if others will like it.”  “No one writes better English than
Borrow in general,” he says.  But FitzGerald, as a lover of style, is
vexed with some of Borrow’s phrases, and instances one: “‘The scenery was
beautiful _to a degree_.’  _What_ degree?  When did this vile phrase
arise?”  The criticism is just, but Borrow, in common with many other
great English authors whose work will live, was not uniformly a good
stylist.  He has many lamentable fallings away from the ideals of the
stylist.  But he will, by virtue of a wonderful individuality, outlive
many a good stylist.  His four great books are immortal, and one of them
is _Wild Wales_.

We have a glimpse of FitzGerald in the following letter in my possession,
by the friend who had introduced him to Borrow, William Bodham Donne:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                   40 WEYMOUTH STREET, PORTLAND PLACE, W.,
                                                         _November_ 28/62.

    MY DEAR BORROW,—Many thanks for the copy of _Wild Wales_ reserved for
    and sent to me by Mr. R. Cooke.  Before this copy arrived I had
    obtained one from the London Library and read it through, not exactly
    _stans pede in uno_, but certainly almost at a stretch.  I could not
    indeed lay it down, it interested me so much.  It is one of the very
    best records of home travel, if indeed so strange a country as Wales
    is can properly be called _home_, I have ever met with.

    Immediately on closing the third volume I secured a few pages in
    _Fraser’s Magazine_ for _Wild Wales_, for though you do not stand in
    need of my aid, yet my notice will not do you a mischief, and some of
    the reviewers of _Lavengro_ were, I recollect, shocking blockheads,
    misinterpreting the letter and misconceiving the spirit of that work.
    I have, since we met in Burlington Arcade, been on a visit to
    FitzGerald.  He is in better spirits by far than when I saw him about
    the same time in last year.  He has his pictures and his chattels
    about him, and has picked up some acquaintance among the merchants
    and mariners of Woodbridge, who, although far below his level, are
    yet better company than the two old skippers he was consorting with
    in 1861.  They—his present friends—came in of an evening, and sat and
    drank and talked, and I enjoyed their talk very much, since they
    discussed of what they understood, which is more than I can say
    generally of the fine folks I occasionally (very occasionally now)
    meet in London.  I should have said more about your book, only I wish
    to keep it for print: and you don’t need to be told by me that it is
    very good.—With best regards to Mrs. Borrow and Miss Clarke, I am,
    yours ever truly,

                                                              W. B. DONNE.

The last letter from FitzGerald to Borrow is dated many years after the
correspondence I have here printed.  From it we gather that there had
been no correspondence in the interval.  FitzGerald writes from Little
Grange, Woodbridge, in January, 1875, to say that he had received a
message from Borrow that he would be glad to see him at Oulton.  “I think
the more of it,” says FitzGerald, “because I imagine, from what I have
heard, that you have slunk away from human company as much as I have.”
He hints that they might not like one another so well after a fifteen
years’ separation.  He declares with infinite pathos that he has now
severed himself from all old ties, has refused the invitations of old
college friends and old school-fellows.  To him there was no
companionship possible for his declining days other than his reflections
and verses.  It is a fine letter, filled with that graciousness of spirit
that was ever a trait in FitzGerald’s noble nature.  The two men never
met again.  Borrow died in 1881, FitzGerald two years later.




CHAPTER XXXI
“WILD WALES”


THE year 1854 was an adventurous one in Borrow’s life, for he, so
essentially a Celt, had in that year two interesting experiences of the
“Celtic Fringe.”  He spent the first months of the year in Cornwall, as
we have seen, and from July to November he was in Wales.  That tour he
recorded in pencilled note-books, four of which are in the Knapp
Collection in New York, and are duly referred to in Dr. Knapp’s
biography, and two of which are in my possession.  In addition to this I
have the complete manuscript of _Wild Wales_ in Borrow’s handwriting, and
many variants of it in countless, carefully written pages.  Therein lie
the possibilities of a singularly interesting edition of _Wild Wales_
should opportunity offer for its publication.  When I examine the
manuscript, with its demonstration of careful preparation, I do not
wonder that it took Borrow eight years—from 1854 to 1862—to prepare this
book for the press.  Assuredly we recognise here, as in all his books,
that he realised Carlyle’s definition of genius—“the transcendent
capacity of taking trouble—first of all.”

It was on 27th July, 1854, that Borrow, his wife and her daughter,
Henrietta Clarke, set out on their journey to North Wales.  Dr. Knapp
prints two kindly letters from Mrs. Borrow to her mother-in-law written
from Llangollen on this tour.  “We are in a lovely quiet spot,” she
writes, “Dear George goes out exploring the mountains. . . .  The poor
here are humble, simple, and good.”  In the second letter Mrs. Borrow
records that her husband “keeps a _daily_ journal of all that goes on, so
that he can make a most amusing book in a month.”  Yet Borrow took eight
years to make it.  The failure of _The Romany Rye_, which was due for
publication before _Wild Wales_, accounts for this, and perhaps also the
disappointment that another book, long since ready, did not find a
publisher.  In the letter from which I have quoted Mary Borrow tells Anne
Borrow that her son will, she expects at Christmas, publish _The Romany
Rye_, “together with his poetry in all the European languages.”  This
last book had been on his hands for many a day, and indeed in _Wild
Wales_ he writes of “a mountain of unpublished translations” of which
this book, duly advertised in _The Romany Rye_, was a part.

After an ascent of Snowdon arm in arm with Henrietta, Mrs. Borrow
remaining behind, Borrow left his wife and daughter to find their way
back to Yarmouth, and continued his journey, all of which is most
picturesquely described in _Wild Wales_.  Before that book was published,
however, Borrow was to visit the Isle of Man, Scotland, and Ireland.  He
was to publish _The Romany Rye_ (1857); to see his mother die (1858); and
to issue his very limited edition of _The Sleeping Bard_ (1860); and,
lastly, to remove to Brompton (1860).  It was at the end of the year 1862
that _Wild Wales_ was published.  It had been written during the two
years immediately following the tour in Wales, in 1855 and 1856.  It had
been announced as ready for publication in 1857, but doubtless the chilly
reception of _The Romany Rye_ in that year, of which we have written, had
made Borrow lukewarm as to venturing once more before the public.  The
public was again irresponsive.  _The Cornhill Magazine_, then edited by
Thackeray, declared the book to be “tiresome reading.”  The _Spectator_
reviewer was more kindly, but nowhere was there any enthusiasm.  Only a
thousand copies were sold, and a second edition did not appear until
1865, and not another until seven years after Borrow’s death.  Yet the
author had the encouragement that comes from kindly correspondents.
Here, for example, is a letter that could not but have pleased him:

                                                WEST HILL LODGE, HIGHGATE,
                                                      _Dec._ 29_th_, 1862.

    DEAR SIR,—We have had a great Christmas pleasure this year—the
    reading of your _Wild Wales_, which has taken us so deliciously into
    the lovely fresh scenery and life of that pleasant mountain-land.  My
    husband and myself made a little walking tour over some of your
    ground in North Wales this year; my daughter and her uncle, Richard
    Howitt, did the same; and we have been ourselves collecting material
    for a work, the scenes of which will be laid amidst some of our and
    your favourite mountains.  But the object of my writing was not to
    tell you this; but after assuring you of the pleasure your work has
    given us—to say also that in one respect it has tantalised us.  You
    have told over and over again to fascinated audiences, Lope de Vega’s
    ghost story, but still leave the poor reader at the end of the book
    longing to hear it in vain.

    May I ask you, therefore, to inform us in which of Lope de Vega’s
    numerous works this same ghost story is to be found?  We like ghost
    stories, and to a certain extent believe in them, we deserve
    therefore to know the best ghost story in the world.

    Wishing for you, your wife and your Henrietta, all the compliments of
    the season in the best and truest sense of expression.—I am, dear
    sir, yours sincerely,

                                                              MARY HOWITT.

The reference to Lope de Vega’s ghost story is due to the fact that in
the fifty-fifth chapter of _Wild Wales_, Borrow, after declaring that
Lope de Vega was “one of the greatest geniuses that ever lived,” added,
that among his tales may be found “the best ghost story in the world.”
Dr. Knapp found the story in Borrow’s handwriting among the manuscripts
that came to him, and gives it in full.  In good truth it is but
moderately interesting, although Borrow seems to have told it to many
audiences when in Wales, but this perhaps provides the humour of the
situation.  It seems clear that Borrow contemplated publishing Lope de
Vega’s ghost story in a later book.  We note here, indeed, a letter of a
much later date in which Borrow refers to the possibility of a supplement
to _Wild Wales_, the only suggestion of such a book that I have seen,
although there is plenty of new manuscript in my Borrow collection to
have made such a book possible had Borrow been encouraged by his
publisher and the public to write it.

                          TO J. EVAN WILLIAMS, ESQ.

                           22 HEREFORD SQUARE, BROMPTON, _Decr._ 31, 1863.

    DEAR SIR,—I have received your letter and thank you for the kind
    manner in which you are pleased to express yourself concerning me.
    Now for your questions.  With respect to Lope De Vega’s ghost story,
    I beg to say that I am thinking of publishing a supplement to my
    _Wild Wales_ in which, amongst other things, I shall give a full
    account of the tale and point out where it is to be found.  You
    cannot imagine the number of letters I receive on the subject of that
    ghost story.  With regard to the Sclavonian languages, I wish to
    observe that they are all well deserving of study.  The Servian and
    Bohemian contain a great many old traditionary songs, and the latter
    possesses a curious though not very extensive prose literature.  The
    Polish has, I may say, been rendered immortal by the writings of
    Mickiewicz, whose ‘Conrad Wallenrod’ is probably the most remarkable
    poem of the present century.  The Russian, however, is the most
    important of all the Sclavonian tongues, not on account of its
    literature but because it is spoken by fifty millions of people, it
    being the dominant speech from the Gulf of Finland to the frontiers
    of China.  There is a remarkable similarity both in sound and sense
    between many Russian and Welsh words, for example “tcheló” is the
    Russian for forehead, “tal” is Welsh for the same; “iasnüy” (neuter
    “iasnoe”) is the Russian for clear or radiant, “iesin” the Welsh, so
    that if it were grammatical in Russian to place the adjective after
    the noun as is the custom in Welsh, the Welsh compound “Taliesin”
    (Radiant forehead) might be rendered in Russian by “Tchelōiasnoe,”
    which would be wondrously like the Welsh name; unfortunately,
    however, Russian grammar would compel any one wishing to Russianise
    “Taliesin” to say not “Tchelōiasnoe” but “Iasnoetchelō.”—Yours truly,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

Another letter that Borrow owed to his _Wild Wales_ may well have place
here.  It will be recalled that in his fortieth chapter he waxes
enthusiastic over Lewis Morris, the Welsh bard, who was born in Anglesey
in 1700 and died in 1765.  Morris’s great-grandson, Sir Lewis Morris
(1833–1907), the author of the once popular _Epic of Hades_, was
twenty-nine years of age when he wrote to Borrow as follows:—

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                            REFORM CLUB.  _Dec._ 29, 1862.

    SIR,—I have just finished reading your work on _Wild Wales_, and
    cannot refrain from writing to thank you for the very lifelike
    picture of the Welsh people, North and South, which, unlike other
    Englishmen, you have managed to give us.  To ordinary Englishmen the
    language is of course an insurmountable bar to any real knowledge of
    the people, and the result is that within six hours of Paddington or
    Euston Square is a country nibbled at superficially by droves of
    holiday-makers, but not really better known than Asia Minor.  I wish
    it were possible to get rid of all obstacles which stand in the way
    of the development of the Welsh people and the Welsh intellect.  In
    the meantime every book which like yours tends to lighten the thick
    darkness which seems to hang round Wales deserves the acknowledgments
    of every true Welshman.  I am, perhaps, more especially called upon
    to express my thanks for the very high terms in which you speak of my
    great-grandfather, Lewis Morris.  I believe you have not said a word
    more than he deserves.  Some of the facts which you mention with
    regard to him were unknown to me, and as I take a very great interest
    in everything relating to my ancestor I venture to ask you whether
    you can indicate any source of knowledge with regard to him and his
    wife, other than those which I have at present—viz., an old number of
    the _Cambrian Register_ and some notices of him in the _Gentleman’s
    Magazine_, 1760–70.  There is also a letter of his in Lord
    Teignmouth’s _Life of Sir William Jones_ in which he claims kindred
    with that great scholar.  Many of his manuscript poems and much
    correspondence are now in the library of the British Museum, most of
    them I regret to say a sealed book to one who like myself had yet to
    learn Welsh.  But I am not the less anxious to learn all that can be
    ascertained about my great ancestor.  I should say that two of his
    brothers, Richard and William, were eminent Welsh scholars.

    With apologies for addressing you so unceremoniously, and with
    renewed thanks, I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,

                                                             LEWIS MORRIS.

An interesting letter to Borrow from another once popular writer belongs
to this period:

                            TO GEORGE BORROW, ESQ.

                                               THE “PRESS” OFFICE, STRAND,
                                                  WESTMINSTER, _Thursday_.

    One who has read and delighted in everything Mr. Borrow has yet
    published ventures to say how great has been his delight in reading
    _Wild Wales_.  No philologist or linguist, I am yet an untiring
    walker and versifier: and really I think that few things are
    pleasanter than to walk and to versify.  Also, well do I love good
    ale, natural drink of the English.  If I could envy anything, it is
    your linguistic faculty, which unlocks to you the hearts of the
    unknown races of these islands—unknown, I mean, as to their real
    feelings and habits, to ordinary Englishmen—and your still higher
    faculty of describing your adventures in the purest and raciest
    English of the day.  I send you a Danish daily journal, which you may
    not have seen.  Once a week it issues articles in English.  How
    beautiful (but of course not new to you) is the legend of Queen
    Dagmar, given in this number!  A noble race, the Danes: glad am I to
    see their blood about to refresh that which runs in the royal veins
    of England.  Sorry and ashamed to see a Russell bullying and
    insulting them.

                                                         MORTIMER COLLINS.

How greatly Borrow was disappointed at the comparative failure of _Wild
Wales_ may be gathered from a curt message to his publisher which I find
among his papers:

    Mr. Borrow has been applied to by a country bookseller, who is
    desirous of knowing why there is not another edition of _Wild Wales_,
    as he cannot procure a copy of the book, for which he receives
    frequent orders.  That it was not published in a cheap form as soon
    as the edition of 1862 was exhausted has caused much surprise.

Borrow, it will be remembered, left Wales at Chepstow, as recorded in the
hundred and ninth and final chapter of _Wild Wales_, “where I purchased a
first class ticket, and ensconcing myself in a comfortable carriage, was
soon on my way to London, where I arrived at about four o’clock in the
morning.”  In the following letter to his wife there is a slight
discrepancy, of no importance, as to time:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                    53A PALL MALL, LONDON.

    DEAR WIFE CARRETA,—I arrived here about five o’clock this
    morning—time I saw you.  I have walked about 250 miles.  I walked the
    whole way from the North to the South—then turning to the East
    traversed Glamorganshire and the county of Monmouth, and came out at
    Chepstow.  My boots were worn up by the time I reached Swansea, and
    was obliged to get them new soled and welted.  I have seen wonderful
    mountains, waterfalls, and people.  On the other side of the Black
    Mountains I met a cartload of gypsies; they were in a dreadful rage
    and were abusing the country right and left.  My last ninety miles
    proved not very comfortable, there was so much rain.  Pray let me
    have some money by Monday as I am nearly without any, as you may well
    suppose, for I was three weeks on my journey.  I left you on a
    Thursday, and reached Chepstow yesterday, Thursday, evening.  I hope
    you, my mother, and Hen. are well.  I have seen Murray and Cooke.—God
    bless you, yours,

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    (Keep this.)

Before Borrow put the finishing touches to _Wild Wales_ he repeated his
visit of 1854.  This was in 1857, the year of _The Romany Rye_.  Dr.
Knapp records the fact through a letter to Mr. John Murray from
Shrewsbury, in which he discusses the possibility of a second edition of
_The Romany Rye_: “I have lately been taking a walk in Wales of upwards
of five hundred miles,” he writes.  This tour lasted from August 23rd to
October 5th.  I find four letters to his wife that were written in this
holiday.  He does not seem to have made any use of this second tour in
his _Wild Wales_, although I have abundance of manuscript notes upon it
in my possession.

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                     TENBY, _Tuesday_, 25.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—Since writing to you I have been rather unwell and
    was obliged to remain two days at Sandypool.  The weather has been
    horribly hot and affected my head and likewise my sight slightly;
    moreover one of the shoes hurt my foot.  I came to this place to-day
    and shall presently leave it for Pembroke on my way back, I shall
    write to you from there.  I shall return by Cardigan.  What I want
    you to do is to write to me directed to the post office, Cardigan (in
    Cardiganshire), and either inclose a post office order for five
    pounds or an order from Lloyd and Co. on the banker of that place for
    the same sum; but at any rate write or I shall not know what to do.
    I would return by railroad, but in that event I must go to London,
    for there are no railroads from here to Shrewsbury.  I wish moreover
    to see a little more.  Just speak to the banker and don’t lose any
    time.  Send letter, and either order in it, or say that I can get it
    at the bankers.  I hope all is well.  God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                TRECASTLE, BRECKNOCKSHIRE,
                                             SOUTH WALES, _August_ 17_th_.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I write to you a few words from this place; to-morrow I
    am going to Llandovery and from there to Carmarthen; for the first
    three or four days I had dreadful weather.  I got only to Worthen the
    first day, twelve miles—on the next to Montgomery, and so on.  It is
    now very hot, but I am very well, much better than at Shrewsbury.  I
    hope in a few days to write to you again, and soon to be back to you.
    God bless you and Hen.

                                                                G. BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                         LAMPETER, 3_rd_ _September_ 1857.

    MY DEAR CARRETA,—I am making the best of my way to Shrewsbury (My
    face is turned towards Mama).  I write this from Lampeter, where
    there is a college for educating clergymen intended for Wales, which
    I am going to see.  I shall then start for Radnor by Tregaron, and
    hope soon to be in England.  I have seen an enormous deal since I
    have been away, and have walked several hundred miles.  Amongst other
    places I have seen St. David’s, a wonderful half ruinous cathedral on
    the S. Western end of Pembrokeshire, but I shall be glad to get back.
    God bless you and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    Henrietta!  Do you know who is handsome?

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                 PRESTEYNE, RADNORSHIRE, _Monday morning_.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I am just going to start for Ludlow, and hope to be at
    Shrewsbury on Tuesday night if not on Monday morning.  God bless you
    and Hen.

                                                                G. BORROW.

    When I get back I shall have walked more than 400 miles.

In _Wild Wales_ we have George Borrow in his most genial mood.  There are
none of the hair-breadth escapes and grim experiences of _The Bible in
Spain_, none of the romance and the glamour of _Lavengro_ and its sequel,
but there is good humour, a humour that does not obtain in the three more
important works, and there is an amazing amount of frank candour of a
biographical kind.  We even have a reference to Isopel Berners, referred
to by Captain Bosvile as “the young woman you used to keep company with
. . . a fine young woman and a virtuous.”  It is the happiest of Borrow’s
books, and not unnaturally.  He was having a genuine holiday, and he had
the companionship during a part of it of his wife and daughter, of whom
he was, as this book is partly written to prove, very genuinely fond.  He
also enjoyed the singularly felicitous experience of harking back upon
some of his earliest memories.  He was able to retrace the steps he took
in the Welsh language during his boyhood:

    That night I sat up very late reading the life of Twm O’r Nant,
    written by himself in choice Welsh. . . .  The life I had read in my
    boyhood in an old Welsh magazine, and I now read it again with great
    zest, and no wonder, as it is probably the most remarkable
    autobiography ever penned.

It is in this ecstatic mood that he passes through Wales.  Let me recall
the eulogy on “Gronwy” Owen, and here it may be said that Borrow rarely
got his spelling correct of the proper names of his various literary
heroes, in the various Norse and Celtic tongues in which he delighted.
But how much Borrow delighted in his poets may be seen by his eulogy on
Goronwy Owen, which in its pathos recalls Carlyle’s similar eulogies over
poor German scholars who interested him, Jean Paul Richter and Heyne, for
example.  Borrow ignored Owen’s persistent intemperance and general
impracticability.  Here and here only, indeed, does he remind one of
Carlyle.  He had a great capacity for hero-worship, although the two were
not interested in the same heroes.  His hero-worship of Owen took him
over large tracks of country in search of that poet’s birthplace.  He
writes of the delight he takes in inspecting the birth-places and haunts
of poets.  “It is because I am fond of poetry, poets, and their haunts,
that I am come to Anglesey.”  “I proceeded on my way,” he says elsewhere,
“in high spirits indeed, having now seen not only the tomb of the Tudors,
but one of those sober poets for which Anglesey has always been so
famous.”  And thus it is that _Wild Wales_ is a high-spirited book, which
will always be a delight and a joy not only to Welshmen, who, it may be
hoped, have by this time forgiven “the ecclesiastical cat” of Llangollen,
but to all who rejoice in the great classics of the English tongue.




CHAPTER XXXII
LIFE IN LONDON, 1860–1874


GEORGE BORROW’S earlier visits to London are duly recorded, with that
glamour of which he was a master, in the pages of _Lavengro_.  Who can
cross London Bridge even to-day without thinking of the apple-woman and
her copy of _Moll Flanders_; and many passages of Borrow’s great book
make a very special appeal to the lover of London.  Then there was that
visit to the Bible Society’s office made on foot from Norwich, and the
expedition a few months later to pass an examination in the Manchu
language.  When he became a country squire and the author of the very
successful _Bible in Spain_ Borrow frequently visited London, and his
various residences may be traced from his letters.  Take, for example,
these five notes to his wife, the first apparently written in 1848, but
all undated:

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                      _Tuesday afternoon_.

    MY DEAR WIFE,—I just write you a line to tell you that I am tolerably
    well as I hope you are.  Every thing is in confusion abroad.  The
    French King has disappeared and will probably never be heard of,
    though they are expecting him in England.  Funds are down nearly to
    eighty.  The Government have given up the income tax and people are
    very glad of it.  _I am not_.  With respect to the funds, if I were
    to sell out I should not know what to do with the money.  J. says
    they will rise.  I do not think they will, they may, however,
    fluctuate a little.—Keep up your spirits, my heart’s dearest, and
    kiss old Hen. for me.

                                                                     G. B.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                         53_a_, PALL MALL.

    DEAR WIFE CARRETA,—I write you a line as I suppose you will be glad
    to have one.  I dine to-night with Murray and Cooke, and we are going
    to talk over about _The Sleeping Bard_; both are very civil.  I have
    been reading hard at the Museum and have lost no time.  Yesterday I
    went to Greenwich to see the Leviathan.  It is almost terrible to
    look at, and seems too large for the river.  It resembles a floating
    town—the paddle is 60 feet high.  A tall man can stand up in the
    funnel as it lies down.  ’Tis sad, however, that money is rather
    scarce.  I walked over Blackheath and thought of poor dear Mrs.
    Watson.  I have just had a note from FitzGerald.  We have had some
    rain but not very much.  London is very gloomy in rainy weather.  I
    was hoping that I should have a letter from you this morning.  I hope
    you and Hen. have been well.—God bless you.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                             PALL MALL, 53_a_, _Saturday_.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I am thinking of coming to you on Thursday.  I do not
    know that I can do anything more here, and the dulness of the weather
    and the mists are making me ill.  Please to send another five pound
    note by Tuesday morning.  I have spent scarcely anything of that
    which you sent except what I owe to Mrs. W., but I wish to have money
    in my pocket, and Murray and Cooke are going to dine with me on
    Tuesday; I shall be glad to be with you again, for I am very much in
    want of your society.  I miss very much my walks at Llangollen by the
    quiet canal; but what’s to be done?  Everything seems nearly at a
    standstill in London, on account of this wretched war, at which it
    appears to me the English are getting the worst, notwithstanding
    their boasting.  They thought to settle it in an autumn’s day; they
    little knew the Russians, and they did not reflect that just after
    autumn comes winter, which has ever been the Russians’ friend.  Have
    you heard anything about the rent of the Cottage?  I should have been
    glad to hear from you this morning.  Give my love to Hen. and may God
    bless you, dear.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    (Keep this.)

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                                      No. 53_a_ PALL MALL.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I hope you received my last letter written on Tuesday.
    I am glad that I came to London.  I find myself much the better for
    having done so.  I was going on in a very spiritless manner.
    Everybody I have met seems very kind and glad to see me.  Murray
    seems to be thoroughly staunch.  Cooke, to whom I mentioned the F.T.,
    says that Murray was delighted with the idea, and will be very glad
    of the 4th of _Lavengro_.  I am going to dine with Murray to-day,
    Thursday.  W. called upon me to-day.  I wish you would send me a
    blank cheque, in a letter so that if I want money I may be able to
    draw for a little.  I shall not be long from home, but now I am here
    I wish to do all that’s necessary.  If you send me a blank cheque, I
    suppose W. or Murray would give me the money.  I hope you got my last
    letter.  I received yours, and Cooke has just sent the two copies of
    _Lavengro_ you wrote for, and I believe some engravings of the
    picture.  I shall wish to return by the packet if possible, and will
    let you know when I am coming.  I hope to write again shortly to tell
    you some more news.  How is mother and Hen., and how are all the
    creatures?  I hope all well.  I trust you like all I propose—now I am
    here I want to get two or three things, to go to the Museum, and to
    arrange matters.  God bless you. Love to mother and Hen.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                            TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW

                                          No. 58 JERMYN STREET, ST. JAMES.

    DEAR CARRETA,—I got here safe, and upon the whole had not so bad a
    journey as might be expected.  I put up at the Spread Eagle for the
    night for I was tired and _hungry_; have got into my old lodgings as
    you see, those on the second floor, they are very nice ones, with
    every convenience; they are expensive, it is true, but they are
    _cheerful_, which is a grand consideration for me.  I have as yet
    seen nobody, for it is only now a little past eleven.  I can scarcely
    at present tell you what my plans are, perhaps to-morrow I shall
    write again.  Kiss Hen., and God bless you.

                                                                     G. B.

Borrow was in London in 1845 and again in 1848.  There must have been
other occasional visits on the way to this or that starting point of his
annual holiday, but in 1860 Borrow took a house in London, and he resided
there until 1874, when he returned to Oulton.  In a letter to Mr. John
Murray, written from Ireland in November, 1859, Mrs. Borrow writes to the
effect that in the spring of the following year she will wish to look
round “and select a pleasant holiday residence within three to ten miles
of London.”  There is no doubt that a succession of winters on Oulton
Broad had been very detrimental to Mrs. Borrow’s health, although they
had no effect on Borrow, who bathed there with equal indifference in
winter as in summer, having, as he tells us in _Wild Wales_, “always had
the health of an elephant.”  And so Borrow and his wife arrived in London
in June, and took temporary lodgings at 21 Montagu Street, Portman
Square.  In September they went into occupation of a house in Brompton—22
Hereford Square, which is now commemorated by a County Council tablet.
Here Borrow resided for fourteen years, and here his wife died on 30th
January, 1869.  She was buried in Brompton Cemetery, where Borrow was
laid beside her twelve years later.  For neighbours on the one side the
Borrows had Mr. Robert Collinson and, on the other, Miss Frances Power
Cobbe and her companion, Miss M. C. Lloyd.  From Miss Cobbe we have
occasional glimpses of Borrow, all of them unkindly.  She was of Irish
extraction, her father having been grandson of Charles Cobbe, Archbishop
of Dublin.  Miss Cobbe was an active woman in all kinds of journalistic
and philanthropic enterprises in the London of the ’seventies and
’eighties of the last century, writing in particular in the now defunct
newspaper, the _Echo_, and she wrote dozens of books and pamphlets, all
of them forgotten except her _Autobiography_, in which she devoted
several pages to her neighbour in Hereford Square.  Borrow had no
sympathy with fanatical women with many “isms,” and the pair did not
agree, although many neighbourly courtesies passed between them for a
time.  Here is an extract from Miss Cobbe’s _Autobiography_:

    George Borrow, who, if he were not a gypsy by blood, _ought_ to have
    been one, was for some years our near neighbour in Hereford Square.
    My friend was amused by his quaint stories and his (real or sham)
    enthusiasm for Wales, and cultivated his acquaintance.  I never liked
    him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite.  His missions,
    recorded in _The Bible in Spain_, and his translations of the
    Scriptures into the out-of-the-way tongues, for which he had a gift,
    were by no means consonant with his real opinions concerning the
    veracity of the said Bible.

One only needs to quote this by the light of the story as told so far in
these pages to see how entirely Miss Cobbe misunderstood Borrow, or
rather how little insight she was able to bring to a study of his curious
character.  The rest of her attempt at interpretation is largely taken up
to demonstrate how much more clever and more learned she was than Borrow.
Altogether it is a sorry spectacle, this of the pseudo-philanthropist
relating her conversations with a man broken by misfortune and the death
of his wife.  Many of Miss Cobbe’s statements have passed into current
acceptance.  I do not find them convincing.  Archdeacon Whately on the
other hand tells us that he always found Borrow “most civil and
hospitable,” and his sister gives us the following “impression”:

    When Mr. Borrow returned from this Spanish journey, which had been
    full, as we all know, of most entertaining adventures, related with
    much liveliness and spirit by himself, he was regarded as a kind of
    “lion” in the literary circles of London.  When we first saw him it
    was at the house of a lady who took great pleasure in gathering
    “celebrities” in various ways around her, and our party was struck
    with the appearance of this renowned traveller—a tall, thin, spare
    man with prematurely white hair and intensely dark eyes, as he stood
    upright against the wall of one of the drawing-rooms and received the
    homage of lion-hunting guests, and listened in silence to their
    unsuccessful attempts to make him talk.

During this sojourn in London, which was undertaken because Oulton and
Yarmouth did not agree with his wife, Borrow suffered the tragedy of her
loss.  Borrow dragged on his existence in London for another five years,
a much broken man.  It is extraordinary how little we know of Borrow
during that fourteen years’ sojourn in London; how rarely we meet him in
the literary memoirs of this period.  Happily one or two pleasant
friendships relieved the sadness of his days; and in particular the
reminiscences of Walter Theodore Watts-Dunton assist us to a more correct
appreciation of the Borrow of these last years of London life.  Of Mr.
Watts-Dunton’s “memories,” we shall write in our next chapter.  Here it
remains only to note that Borrow still continued to interest himself in
his various efforts at translation, and in 1861 and 1862 the editor of
_Once a Week_ printed various ballads and stories from his pen.  The
volumes of this periodical are before me, and I find illustrations by Sir
John Millais, Sir E. J. Poynter, Simeon Solomon and George Du Maurier;
stories by Mrs. Henry Wood and Harriet Martineau, and articles by Walter
Thornbury.

In 1862 _Wild Wales_ was published, as we have seen.  In 1865 Henrietta
married William MacOubrey, and in the following year, Borrow and his wife
went to visit the pair in their Belfast home.  In the beginning of the
year 1869 Mrs. Borrow died, aged seventy-three.  There are no records of
the tragedy that are worth perpetuating.  Borrow consumed his own smoke.
With his wife’s death his life was indeed a wreck.  No wonder he was so
“rude” to that least perceptive of women, Miss Cobbe.  Some four or five
years more Borrow lingered on in London, cheered at times by walks and
talks with Gordon Hake and Watts-Dunton, and he then returned to Oulton—a
most friendless man.




CHAPTER XXXIII
FRIENDS OF LATER YEARS


WE should know little enough of George Borrow’s later years were it not
for his friendship with Thomas Gordon Hake and Theodore Watts-Dunton.
Hake was born in 1809 and died in 1895.  In 1839 he settled at Bury St.
Edmunds as a physician, and he resided there until 1853.  Here he was
frequently visited by the Borrows.  We have already quoted his prophecy
concerning _Lavengro_ that “its roots will strike deep into the soil of
English letters.”  In 1853 Dr. Hake and his family left Bury for the
United States, where they resided for some years.  Returning to England
they lived at Roehampton and met Borrow occasionally in London.  During
these years Hake was, according to Mr. W. M. Rossetti, “the earthly
Providence of the Rossetti family,” but he was not, as his _Memoirs_
show, equally devoted to Borrow.  In 1872, however, he went to live in
Germany and Italy for a considerable period.  Concerning the relationship
between Borrow and Hake, Mr. Watts-Dunton has written:

    After Hake went to live in Germany, Borrow told me a good deal about
    their intimacy, and also about his own early life: for, reticent as
    he naturally was, he and I got to be confidential and intimate.  His
    friendship with Hake began when Hake was practising as a physician in
    Norfolk.  It lasted during the greater part of Borrow’s later life.
    When Borrow was living in London his great delight was to walk over
    on Sundays from Hereford Square to Coombe End, call upon Hake, and
    take a stroll with him over Richmond Park.  They both had a passion
    for herons and for deer.  At that time Hake was a very intimate
    friend of my own, and having had the good fortune to be introduced by
    him to Borrow I used to join the two in their walks.  Afterwards,
    when Hake went to live in Germany, I used to take those walks with
    Borrow alone.  Two more interesting men it would be impossible to
    meet.  The remarkable thing was that there was between them no sort
    of intellectual sympathy.  In style, in education, in experience,
    whatever Hake was, Borrow was not.  Borrow knew almost nothing of
    Hake’s writings, either in prose or in verse.  His ideal poet was
    Pope, and when he read, or rather looked into, Hake’s _World’s
    Epitaph_, he thought he did Hake the greatest honour by saying,
    “there are lines here and there that are nigh as good as Pope!”

    On the other hand, Hake’s acquaintance with Borrow’s works was far
    behind that of some Borrovians who did not know Lavengro in the
    flesh, such as Saintsbury and Mr. Birrell.  Borrow was shy, angular,
    eccentric, rustic in accent and in locution, but with a charm for me,
    at least, that was irresistible.  Hake was polished, easy and urbane
    in everything, and, although not without prejudice and bias, ready to
    shine generally in any society.

    So far as Hake was concerned the sole link between them was that of
    reminiscence of earlier days and adventures in Borrow’s beloved East
    Anglia.  Among many proofs I would adduce of this I will give one.  I
    am the possessor of the MS. of Borrow’s _Gypsies of Spain_, written
    partly in a Spanish notebook as he moved about Spain in his
    colporteur days.  It was my wish that Hake would leave behind him
    some memorial of Borrow more worthy of himself and his friend than
    those brief reminiscences contained in _Memoirs of Eighty Years_.  I
    took to Hake this precious relic of _one of the most wonderful men of
    the nineteenth century_, in order to discuss with him differences
    between the MS. and the printed text.  Hake was writing in his
    invalid chair,—writing verses.  “What does it all matter?” he said.
    “I do not think you understand Lavengro,” I said.  Hake replied, “And
    yet Lavengro had an advantage over me, for _he_ understood _nobody_.
    Every individuality with which he was brought into contact had, as no
    one knows better than you, to be tinged with colours of his own
    before he could see it at all.”  That, of course, was true enough;
    and Hake’s asperities when speaking of Borrow in _Memoirs of Eighty
    Years_,—asperities which have vexed a good many Borrovians,—simply
    arose from the fact that it was impossible for two such men to
    understand each other.  When I told him of Mr. Lang’s angry onslaught
    upon Borrow in his notes to the _Waverley Novels_, on account of his
    attacks upon Scott, he said, “Well, does he not deserve it?”  When I
    told him of Miss Cobbe’s description of Borrow as a _poseur_, he said
    to me, “I told you the same scores of times.  But I saw Borrow had
    bewitched you during that first walk under the rainbow in Richmond
    Park.  It was that rainbow, I think, that befooled you.”  Borrow’s
    affection for Hake, however, was both strong and deep, as I saw after
    Hake had gone to Germany and in a way dropped out of Borrow’s ken.
    Yet Hake was as good a man as ever Borrow was, and for certain others
    with whom he was brought in contact as full of a genuine affection as
    Borrow was himself.

Mr. Watts-Dunton refers here to Hake’s asperities when speaking of
Borrow.  They are very marked in the _Memoirs of Eighty Years_, and
nearly all the stories of Borrow’s eccentricities that have been served
up to us by Borrow’s biographers are due to Hake.  It is here we read of
his snub to Thackeray.  “Have you read my Snob Papers in _Punch_?”
Thackeray asked him.  “In _Punch_?” Borrow replied.  “It is a periodical
I never look at.”  He was equally rude, or shall we say Johnsonian,
according to Hake, when Miss Agnes Strickland asked him if she might send
him her _Queens of England_.  He exclaimed, “For God’s sake don’t, madam;
I should not know where to put them or what to do with them.”  Hake is
responsible also for that other story about the woman who, desirous of
pleasing him, said, “Oh, Mr. Borrow, I have read your books with so much
pleasure!”  On which he exclaimed, “Pray, what books do you mean, madam?
Do you mean my account books?”  Dr. Johnson was guilty of many such
vagaries, and the readers of Boswell have forgiven him everything because
they are conveyed to them through the medium of a hero-worshipper.
Borrow never had a Boswell, and despised the literary class so much that
he never found anything in the shape of an apologist until he had been
long dead.

I find no letter from Hake to Borrow among my papers, but three to his
wife:

                             BURY ST. EDMUNDS, _Jan._ 27, ’48.  _Evening_.

    MY DEAR MRS. BORROW,—It gave me great pleasure, as it always does, to
    see your handwriting; and as respects the subject of your note you
    may make yourself quite easy, for I believe the idea has crossed no
    other mind than your own.  How sorry I am to learn that you have been
    so unwell since your visit to us.  I hope that by care you will get
    strong during this bracing weather.  I wish that you were already
    nearer to us, and cannot resign the hope that we shall yet enjoy the
    happiness of having you as our neighbours.  I have felt a strong
    friendship for Mr. Borrow’s mind for many years, and have ardently
    wished from time to time to know him, and to have realised my desire
    I consider one of the most happy events of my life.  Until lately,
    dear Mrs. Borrow, I have had no opportunity of knowing you and your
    sweet simple-hearted child; but now I hope nothing will occur to
    interrupt a regard and friendship which I and Mrs. Hake feel most
    truly towards you all.  Tell Mr. Borrow how much we should like to be
    his Sinbad.  I wish he would bring you all and his papers and come
    again to look about him.  There is an old hall at Tostock, which, I
    hear to-day, is quite dry; if so it is worthy of your attention.  It
    is a mile from the Elmswell station, which is ten minutes’ time from
    Bury.  This hall has got a bad name from having been long vacant, but
    some friends of mine have been over it and they tell me there is not
    a damp spot on the premises.  It is seven miles from Bury.  Mrs. Hake
    has written about a house at Rougham, but had no answer.  The cottage
    at Farnham is to let again.  I know not whether Mr. Harvey will make
    an effort for it.  A little change would do you all good, and we can
    receive Miss Clarke without any difficulty.  Give our kindest regards
    to your party, and believe me, dear Mrs. Borrow, sincerely yours,

                                                               T. G. HAKE.

                                * * * * *

                                  BURY ST. EDMUNDS, _January_ 19_th_, ’49.

    MY DEAR MRS. BORROW,—The sight of your handwriting is always a
    luxury—but you say nothing about coming to see us.  We are pleased to
    get good accounts of your party, and only wish you could report
    better of yourself.  I must take you fairly in hand when you come
    again to the ancient quarters, for such they are becoming now from
    your long absence.  You might try bismuth and extract of hop, which
    is often very strengthening to the stomach.  Five grains of extract
    of hop and five grains of trisnitrate of bismuth made into two pills,
    which are to be taken at eleven and repeated at four—daily.  I am so
    pleased to learn that Miss Clarke is better, as well as Mr. Borrow.
    I hope that on some occasion the morphia may be of great comfort to
    him should his night watchings return.  It is good news that the
    proofs are advancing—I hope towards a speedy end.  Messrs. Oakes and
    Co.’s Bank is as safe as any in the kingdom and more substantial than
    any in this county.  It must be safe, for the partners are men of
    large property, and of careful habits.  I am happy to say we are all
    well here, but my brother’s house in town is a scene of sad trouble.
    He is himself laid up with bad scarlet fever as well as five
    children, all severely attacked.  One they have lost of this fearful
    complaint.

    Give our kindest regards to Mr. Borrow and accept them yourselves.
    Ever, dear Mrs. Borrow, sincerely yours,

                                                               T. G. HAKE.

    I send Beethoven’s epitaph for Miss Clarke’s album according to
    promise.  It is _not_ by Wordsworth.

                                * * * * *

                                         BURY ST. EDMUNDS, _June_ 24, ’51.

    MY DEAR MRS. BORROW,—I am very sorry to hear that you are not feeling
    strong, and that these flushes of heat are so frequent and
    troublesome.  I will prescribe a medicine for you which I hope may
    prove serviceable.  Let me hear again about your health, and be
    assured you cannot possibly give me any trouble.

    I am also glad to hear of Mr. Borrow.  I envy him his bath.  I am
    looking out anxiously for the new quarterly reviews.  I wonder
    whether the _Quarterly_ will contain anything.  Is there a prospect
    of vol. iv.?  I really look to passing a day and two half days with
    you, and to bringing Mrs. Hake to your classic soil some time in
    August—if we are not inconveniencing you in your charming and snug
    cottage.  I hope Miss Clarke is well.  Our united kind regards to you
    all.  George is quite brisk and saucy—Lucy and the infant have not
    been well.  Mrs. Hake has better accounts from Bath.  Believe me,
    dear Mrs. Borrow, very sincerely yours,

                                                               T. G. HAKE.

    Mr. Donne was pleased that Mr. Borrow liked his notice in _Tait_.
    You can take a little cold sherry and water after your dinner.




CHAPTER XXXIV
HENRIETTA CLARKE


BORROW never had a child, but happy for him was the part played by his
stepdaughter Henrietta in his life.  She was twenty-three years old when
her mother married him, and it is clear to me that she was from the
beginning of their friendship and even to the end of his life devoted to
her stepfather.  Readers of _Wild Wales_ will recall not only the tribute
that Borrow pays to her, which we have already quoted, in which he refers
to her “good qualities and many accomplishments,” but the other pleasant
references in that book.  “Henrietta,” he says in one passage, “played on
the guitar {255} and sang a Spanish song, to the great delight of John
Jones.”  When climbing Snowdon he is keen in his praises of the endurance
of “the gallant girl.”  As against all this, there is an undercurrent of
depreciation of his stepdaughter among Borrow’s biographers.  The picture
of Borrow’s home in later life at Oulton is presented by them with sordid
details.  The Oulton tradition which still survives among the few
inhabitants who lived near the Broad at Borrow’s death in 1881, and still
reside there, is of an ill-kept home, supremely untidy, and it is as a
final indictment of his daughter’s callousness that we have the following
gruesome picture by Dr. Knapp:

    On the 26th of July 1881 Mr. Borrow was found dead in his house at
    Oulton.  The circumstances were these.  His stepdaughter and her
    husband drove to Lowestoft in the morning on some business of their
    own, leaving Mr. Borrow without a living soul in the house with him.
    He had earnestly requested them not to go away because he felt that
    he was in a dying state; but the response intimated that he had often
    expressed the same feeling before, and his fears had proved
    groundless.  During the interval of these few hours of abandonment
    nothing can palliate or excuse, George Borrow died as he had
    lived—_alone_!  His age was seventy-eight years and twenty-one days.

Dr. Knapp no doubt believed all this; {256} it is endorsed by the village
gossip of the past thirty years, and the mythical tragedy is even
heightened by a further story of a farm tumbril which carried poor
Borrow’s body to the railway station when it was being conveyed to London
to be buried beside his wife in Brompton Cemetery.

The tumbril story—whether correct or otherwise—is a matter of
indifference to me.  The legend of the neglect of Borrow in his last
moments is, however, of importance, and the charge can easily be
disproved.  I have before me Mrs. MacOubrey’s diary for 1881.  I have
many such diaries for a long period of years, but this for 1881 is of
particular moment.  Here, under the date July 26th, we find the brief
note, _George Borrow died at three o’clock this morning_.  It is scarcely
possible that Borrow’s stepdaughter and her husband could have left him
alone at three o’clock in the morning in order to drive into Lowestoft,
less than two miles distant.  At this time, be it remembered, Dr.
MacOubrey was eighty-one years of age.  Now, as to the general untidiness
of Borrow’s home at the time of his death—the point is a distasteful one,
but it had better be faced.  Henrietta was nineteen years of age when her
mother married Borrow.  She was sixty-four at the time of his death, and
her husband, as I have said, was eighty-one years of age at that time,
being three years older than Borrow.  Here we have three very elderly
people keeping house together and little accustomed overmuch to the
assistance of domestic servants.  The situation at once becomes clear.
Mrs. Borrow had a genius for housekeeping and for management.  She
watched over her husband, kept his accounts, held the family purse,
managed all his affairs.  She “managed” her daughter also, delighting in
that daughter’s accomplishments of drawing and botany, to which may be
added a zeal for the writing of stories which does not seem, judging from
the many manuscripts in her handwriting that I have burnt, to have
received much editorial encouragement.  In short, Henrietta was not
domesticated.  But just as I have proved in preceding chapters that
Borrow was happy in his married life, so I would urge that as far as a
somewhat disappointed career would permit to the sadly bereaved author he
was happy in his family circle to the end.  It was at his initiative
that, when he had returned to Oulton after the death of his wife, his
daughter and her husband came to live with him.  He declared that to live
alone was no longer tolerable, and they gave up their own home in London
to join him at Oulton.

A new glimpse of Borrow on his domestic side has been offered to the
public even as this book is passing through the press.  Mr. S. H.
Baldrey, a Norwich solicitor, has given his reminiscences of the author
of _Lavengro_ to the leading newspaper of that city.  Mr. Baldrey is the
stepson of the late John Pilgrim of the firm of Jay and Pilgrim, who were
Borrow’s solicitors at Norwich in the later years of his life.  One at
least of Mr. Baldrey’s many reminiscences has in it an element of
romance; that in which he recalls Mrs. Borrow and her daughter:

    Mrs. Borrow always struck me as a dear old creature.  When Borrow
    married her she was a widow with one daughter, Henrietta Clarke.  The
    old lady used to dress in black silk.  She had little silver-grey
    corkscrew curls down the side of her face; and she wore a lace cap
    with a mauve ribbon on top, quite in the Early Victorian style.  I
    remember that on one occasion when she and Miss Clarke had come to
    Brunswick House they were talking with my mother in the temporary
    absence of George Borrow, who, so far as I can recall, had gone into
    another room to discuss business with John Pilgrim.

    “Ah!” she said, “George is a good man, but he is a strange creature.
    Do you know he will say to me after breakfast, ‘Mary, I am going for
    a walk,’ and then I do not see anything more of him for three months.
    And all the time he will be walking miles and miles.  Once he went
    right into Scotland, and never once slept in a house.  He took not
    even a handbag with him or a clean shirt, but lived just like any old
    tramp.”

Mr. Baldrey is clearly in error here, or shall we say that Mrs. Borrow
humorously exaggerated?  We have seen that Borrow’s annual holiday was a
matter of careful arrangement, and his knapsack or satchel is frequently
referred to in his descriptions of his various tours.  But the matter is
of little importance, and Mr. Baldrey’s pictures of Borrow are excellent,
including that of his personal appearance:

    As I recall him, he was a fine, powerfully built man of about six
    feet high.  He had a clean-shaven face with a fresh complexion,
    almost approaching to the florid, and never a wrinkle, even at sixty,
    except at the corners of his dark and rather prominent eyes.  He had
    a shock of silvery white hair.  He always wore a very badly brushed
    silk hat, a black frock coat and trousers, the coat all buttoned down
    before; low shoes and white socks, with a couple of inches of white
    showing between the shoes and the trousers.  He was a tireless
    walker, with extraordinary powers of endurance, and was also very
    handy with his fists, as in those days a gentleman required to be,
    more than he does now.

Mr. John Pilgrim lived at Brunswick House, on the Newmarket Road,
Norwich, and here Borrow frequently visited him.  Mr. Baldrey recalls one
particular visit:

    I have a curious recollection of his dining one night at Brunswick
    House.  John Pilgrim, who was a careful, abstemious man, never took
    more than two glasses of port at dinner.  “John,” said Borrow, “this
    is a good port.  I prefer Burgundy if you can get it good; but, lord,
    you cannot get it now.”  It so happened that Mr. Pilgrim had some
    fine old Clos-Vougeot in the cellar.  “I think,” said he, “I can give
    you a good drop of Burgundy.”  A bottle was sent for, and Borrow
    finished it, alone and unaided.  “Well,” he remarked, “I think this
    is a good Burgundy.  But I’m not quite certain.  I should like to try
    a little more.”  Another bottle was called up, and the guest finished
    it to the last drop.  “I am still,” he said, “not quite sure about
    it, but I shall know in the morning.”  The next morning Mr. Pilgrim
    and I were leaving for the office, when Borrow came up the garden
    path waving his arms like a windmill.  “Oh, John,” he said, “that
    _was_ Burgundy!  When I woke up this morning it was coursing through
    my veins like fire.”  And yet Borrow was not a man to drink to
    excess.  I cannot imagine him being the worse for liquor.  He had
    wonderful health and digestion.  Neither a gourmand nor a gourmet, he
    could take down anything, and be none the worse for it.  I don’t
    think you could have made him drunk if you tried.

And here is a glimpse of Borrow after his wife’s death, for which we are
grateful to Mr. Baldrey:

    After the funeral of Mrs. Borrow he came to Norwich and took me over
    to Oulton with him.  He was silent all the way.  When we got to the
    little white wicket gate before the approach to the house he took off
    his hat and began to beat his breast like an Oriental.  He cried
    aloud all the way up the path.  He calmed himself, however, by the
    time that Mr. Crabbe had opened the door and asked us in.  Crabbe
    brought in some wine, and we all sat down to table.  I sat opposite
    to Mrs. Crabbe; her husband was on my left hand.  Borrow sat at one
    end of the table, and the chair at the opposite end was left vacant.
    We were talking in a casual way when Borrow, pointing to the empty
    chair, said with profound emotion, “There!  It was there that I first
    saw her.”  It was a curious coincidence that though there were four
    of us we should have left that particular seat unoccupied at a little
    table of about four feet square.

But this is a lengthy digression from the story of Henrietta Clarke, who
married William MacOubrey, an Irishman—and an Orangeman—from Belfast in
1865.  The pair lived first in Belfast and afterwards at 80 Charlotte
Street, Fitzroy Square.  Before his marriage he had practised at 134
Sloane Street, London.  MacOubrey, although there had been some doubt
cast upon the statement, was a Doctor of Medicine of Trinity College,
Dublin, and a Barrister-at-Law.  Within his limitations he was an
accomplished man, and before me lie not only documentary evidence of his
M.D. and his legal status, but several printed pamphlets that bear his
name.  What is of more importance, the many letters from and to his wife
that have passed through my hands and have been consigned to the flames
prove that husband and wife lived on most affectionate terms.

It is natural that Borrow’s correspondence with his stepdaughter should
have been of a somewhat private character, and I therefore publish only a
selection from his letters to her, believing however that they will
modify an existing tradition very considerably:

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—Have you heard from the gentleman whom you said you
    would write to about the farm?  Mr. C. came over the other day and I
    mentioned the matter to him, but he told me that he was on the eve of
    going to London on law business and should be absent for some time.
    His son is in Cambridge.  I am afraid that it will be no easy matter
    to find a desirable tenant and that none are likely to apply but a
    set of needy speculators; indeed, there is a general dearth of money.
    How is Dr. M.?  God bless you!

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I have received some of the rent and send a cheque
    for eight pounds.  Have the kindness to acknowledge the receipt of
    same by return of post.  As soon as you arrive in London, let me
    know, and I will send a cheque for ten pounds, which I believe will
    pay your interest up to Midsummer.  If there is anything incorrect
    pray inform me.  God bless you.  Kind regards to Miss Harvey.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—As soon as Smith has paid his Michaelmas rent I will
    settle your interest up to Midsummer.  Twenty-one pounds was, I
    think, then due to you, as you received five pounds on the account of
    the present year.  If, however, you are in want of money let me know
    forthwith, and I will send you a small cheque.  The document which I
    mentioned has been witnessed by Mrs. Church and her daughter.  It is
    in one of the little tin boxes on the lower shelf of the closet
    nearest to the window in my bedroom.  I was over at Mattishall some
    weeks ago.  Things there look very unsatisfactory.  H. and his mother
    now owe me £20 or more.  The other man a year’s rent for a cottage
    and garden, and two years’ rent for the gardens of two cottages
    unoccupied.  I am just returned from Norwich where I have been to
    speak to F.  I have been again pestered by Pilgrim’s successor about
    the insurance of the property.  He pretends to have insured again.  A
    more impudent thing was probably never heard of.  He is no agent of
    mine, and I will have no communication with him.  I have insured
    myself in the Union Office, and have lately received my second
    policy.  I have now paid upwards of twelve pounds for policies.  F.
    says that he told him months ago that the demand he made would not be
    allowed, that I insured myself and was my own agent, and that as he
    shall see him in a few days he will tell him so again.  Oh what a
    source of trouble that wretched fellow Pilgrim has been both to you
    and me.

    I wish very much to come up to London.  But I cannot leave the
    country under present circumstances.  There is not a person in these
    parts in whom I can place the slightest confidence.  I must inform
    you that at our interview F. said not a word about the matter in
    Chancery.  God bless you.  Kind remembrances to Dr. M.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I wish to know how you are.  I shall shortly send a
    cheque for thirteen pounds, which I believe will settle the interest
    account up to Michaelmas.  If you see anything inaccurate pray inform
    me.  I am at present tolerably well, but of late have been very much
    troubled with respect to my people.  Since I saw you I have been
    three times over to Mattishall, but with very little profit.  The
    last time I was there I got the key of the house from that fellow
    Hill, and let the place to another person who I am told is not much
    better.  One comfort is that he cannot be worse.  But now there is a
    difficulty.  Hill refuses to yield up the land, and has put padlocks
    on the gates.  These I suppose can be removed as he is not in
    possession of the key of the house.  On this point, however, I wish
    to be certain.  As for the house, he and his mother, who is in a kind
    of partnership with him, have abandoned it for two years, the
    consequence being that the windows are dashed out, and the place
    little better than a ruin.  During the four years he has occupied the
    land he has been cropping it, and the crops have invariably been sold
    before being reaped, and as soon as reaped carried off.  During the
    last two years there has not been a single live thing kept on the
    premises, not so much as a hen.  He now says that there are some
    things in the house belonging to him.  Anything, however, which he
    has left is of course mine, though I don’t believe that what he has
    left is worth sixpence.  I have told the incoming tenant to deliver
    up nothing, and not permit him to enter the house on any account.  He
    owes me ten or twelve pounds, arrears of rent, and at least fifteen
    for dilapidations.  I think the fellow ought to be threatened with an
    action, but I know not whom to employ.  I don’t wish to apply to F.
    Perhaps Dr. M.’s London friend might be spoken to.  I believe Hill’s
    address is Alfred Hill, Mattishall, Norfolk, but the place which he
    occupied of me is at Mattishall Burgh.  I shall be glad to hear from
    you as soon as is convenient.  I have anything but reason to be
    satisfied with the conduct of S.  He is cropping the ground most
    unmercifully, and is sending sacks of game off the premises every
    week.  Surely he must be mad, as he knows I can turn him out next
    Michaelmas.  God bless you.  Kind regards to Dr. M.  Take care of
    this.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I was glad to hear that you had obtained your
    dividend.  I was afraid that you would never get it.  I shall be
    happy to see you and Dr. M. about the end of the month.  Michaelmas
    is near at hand, when your half-year’s interest becomes due.  God
    bless you.  Kind remembrances to Dr. M.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                               OULTON, LOWESTOFT, _November_ 29_th_, 1874.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I send a cheque for £15, which will settle the
    interest account up to Michaelmas last.  On receipt of this have the
    kindness to send me a line.  I have been to Norwich, and now know all
    about your affair.  I saw Mr. Durrant, who, it seems, is the real
    head of the firm to which I go.  He received me in the kindest
    manner, and said he was very glad to see me.  I inquired about J.P.’s
    affairs.  He appeared at first not desirous to speak about them, but
    presently became very communicative.  I inquired who had put the
    matter into Chancery, and he told me he himself, which I was very
    glad to hear.  I asked whether the mortgagees would get their money,
    and he replied that he had no doubt they eventually would, as far as
    principal was concerned.  I spoke about interest, but on that point
    he gave me slight hopes.  He said that the matter, if not hurried,
    would turn out tolerably satisfactory, but if it were, very little
    would be obtained.  It appears that the unhappy creature who is gone
    had been dabbling in post obit bonds, at present almost valueless,
    but likely to become available.  He was in great want of money
    shortly before he died.  Now, dear, pray keep up your spirits; I hope
    and trust we shall meet about Christmas.  Kind regards to Dr. M.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

    Keep this.  Send a line by return of post.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I thought I would write to you as it seems a long
    time since I heard from you.  I have been on my expedition and have
    come back safe.  I had a horrible time of it on the sea—small dirty
    boat crowded with people and rough weather.  Poor Mr. Brightwell is I
    am sorry to say dead—died in January.  I saw Mr. J. and P. and had a
    good deal of conversation with them which I will talk to you about
    when I see you.  Mr. P. sent an officer over to M.  I went to Oulton,
    and as soon as I got there I found one of the farm cottages nearly in
    ruins; the gable had fallen down—more expense! but I said that some
    willow trees must be cut down to cover it.  The place upon the whole
    looks very beautiful.  C. full of complaints, though I believe he has
    a fine time of it.  He and T. are at daggers drawn.  I am sorry to
    tell you that poor Mr. Leathes is dying—called, but could not see
    him, but he sent down a kind message to me.  The family, however,
    were rejoiced to see me and wanted me to stay.  The scoundrel of a
    shoemaker did not send the shoes.  I thought he would not.  The
    shirt-collars were much too small.  I, however, managed to put on the
    shirts and am glad of them.  At Norwich I saw Lucy, who appears to be
    in good spirits.  Many people have suffered dreadfully there from the
    failure of the Bank—her brother, amongst others, has been let in.  I
    shall have much to tell you when I see you.  I am glad the Prussians
    are getting on so famously.  The Pope it seems has written a letter
    to the King of Prussia and is asking favours of him.  A low old
    fellow!!!  Remember me kindly to Miss H., and may God bless you!
    Bring this back.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

                                                          _March_ 6, 1873.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I was so grieved to hear that you were unwell.  Pray
    take care of yourself, and do not go out in this dreadful weather.
    Send and get, on my account, six bottles of good port wine.  Good
    port may be had at the cellar at the corner of Charles Street,
    opposite the Hospital near Hereford Square—I think the name of the
    man is Kitchenham.  Were I in London I would bring it myself.  Do
    send for it.  May God Almighty bless you!

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

                                                 NORWICH, _July_ 12, 1873.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I shall be glad to see you and Dr. M. as soon as you
    can make it convenient to come.  As for my coming up to London it is
    quite out of the question.  I am suffering greatly, and here I am in
    this solitude without medicine or advice.  I want very much to pay
    you up your interest.  I can do so without the slightest
    inconvenience.  I have money.  It is well I have, as it seems to be
    almost my only friend.  God bless you.  Kind regards to Dr. M.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

        To MRS. MACOUBREY, 50 CHARLOTTE STREET, FITZROY SQUARE, LONDON

                                       OULTON, LOWESTOFT, _April_ 1, 1874.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I have received your letter of the 30th March.  Since
    I last wrote I have not been well.  I have had a great pain in the
    left jaw which almost prevented me from eating.  I am, however,
    better now.  I shall be glad to see you and Dr. M. as soon as you can
    conveniently come.  Send me a line to say when I may expect you.  I
    have no engagements.  Before you come call at No. 36 to inquire
    whether anything has been sent there.  Leverton had better be
    employed to make a couple of boxes or cases for the books in the
    sacks.  The sacks can be put on the top in the inside.  There is an
    old coat in one of the sacks in the pocket of which are papers.  Let
    it be put in with its contents just as it is.  I wish to have the
    long white chest and the two deal boxes also brought down.  Buy me a
    thick under-waistcoat like that I am now wearing, and a lighter one
    for the summer.  Worsted socks are of no use—they scarcely last a
    day.  Cotton ones are poor things, but they are better than worsted.
    Kind regards to Dr. M.  God bless you!

    Return me this when you come.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

        TO MRS. MACOUBREY, 50 CHARLOTTE STREET, FITZROY SQUARE, LONDON

                                                  OULTON, _Nov._ 14, 1876.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—You may buy me a large silk handkerchief, like the
    one you brought before.  I shall be glad to see you and Dr. M.  I am
    very unwell.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I shall be glad to see you and Dr. M. as soon as you
    can make it convenient.  In a day or two the house will be in good
    repair and very comfortable.  I want you to go to the bank and have
    the cheque placed to my account.  Lady Day is nigh at hand, and it
    must be seen after.  Buy for me a pair of those hollow ground razors
    and tell Dr. M. to bring a little laudanum.  Come if you can on the
    first of March.  It is dear Mama’s birthday.  God bless you!  Kind
    regards to Dr. M.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

                                * * * * *

        TO MRS. MACOUBREY, 50 CHARLOTTE STREET, FITZROY SQUARE, LONDON

                     MRS. CHURCH’S, LADY’S LANE, NORWICH, _Feb._ 28, 1877.

    DEAR HENRIETTA,—I received your letter this morning with the
    document.  The other came to hand at Oulton before I left.  I showed
    Mr. F. the first document on Wednesday, and he expressed then a doubt
    with regard to the necessity of an affidavit from me, but he said it
    would perhaps be necessary for him to see the security.  I saw him
    again this morning and he repeated the same thing.  To-night he is
    going to write up to his agent on the subject, and on Monday I am to
    know what is requisite to be done—therefore pray keep in readiness.
    On Tuesday, perhaps, I shall return to Oulton, but I don’t know.  I
    shall write again on Monday.  God bless you.

                                                            GEORGE BORROW.

Borrow died, as we have seen, in 1881, and was buried by the side of his
wife in Brompton Cemetery.  By his will dated 1st December, 1880, he
bequeathed all his property to his stepdaughter, making his friend,
Elizabeth Harvey, her co-executrix.  The will, a copy of which is before
me, has no public interest, but it may be noted that Miss Harvey refused
to act, as the following letter to Mrs. MacOubrey testifies:

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

                                        BURY ST. EDMUNDS, _August_ 13_th_.

    MY DEAREST HENRIETTA,—I was just preparing to write to you when yours
    arrived together with Mrs. Reeve’s despatch.  You know how earnestly
    I desire your welfare—but _because_ I do so I earnestly advise you
    immediately to exercise the right you have of appointing another
    trustee in my place.  I am sure it will be best for you.  You ought
    to have a trustee at least _not_ older than yourself, and one who has
    health and strength for discharging the office.  I _know_ what are
    the duties of a trustee.  There’s _always_ a considerable
    responsibility involved in the discharge of the duties of a
    trustee—and it may easily occur that great responsibility may be
    thrown on them, and it may become an anxious business fit only for
    those who have youth and health and strength of mind, and are likely
    to live.

    My dear friend, you do not like to realise the old age of your dear
    friends, but you must consider that I am quite past the age for such
    an office, and my invalid state often prevents my attending to my own
    small affairs.  I have no relation or confidential friend who can act
    for me.  My executors were Miss Venn and John Venn.  Miss Venn
    departed last February to a better land.  John is in such health with
    heart disease that he cannot move far from his home—he writes as one
    _ready_ and desiring to depart.  I do not expect to see _him_ again.
    So you see, my dearest friend, I am not able to undertake this
    trusteeship, and I think the sooner you consult Mrs. Reeve as to the
    appointment of another trustee—the better it will be—and the more
    _permanent_.  Had I known it was Mr. Borrow’s intention to put down
    my name I should have prevented it, and he would have seen that an
    aged and invalid lady was not the person to carry out his wishes—for
    I am quite unable.

    I pray that a fit person may be induced to undertake the business,
    and that it may please God so to order all for your good.  It is
    indeed the greatest mercy that your dear husband is well enough to
    afford you such help and such comfort.  Pray hire a proper servant
    who will obey orders.—In haste, ever yrs. affectionately,

                                                                E. HARVEY.

Another letter that has some bearing upon Borrow’s last days is worth
printing here:

                              TO MRS. MACOUBREY

                                              YARMOUTH, _August_ 19, 1881.

    MY DEAR MRS. MACOUBREY,—I was very sorry indeed to hear of Mr.
    Borrow’s death.  I thought he looked older the last time I saw him,
    but with his vigorous constitution I have not thought the end so
    near.  You and Mr. MacOubrey have the comfort of knowing that you
    have attended affectionately to his declining years, which would
    otherwise have been very lonely.  I have been abroad for a short
    time, and this has prevented me from replying to your kind letter
    before.  Pray receive the assurance of my sympathy, and with my kind
    remembrances to Mr. MacOubrey, believe me, yours very truly,

                                                    R. H. INGLIS PALGRAVE.

Three years later Dr. MacOubrey died in his eighty-fourth year, and was
interred at Oulton.  Mrs. MacOubrey lived for a time at Oulton and then
removed to Yarmouth.  A letter that she wrote to a friend soon after the
death of her husband is perhaps some index to her character:

                           OULTON COTTAGE, OULTON,

                                       NR. LOWESTOFT, _Sept._ 3_rd_, 1884.

    MY DEAR SIR,—I beg to thank you for your kind thought of me.  On
    Sunday night the 24th Augst., it pleased God to take from me my
    excellent and beloved husband—his age was nearly 84.  He sunk simply
    from age and weakness.  I was his nurse by night and by day,
    administering constant nourishment, but he became weaker and weaker,
    till at last “The silver cord was loosed.”  My dear father died about
    this time three years since, which makes the blow more stunning.  I
    feel very lonely now in my secluded residence on the banks of the
    Broad—the music of the wild birds adds not to my pleasure now.
    Trusting that yourself and Mrs. S— may long be spared.—Believe me to
    remain, yours very truly,

                                                      HENRIETTA MACOUBREY.

The cottage at Oulton was soon afterwards pulled down, but the
summer-house where Borrow wrote a portion of his _Bible in Spain_ and his
other works remained for some years.  That ultimately an entirely new
structure took its place may be seen by comparing the roof in Mrs.
MacOubrey’s drawing with the illustration of the structure as it is
to-day.  Mrs. MacOubrey died in 1903 at Yarmouth, and the following
inscription may be found on her tomb in Oulton Churchyard:

    Sacred to the memory of Henrietta Mary, widow of William MacOubrey,
    only daughter of Lieut. Henry Clarke, R.N., and Mary Skepper, his
    wife, and stepdaughter of George Henry Borrow, Esq., the celebrated
    author of _The Bible in Spain_, _The Gypsies of Spain_, _Lavengro_,
    _The Romany Rye_, _Wild Wales_, and other works and translations.
    Henrietta Mary MacOubrey was born at Oulton Hall in this Parish, May
    17th, 1818, and died 23rd December 1903.  “And He shall give His
    angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”—Psalm xci.
    11.

The following extract from her will is of interest as indicating the
trend of a singularly kindly nature.  The intimate friends of Mrs.
MacOubrey’s later years, whose opinion is of more value than that of
village gossips, speak of her in terms of sincere affection:

    I give the following charitable legacies, namely, to the London Bible
    Society, in remembrance of the great interest my dear father, George
    Henry Borrow, took in the success of its great work for the benefit
    of mankind, the sum of one hundred pounds.  To the Foreign Missionary
    Society the sum of one hundred pounds.  To the London Religious Tract
    Society the sum of one hundred pounds.  To the London Society for the
    Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, the sum of one hundred pounds.




CHAPTER XXXV
THE AFTERMATH


    “We are all Borrovians now.”—AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.

IT is a curious fact that of only two men of distinction in English
letters in these later years can it be said that they lived to a good old
age and yet failed of recognition for work that is imperishable.  Many
poets have died young—Shelley and Keats for example—to whom this public
recognition was refused in their lifetime.  But given the happiness of
reaching middle age, this recognition has never failed.  It came, for
example, to Wordsworth and Coleridge long after their best work was done.
It came with more promptness to all the great Victorian novelists.  This
recognition did not come in their lifetime to two Suffolk friends, Edward
FitzGerald with _Omar Khayyám_ and George Borrow with _Lavengro_.  In the
case of FitzGerald there was probably no consciousness that he had
produced a great poem.  In any case his sunny Irish temperament could
easily have surmounted disappointment if he had expected anything from
the world in the way of literary fame.  Borrow was quite differently
made.  He was as intense an egoist as Rousseau, whose work he had
probably never read, and would not have appreciated if he had read.  He
longed for the recognition of the multitude through his books, and
thoroughly enjoyed it when it was given to him for a moment—for his
_Bible in Spain_.  Such appreciation as he received in his lifetime was
given to him for that book and for no other.  There were here and there
enthusiasts for his _Lavengro_ and _Romany Rye_.  Dr. Jessopp has told us
that he was one.  But it was not until long after his death that the word
“Borrovian” {268} came into the language.  Not a single great author
among his contemporaries praised him for his _Lavengro_, the book for
which we most esteem him to-day.  His name is not mentioned by Carlyle or
Tennyson or Ruskin in all their voluminous works.  Among the novelists
also he is of no account.  Dickens and Thackeray and George Eliot knew
him not.  Charlotte Brontë does indeed write of him with enthusiasm,
{269a} but she is alone among the great Victorian authors in this
particular.  Borrow’s _Lavengro_ received no commendation from
contemporary writers of the first rank.  He died in his seventy-eighth
year an obscure recluse whose works were all but forgotten.  Since that
year, 1881, his fame has been continually growing.  His greatest work,
_Lavengro_, has been reprinted with introductions by many able critics;
{269b} notable essayists have proclaimed his worth.  Of these Mr.
Watts-Dunton and Mr. Augustine Birrell have been the most assiduous.  The
efforts of the former have already been noted.  Mr. Birrell has expressed
his devotion in more than one essay. {269c}  Referring to a casual
reference by Robert Louis Stevenson to _The Bible in Spain_, {270a} in
which R. L. S. speaks well of that book, Mr. Birrell, not without irony,
says:

    It is interesting to know this, interesting, that is, to the great
    Clan Stevenson, who owe suit and service to their liege lord; but so
    far as Borrow is concerned, it does not matter, to speak frankly, two
    straws.  The author of _Lavengro_, _The Romany Rye_, _The Bible in
    Spain_, and _Wild Wales_ is one of those kings of literature who
    never need to number their tribe.  His personality will always secure
    him an attendant company, who, when he pipes, must dance.

This is to sum up the situation to perfection.  You cannot force people
to become readers of Borrow by argument, by criticism, or by the force of
authority.  You reach the stage of admiration and even love by effects
which rise remote from all questions of style or taste.  To say, as does
a recent critic, that “there is something in Borrow after all; not so
much as most people suppose, but still a great deal,” {270b} is to miss
the compelling power of his best books as they strike those with whom
they are among the finest things in literature.  In attempting to
interest new readers in the man—and this book is not for the sect called
Borrovians, to whom I recommend the earlier biographies, but for a wider
public which knows not Borrow—I hope I shall succeed in sending many to
those incomparable works, which have given me so many pleasant hours.



INDEX
A


_Academy_, F. H. Groome’s review of _Word Book_, 151

Aikin, Lucy, on Mrs. John Taylor, 39; on William Taylor, 40

Ainsworth, Harrison, _Lavengro_ criticised by, 185

_Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain_, by Bowring, 82

Andalusia described, 124

André, Major, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

_Annals of the Harford Family_, reference to Borrow in, 158

_Apologia pro Vita Sua_, by J. H. Newman, 224

Arnold, Matthew, and George Borrow contrasted, 65

_Athenæum_, _The_, Hasfeld’s letter on Russian literature and Borrow in,
98, 99; friendly review of _The Zincali_ in, 147; severely criticises
_Lavengro_, 184, 225—and _Romany Rye_, 225; reminiscences of Borrow
contributed to, 203, 204

Augsburg, Confession of, 169

Austin, John, 39

— Sarah, 37

_Autobiographical Recollections of Sir John Bowring_, 81, 82

_Autobiography of Harriet Martineau_, quoted, 40



B


BALDREY, S. H., reminiscences of the Borrows published by, 257–59

Barbauld, Mrs., 40

Baretti, Joseph, witnesses at trial of, 68

Bathurst, Bishop, 38, 66

Belcher, pugilist, 77

Bell, Catherine, 37

_Benjamin Robert Haydon_; _Correspondence and Table Talk_, by F. W.
Haydon, 22

_Bible in Spain_, _The_, 33, 158, 170, 191; quoted, 137, 154; episode of
the blind girl, 120; brings fame to Borrow, 147, 157, 158; the title of,
153; criticisms of Mr. Murray’s reader on copy of—number of copies
sold—referred to in House of Commons, 157; reviews of, 157, 161, 184; how
written, 185; Gladstone’s admiration of, 203

Birrell, Augustine, 153; introduction to _Lavengro_ by, 269

Black Forest, Borrow in the, 169

_Blackwood’s Magazine_, condemns _Lavengro_, 184

Borrow, Ann, mother of Borrow, 8, 9, 12, 81, 142; life in Norwich of,
14–16, 44; correspondence of, 16, 115, 120–23, 143; death—inscription on
tomb of, 203

Borrow, Elizabeth, 192

— George Henry, biographical drafts, 7–13; wandering childhood of, 25–35;
schooldays at Norwich, 45–49; struggles and failure in London, 57–59;
Celtic ancestry of, 235; characteristics of, 15, 95, 188, 202, 204, 227,
252, 268; agent for Bible Society, 94, 117; work for the Society
in—Portugal, 113, 114—Russia, 97–109—Spain, 110–29; imprisonments of, 79,
117, 127, 144; correspondence of, with—Bowring, 84–89—Brackenbury, 128,
129—Ford, 161–167—Haydon, 22—Jerningham, 127—Henrietta MacOubrey,
259–64—his wife, 117–19, 123–26, 145, 172–82, 205, 206, 210–18, 221;
Darwin asks information from, 205; fails to become a magistrate, 139,
203; feeling of, as regards people and language of Ireland, 32, 33, 195;
friends of later years, 250–54; life of, in London, 244–49—in Oulton
Broad and Yarmouth, 199–206; attainments of, as a linguist, 33, 41, 42,
81; literary tastes of, 13, 26, 79, 155–57, 223, 224; literary methods
of, 188; attitude towards literary men, 224, 225, 252; marriage of, 128,
143, 144, 146, 147; personal appearance, 147, 192, 200, 201; physical
vigour of, 246, 258; political sympathies, 111; pugilistic tastes, 74–77;
translations by, 51, 78–80; travels in—Austria-Hungary, 172–79—Greece and
Italy, 179—82—Ireland, 220, 221—Portugal, 113, 114—Russia,
97–109—Scotland, 207–21—Spain, 110–29—Wales, 235, 236, 240–43; unfounded
reports as to neglect of, when dying, 255, 256; unrecognised genius and
growing fame of, 202, 268; Yarmouth rescue episode, 192

Borrow, Henry, 192

— John, grandfather of George Henry, 8–10

—John Thomas, 9, 32; Captain Borrow’s love of, 10, 17; described in
_Lavengro_, 17; pictures by, 19; career and death of, 17–24

— Mary, 142–44, 184; correspondence with: Ann Borrow, 236—G. H. Borrow,
93, 117–19, 123–26, 158, 159, 168–82, 193, 240–42, 244–46—Hake, 252, 253;
epitaph written for, by Borrow, 140; family history, 138–41;
house-keeping genius of, 256; marriage of, 93, 146; death of, 247, 248

— Captain Thomas, 17, 18, 25, 32, 55, 192; descent of, 8, 9; military
career of, 8–10; referred to in _Lavengro_, 10–13; prejudiced against the
Irish, 33, 34; pensioned off, 44; his fight with Big Ben Brain, 74, 76

— William, 192

Bowring, Sir John, collaboration with Borrow, 80; correspondence with
Borrow, 84–89, 113, 114; described by Borrow, 83, 84; Borrow’s relations
with, 81–89

Boyd, Robert, 161

Brace, Charles L., 174

Brackenbury, Mr., letter from, to Borrow, 128, 129

Brain, Big Ben, 10–12, 76

Brandram, Rev. Mr., 94; correspondence of, with Borrow, 104, 105; letter
from, to Mrs. Borrow, 115

British and Foreign Bible Society, aided by the Gurneys, 38; Borrow’s
connection with, 78, 90–93; growth and procedure of, 91–93; sanctioned in
Russia by the Czar, 92; number of bibles issued in Spain for three years
up to 1913, 113; work of, in Spain, 111–29; breezy controversy between
Borrow and the, 117

Brontë, Charlotte, writes of Borrow with enthusiasm, 269

_Brontës_, _The_, by Clement Shorter, quoted, 269

Brooke, Rajah, 45

Brown, Rev. Arthur, 28

Browne, Sir Thomas, 36

Browning, Robert, 68

Buchini, Antonio, Borrow’s attendant in Spain, 116

Bunsens, the invitation given to Borrow by, 158

Bunyan, what Borrow owed to, 224

Burcham, Thomas, 51

Burke, Edmund, 68

_Bury Post_, _The_, account in, of life-saving by Borrow at Yarmouth, 192

Buxton, Sir T. F., 37

— Lady, 37, 38, 58



C


CAGLIOSTRO, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

Campbell, Thomas, 51, 66

Canton, William, 92

Carlyle, Thomas, 90, 97; _Miscellanies_, 42; point of similitude between
Borrow and, 243; on Edward FitzGerald, 228; prejudiced against Scott, 41

_Celebrated Trials_, Borrow’s first piece of hack-work, 58; payment made
to Borrow for, 68; distinguishing feature of, 68; dramatic episodes in,
68, 69

Chamisso’s _Peter Schlemihl_, 83

_Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem_, picture by Haydon, 21

Clarendon, Earl of, 191; befriends Borrow in Spain, 82, 114; career of,
and services to Borrow, 137–39

Clarke, Lieutenant Henry, 140, 142

Cobbe, Frances Power, 224; her opinion of Borrow, 90; her story of Borrow
and James Martineau, 49; unkindly glimpses of Borrow given by—her
character and works, 247, 248

Collins, Mortimer, his appreciation of _Wild Wales_, 239

Collinson, Robert, 247

Cooke, Robert, 233

_Cornhill Magazine_, _The_, reviews _Wild Wales_ unfavourably, 236

“Corporation Feast, The,” plate of, borrowed for _Life and Death of
Faustus_, 61

Cowell, Professor E. C., friendship of, with FitzGerald, 230

Cowper, poet, Borrow’s devotion to, 8, 26

Crabbe, Mrs., 258

— George, FitzGerald’s letter to, 233

Cribb, pugilist, 77

Croft, Sir Herbert, 69

Crome, John, 19, 20, 37, 44

Cunningham, Mrs., 37

— Allan, writes introduction in verse to _Romantic Ballads_;
correspondence with Borrow, 64

Cunningham, Rev. Francis, befriends Borrow with the Bible Society, 37,
38, 92, 93; his praise of Borrow, 110, 142

— Rev. John W., 92, 141



D


_Dairyman’s Daughter_, _The_, extraordinary vogue of, 58; Borrow’s
failure to appreciate, 92

Dalrymple, Arthur, on schooldays of Borrow, 46; on Borrow and his wife,
146

— John, joins Borrow in a schoolboy escapade, 46

Danube, description of the, 169

Darlow, T. H., _Letters to the Bible Society_, 102, 103, 105–7

Darwin, Charles, letter from, asking for information, regarding the dogs
of Spain, from Borrow, 205

_Death of Balder_, _The_, translation by Borrow, 84

_Deceived Merman_, _The_, versions by Borrow and Matthew Arnold compared,
65

Defoe, Daniel, Borrow’s master in literature, 27, 79, 224

Denniss, Rev. E. P., acrid correspondence between Borrow and, 202

D’Eterville, Thomas, Borrow’s teacher, 46

Diaz, Maria, Borrow’s tribute to, 130

Domenico’s picture of the burial of Count of Orgaz, 119

Donne, W. B., letters to Borrow, 225, 233, 234; awards high praise to
_Romany Rye_ and _Lavengro_, 225

Drake, William, description of Borrow by, 50

Dumpling Green, birthplace of Borrow, 7, 8, 26



E


EAST DEREHAM, described in _Lavengro_, 7, 26

_Eastern Daily Press_, _The_, Miss Harvey’s letter on Borrow in, 200–2

Eastlake, Lady, her description of Borrow, 168

Edinburgh, childhood of Borrow in, 30–32

_Edinburgh Review_, reviews Borrow’s works, 148

Elwin, Rev. Whitwell, his estimate of _Lavengro_, 186, 187; his interview
with, and impressions of, Borrow, 187, 188; letters to Borrow from, 189;
reviews _Romany Rye_ in _Quarterly Review_, 225

Enghien, Duc d’, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

_Essays Critical and Historical_, by J. H. Newman, quoted, 224

_Excursions along the Shores of the Mediterranean_, attractive glimpse of
Borrow in, 130–34



F


FAUNTLEROY, HENRY, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 68, 69

_Faustus_, translated by Borrow, 60–63, 67, 82; burned by libraries of
Norwich, 63; criticisms on, 63

Fenn, Lady, commemorated by Cowper, and in _Lavengro_—books for children
by, 26

— Sir John, author of Paston Letters, 26

Fielding, what Borrow owed to, 224

Fig, James, 75

FitzGerald, Edward, parallel between Borrow and—works of, 227, 228;
character and gifts of, 227; marriage of, 228; letters to Borrow, 228–33;
criticises Borrow’s expressions, 233

Ford, Richard, 78, 147, 191; family history and fortune of, 160, 161;
anti-democratic outlook of, 161; his tribute to Borrow—reviews _The Bible
in Spain_, 161; correspondence with the Borrows, 78, 161–68; odd sentence
referring to Borrow, in a letter of, 164; advice given to Borrow by, 183;
his ideas about _Lavengro_, 184; on _The Zincali_, 148, 149; his work,
78, 64, 166, 167

— Sir Richard, creator of mounted police force of London, 160

Fox, Caroline, 94

_Frazer’s Magazine_, _Lavengro_ condemned by, 184

_French Prisoners of Norman Cross_, _The_, by Rev. Arthur Brown, 28

Fry, Elizabeth, connection of, with Bible Society, 92; the courtship of,
37, 38



G


GARRICK, DAVID, 68

“George Borrow Reminiscences,” by S. H. Baldrey, quoted, 257–59

Gibson, Robin, 31

Gifford, William, 59

Gill, Rev. W., letter to Borrow from, 197, 198

Glen, William, 97

Gypsies, language of, Borrow’s description of Hungarian, 175

Gladstone, W. E., his admiration of _The Bible in Spain_, 203

Glen, William, Borrow’s friendship with, 97

Graydon, Lieutenant, a rival of Borrow in Spain, 116

Groome, Archdeacon, his memories of Borrow’s schooldays, 50

— F. H., gypsy scholar, reviews _Romano Lavo-Lil_, 151, 152

Grundtvig, Mr., Borrow’s translations for, 88

Gully, John, career of, 77

Gurdons, the, subscribe to Borrow’s _Romantic Ballads_, 66

Gurney, Miss Anna, letter from, to Mrs. Borrow, 155; Borrow
cross-examined in Arabic by, 204

— Daniel, 38

— John, 37

— Joseph John, connection of, with great bank, 37, 38; and with Bible
Society, 92; his praise of Borrow, 110

Gurneys, the, at Norwich, 37–39; subscribe to Borrow’s _Romantic
Ballads_, 66

_Gypsies of Spain_, _The_.  See _Zincali_, _The_.



H


HACKMAN, PARSON, trial of, in Borrow’s volumes, 69

Haggart, David, 18; story of, 30, 31; trial and execution of, 32

Hake, Egmont, article of, in _Dictionary of National Biography_, on
Borrow, 252

— Dr. T. G., on _Lavengro_, 185, 250, 251; his intimacy with Borrow,
250–54; relations of, with the Rossetti family, 250; asperities of, when
speaking of Borrow, 251, 252

Hamilton, Duke of, 76

_Handbook for Travellers in Spain_, by Richard Ford, 78; Borrow’s
blundering review of, 165, 166; Maxwell’s praise of, 167

Hares, the, 66

Harvey, Miss Elizabeth, her impressions of Borrow, 200–2; letters to Mrs.
MacOubrey from, 264, 265

Harveys, the, 66

Hasfeld, John P., 191; Borrow’s correspondence with, 97–101

Hawkes, Robert, 20–22, 66

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, suggestion of, as to gypsy descent of Borrow, 9, 14

Haydon, Benjamin, 66; career of, 21–23; correspondence of, with Borrow,
22, 79

Haydon, F. W., _Benjamin Robert Haydon_, 22

Hayim Ben Attar, Moorish servant of Borrow, 144

Heenan, pugilist, 75

Herne, Sanspirella, second wife of Ambrose Smith, 29

Hester, George P., writes to Borrow on possible connection between
Sclaves and Saxons, 226

Highland Society, the, Borrow’s proposal to, 80

Hill, Mary, 31

_Historic Survey of German Poetry_, by William Taylor, 42

_History of the British and Foreign Bible Society_, by William Canton, 92

Howell, _State Trials_ of, 67

Howitt, Mary, her appreciation of _Wild Wales_, 236, 237

_Hungary in_ 1851, glimpse of Borrow in, 174

Hunt, Joseph, trial and execution of, 71, 72

Hyde, Dr. Douglas, Irish scholar, 34



I


IRELAND, Borrow’s early years in, 31–35; his feelings as regards people
and language of, 195

_Iris_, _The_, editing of, 41



J


JACKSON, JOHN, pugilist, 74

_Jane Eyre_, cruelly reviewed by Lady Eastlake, 168

Jay, Elizabeth, on happy married life of the Borrows, 146

Jerningham, Sir George, letter from, to Borrow, 127; Borrow’s complaints
to, 137

Jessopp, Dr., on Borrow as a pupil at the Grammar School, 45; his
admiration of Borrow, 203, 204

Joan of Arc, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 68; on Ireland and Irish Literature, 33; his
kindness for pugilists, 75

— Tom, his fight with Brain, 76

_Joseph Sell_, 61

Jowett, Rev. Joseph, Secretary of the Bible Society, 38; correspondence
of, with Borrow, 97, 102, 103



K


_Kæmpe Viser_, translation by Borrow, 84, 85

Keate, Dr., 106

Kerrison, Allday, 53; invites John Borrow to join him in Mexico, 23

— Roger, 53, 60; Borrow’s correspondence with, 53, 90

— Thomas, 52

Kett, Robert, 36

King, Thomas, owner of the Borrow house in Willow Lane—descent of, from
Archbishop Parker, 16

—, — junior, marries sister of J. S. Mill, 16

— Tom, conqueror of Heenan, 75

Klinger, F. M. von, works of, 62

Knapp, Dr., _Life of Borrow_, 3 and _passim_; purchases half the Borrow
papers, 155



L


LA GIRALDA, 124

Lambert, Daniel, gaoler of Phillips, 56

Lamplighter, racehorse, Borrow’s desire to see, 205

Lang, Andrew, his onslaught on Borrow, 251

Laurie, Sir Robert, 16

_Lavengro_, appreciations of, 148, 149, 185, 250, 251; autobiographical
nature of, 7, 9, 11, 12, 34, 38, 50–52, 57, 58, 185, 188, 244; copies of,
sold, 190; criticisms and reviews of, 184, 185, 186, 225; Donne on some
reviewers of, 233, 234; greatness of, unrecognised in Borrow’s lifetime,
202; preparation of manuscript of, 183, 184; Thurtell referred to in, 69

_Leicester Herald_ started by Phillips, 56

Leland, Charles Godfrey, correspondence of, with Borrow, 149–51; his
books—tribute to Borrow, 151

Lenz, 169

_Letters from George Borrow to the Bible Society_, 97, 98, 102; valuable
information in, 110; interesting facts revealed in, 155, 156; quoted, 106

_Letters of Richard Ford_, 161; Borrow’s mistake in reviewing, 165

_Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_, Borrow’s story of the writing of,
61

_Life of Borrow_, by Dr. Knapp, 3, and _passim_; glimpse of Ann
Perfrement’s girlhood in, 14; gruesome picture of circumstances of
Borrow’s death—strongly denounced by Henrietta MacOubrey, 255

_Life of B. R. Haydon_, by Tom Taylor, 21, 22

_Life of David Haggart_, by himself, 31

_Life of Frances Power Cobbe as told by Herself_, glimpses of Borrow in,
246, 247

_Life of Sir James Mackintosh_, quoted, 40

_Lights on Borrow_, by Rev. A. Jessopp, D.D., quoted, 45

Lipóftsof, worker for Bible Society, 102, 105, 173

_Literary Gazette_, _The_, reviews of Borrow’s works in, 63, 147

Lloyd, Miss M. C., 247

Lopez, Eduardo, 130

— Juan, Borrow’s tribute to, 130

Luke, gypsy translation of, 119

Luther, Martin, 169

_Lycidas_, Tennyson’s enthusiasm for, 185



M


MACAULAY, ZACHARY, connection of, with Bible Society, 91

Mace, Jem, 75

MacOubrey, Dr., 218, 256; status and accomplishments of, 259; pamphlets
issued by, 259; illness and death of, 266

MacOubrey, Henrietta, 3, 91, 123, 140, and _passim_; on Borrow, 51;
Borrow’s tribute to, in _Wild Wales_—her devotion to Borrow, 255;
unfounded stories of her neglect of Borrow, 255–57; correspondence of,
259–67; death of—inscription on tomb of, 266; charitable bequests of, 267

Man, Isle of, Borrow’s expedition to, 195–98; his investigations into the
Manx language, 196, 197

Marie Antoinette, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

Martelli, C. F., his memories of Borrow, 54

Martineau, David, 39

— Dr. James, impressions of, as schoolfellow of Borrow, 46–48

— Gaston, 39

— Harriet, 39; on Borrow’s connection with the Bible Society, 90

Maxwell, Sir W. S., praises Ford’s book, 167; criticises _Lavengro_, 184

Meadows, Margaret, 39

— Sarah, 39

_Memoir of the Life and Writings of William Taylor of Norwich_, _A_, by
J. W. Robbards, 40

_Memoirs of Fifty Years_, by T. G. Hake, 250, 251

_Memoirs of John Venning_, 95

_Memoirs of the Public and Private Life of Sir Richard Phillips_, 55, 56

_Memoirs of Vidocq_, translated by Borrow, 80

Mendizábal, Borrow’s interview with, 114, 138

Mezzofanti, 136

Miles, H. D., his defence of prize-fighting, 74

Mill, John Stuart, Thomas King marries sister of, 16

Moira, Lord, 56

Mol, Benedict, 130, 155

Montague, Basil, his reference to Mrs. John Taylor, 40

_Monthly Magazine_, _The_, 41, 43, 57; Borrow’s work on, 58

Morrin, killed by David Haggart, 31

Morris, Lewis, Welsh bard, 238

— Sir Lewis, letter to Borrow, 238, 239

Moscow, monster bell at, 169

Mousehold Heath, historical and artistic associations of, 29, 36

Mousha, introduces Borrow to Taylor, 52; figures in _Lavengro_, 52

Munich described, 169

Murray, John, publishes _The Zincali_, 147; correspondence of Borrow
with, 202

— Hon. R. D., 129

Murtagh, Irish friend of Borrow—figures in _Lavengro_, 34

_Museum_, _The_, 56



N


NANTES, Edict of, Borrow’s ancestors driven from France by Revocation of,
14, 39

Napier, Admiral Sir C., 130

— Col. E., 81; interesting account of Borrow by, 130–34

Nelson, Lord, a pupil of Norwich Grammar School, 45

_Newgate Calendar_, edited by Borrow, 67, 68

_Newgate Lives and Trials_, Borrow’s work on, 59

Newman, Cardinal, influenced towards Roman Catholicism by Scott, 224

_New Monthly Magazine_, _The_, 74

Ney, Marshal, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

Nicholas, Thomas, 192

Norfolk, Duke of, 56

Nore, mutiny at the, 16

_Norfolk Chronicle_, missionary speech of Borrow referred to in, 110

Norman Cross, French prisoners at, 10, 30; Borrow’s memories of, 27–30

_Norvicensian_, William Drake’s notice in, 50

Norwich, 36, 54, 86; Borrow’s description of, 51, 52; satirised by
Borrow, 61



O


O’CONNELL, DANIEL, Borrow’s desire to see, 205

Oliver, Tom, pugilist, 76

_Once a Week_, Borrow contributes to, 248

Opie, Mrs., 37

_Oracle_, _The_, quoted, 76

Orford, Col. Lord, 23

Orgaz, Count of, Domenico’s picture of, 119

Overend and Gurney, banking firm, 37, 38

Owen, Goronwy, Borrow’s favourite Welsh bard, 242, 243



P


PAHLIN, 136

Painter, Edward, pugilist, 76

Palgrave, R. H. I., letters to Mrs. MacOubrey from, 265

Palmer, Professor E. H., gypsy scholar, 151

Park, Mr. Justice, 72

Parker, Archbishop, descent of Thomas King from, 16

Paterson, John, work of, for Bible Society in Russia, 92

Pennell, Mrs. Elizabeth Robins, her biography of Leland, quoted, 159

Perfrement, Mary, grandmother of Borrow, 8, 14

— Samuel, grandfather of Borrow, 8, 14

_Peter Schlemihl_, translated by Bowring, 83

Petrie, George, correspondence of Borrow with, 218, 219

Phillips, Lady, 57

— Sir Richard, 23, 43, 59; early days of, 55–56; imprisonment of, 56;
relations of, with Borrow, 57–59

Picts, the, Borrow on, 218, 219

Pilgrim, John, Borrow’s visits to, 258

Pischel, Professor Richard, criticises Borrow’s etymologies, 223

Pott, Dr. A. F., gypsy scholar, 151

_Prayer Book and Homily Society_, Borrow’s correspondence with, 107, 108

Prize-fighting, Borrow’s taste for, 13, 52, 74–77

Probert, witness against Thurtell, 71

Prothero, Rowland E., 161

Purland, Francis, companion of Borrow in schoolboy escapade, 46

— Theodosius, 46

Pushkin, Alexander, Russian poet, translated by Borrow, 109



Q


_Quarterly Review_, _The_, review of _Lavengro_ in, 186; of _Romany Rye_
in, 225



R


RACKHAM, TOM, 50

Rackhams, the, 66

_Raising of Lazarus_, picture by Haydon, 21

Ratisbon, Borrow at, 169; Dean of, 170

Reay, Martha, murdered by Hackman, 69

Reeve, Henry, 39

_Res Judicatæ_, by Augustine Birrell, 269

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 68

Richmond, Legh, connection of, with Bible Society, 92

_Rights of Man_, Phillips charged with selling, 56

Ritson, Mrs., 119, 125

Robbards, J. W., writes memoir of William Taylor, 40

_Romano Lavo-Lil_, reviews of, 151, 152

_Romantic Ballads_, translation from the Danish by Borrow, 64–67, 82

_Romany Rye_, _The_, 199; appreciations of, 148, 149, 152, 226, 230;
autobiographical nature of, 185, 188; Borrow embittered by failure of,
225; characters in, 223; defects of Appendix, 223, 224; identification of
localities of, 223; philological criticism of, 223; preparation of
manuscript of, 222; quoted, 116; reviews of, 225, 226

Ross, Janet, _Three Generations of Englishwomen_, 39

Rowe, Quartermaster, 16

_Rubáiyát_, Fitzgerald’s paraphrase, 227; quoted in original and
translated, 229; Tennyson’s eulogy of, 231



S


ST. PETERSBURG, Borrow in, 97–109

San Tomé, 119

Sampson, John, eminent gypsy expert—extraordinary suggestion of,
regarding Borrow, 223; criticises Borrow’s etymologies, 223

Sayers, Dr., 40

Scott, Sir Walter, 42; Borrow’s prejudice against, 18, 223; influence of,
on J. H. Newman, 224; Taylor’s influence on, 40; writings of, admired by
Borrow, 223

_Servian Popular Poetry_, by Bowring, 82

Seville described, 124

Sharp, Granville, connection with Bible Society of, 91

Shorter, C. K., _The Brontës_, 269

Sidney, Algernon, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 68

Sierraina de Ronda, 124

Sigerson, Dr., Irish scholar, 34

Simeon, Charles, connection with Bible Society of, 92

Simpson, William, Borrow articled to, 50, 51; described by Borrow, 50, 51

Skepper, Anne, 93, 140, 142

— Breame, 93

— Edmund, 93, 142

_Sleeping Bard_, _The_, translation by Borrow, 80; refused by publishers,
208

Smiles, Samuel, on publication of _The Zincali_, 147

Smith, Ambrose, the Jasper Petulengro of _Lavengro_, 28–30

— Fäden, 29

— Thomas, 30

_Songs from Scandinavia_, translation by Borrow, 80

_Songs of Scotland_, by Allan Cunningham, Borrow’s appreciation of, 64

Southey, Robert, affection of, for William Taylor, 40; on death of
Taylor, 42

_Spectator_, _The_, point of view of criticism of Borrow of, 270; reviews
_Wild Wales_, 236

Spencer quoted, 118

_State Trials_, 67, 68

Stephen, Sir J. Fitzjames, 141

— Sir Leslie, 59

Stevenson, R. L., perfunctory references to Borrow in writings of, 270

Strasbourg, 169

Struensee, Count, trial of, included in Borrow’s volumes, 67

Sussex, Duke of, 40

Swan, Rev. William, 102



T


_Targum_, translation by Borrow, 195; high praise of, 99, 108, 109

Taylor, Anne, describes Borrow’s appearance, 192

— Baron, Borrow’s meeting with, 136

— Dr. John, 39

— John, 39

— Mrs. John, 37; Basil Montague on, 40

— Richard, 39

— Robert, 192

— Tom, author of _Life of B. R. Haydon_, 21, 22

Taylor, William, 37, 44; dialogue in _Lavengro_ between Borrow and, 11;
gives Borrow lessons in German, 51; gives Borrow introductions to
Phillips and Campbell, 52; his love of paradox, 47; influence of, on
Borrow, 40; Harriet Martineau on, 40; his friends and literary work,
40–42; correspondence with Southey, 41; his testimony to Borrow’s
knowledge of German, 60

Taylors, the, at Norwich, 37, 39–43

Tennyson on enthusiasm for _Lycidas_, 185; his eulogy of FitzGerald’s
translation of the _Rubáiyát_, 231

Thackeray, W. M., Borrow’s attitude towards, 224, 252; on Edward
FitzGerald, 228

Thompson, W. H., 231

_Three Generations of English women_, by Janet Ross, 39

Thurtell, Alderman, 71, 73

— John, 52, 66; trial of—glimpses of, in Borrow’s books, 69–73; great
authors who have commented on crime of, 69, 70

Timbs, John, 66

Toledo described, 118, 119

Treve, Captain, 16

Turner, Dawson, 157, 185

_Twelve Essays on the Phenomena of Nature_, Phillips anxious to produce
in a German dress, 57

_Twelve Essays on the Proximate Causes_, Borrow unable to translate into
German—published in German, 58



U


_Universal Review_, _The_, 58, 59; Borrow’s work on, 58

Upcher, A. W., contributes reminiscences of Borrow to the _Athenæum_, 204

Usóz y Rio, Don Luis de, letters from, to Borrow, 134–36

Utting, Mr., 172



V


VALPY, REV. E., Borrow’s schoolmaster—story of Borrow being flogged by,
46–49

Venning, John, work of, in Russia—befriends Borrow, 95

Victoria, Queen, visits gypsy encampment, 29

Vidocq, memoirs of, translated by Borrow, 80

Vienna described, 170



W


_Wahrheit und Dichtung_, opening lines of, compared with those of
_Lavengro_, 7

Walpole, Horace, on Mr. Fenn, 26

Watts-Dunton, Theodore, criticism of Borrow’s work, 251; on intimacy
between Borrow and Hake, 250, 251; introduction to _Lavengro_ by, 269

Weare pamphlets, 71

— William, murder of, 71

_Westminster Review_, 82

Whewell, Dr., 188

Wilberforce, William, connection of, with Bible Society, 91

Wilcock, Rev. J., his impressions of Borrow, 220

_Wild Wales_, 9, 143, 246, 255; appreciations of, 233, 236, 238, 239;
comparative failure of, 239; comparison of, with Borrow’s three other
great works, 242; high spirits of 243; Lope de Vega’s ghost story
referred to in, 237; reviews of, 236; time taken to write, 236

_Wilhelm Meister_, quoted, 91

_William Bodham Donne and his Friends_, Borrow described in, 233, 234

Williams, J. Evan, letter from Borrow to, on similarity of some
Sclavonian and Welsh words, 237, 238

Woodhouses, the, 66

Wordsworth, Borrow’s estimate of, 224

Wormius, Olaus, 51

Wright, Dr. Aldis, 231



Z


_Zincali_, _The_, work by Borrow, 29; criticisms of, 147, 148; number of
copies of, sold, 158; editions of, issued, 147

                                * * * * *

                             The Temple Press
                                Letchworth
                                 ENGLAND




Footnotes


{11a}  _Lavengro_, ch. xiv.

{11b}  _Ibid._, ch. xxiii.

{15}  _Lavengro_, ch. xxxvii.

{20}  _Lavengro_, ch. xxv.

{21}  _Life of B. R. Haydon_, by Tom Taylor, 1853, vol. ii. p. 21.

{22}  _Benjamin Robert Haydon_: _Correspondence and Table Talk_, with a
Memoir by his son, Frederic Wordsworth Haydon, vol. i. pp. 360–1.

{33a}  _The Bible in Spain_, ch. xx.

{33b}  Dr. Johnson was the first as Borrow was the second to earn this
distinction.  Johnson, as reported by Boswell, says:

    “_I have long wished that the Irish literature were cultivated_.
    _Ireland is known by tradition to have been once the seat of piety
    and learning_, _and surely it would be very acceptable to all those
    who are curious on the origin of nations or the affinities of
    languages to be further informed of the evolution of a people so
    ancient and once so illustrious_.  _I hope that you will continue to
    cultivate this kind of learning which has too long been neglected_,
    _and which_, _if it be suffered to remain in oblivion for another
    century_, _may perhaps never be retrieved_.”

{34}  _Lavengro_.

{39}  _Three Generations of Englishwomen_, by Janet Ross, vol. i. p. 3.

{42}  Reprinted in Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_.

{47}  This is a contemptuous reference in Martineau’s own words to
“George Borrow, the writer and actor of romance.”

{49}  _Life of Frances Power Cobbe as told by Herself_, ch. xvii.

{50}  _Norvicensian_, 1888, p. 177.

{51}  The _Britannia_ newspaper, 26th June, 1851.

{54}  Mr. C. F. Martelli of Staple Inn, London, who has so generously
placed this information at my disposal.  Mr. Martelli writes:

    “Old memories brought him to our office for professional advice, and
    there I saw something of him, and a very striking personality he was,
    and a rather difficult client to do business with.  One peculiarity I
    remember was that he believed himself to be plagued by autograph
    hunters, and was reluctant to trust our firm with his signature in
    any shape or form, and that we in consequence had some trouble in
    inducing him to sign his will.  I have seen him sitting over my fire
    in my room at that office for hours, half asleep, and crooning out
    Romany songs while waiting for my chief.”

{58}  In _Lavengro_.

{62}  _Life and Death of Faustus_, p. 59.

{67a}  _Celebrated Trials and Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence
from the Earliest Records to the Year_ 1825.  In six volumes.  London:
Printed for Geo. Knight & Lacey, Paternoster Row, 1825.  Price £3 12 s.
in boards.

{67b}  _The New and Complete Newgate Calendar or Malefactors Recording
Register_.  By William Jackson.  Six vols.  1802.

{67c}  Cobbett and Howell’s _State Trials_.  In thirty-three volumes and
index, 1809 to 1828.  The last volume, apart from the index, was actually
published the year after Borrow’s _Celebrated Trials_, that is, in 1826;
but the last trial recorded was that of Thistlewood in 1820.  The editors
were William Cobbett, Thomas Bayly Howell, and his son, Thomas Jones
Howell.

{70}  Another witness attained fame by her answer to the inquiry, “Was
supper postponed?” with the reply, “No, it was pork.”

{79}  Only thus can we explain Borrow’s later declaration that he had
_four_ times been in prison.

{80a}  _Memoirs of Vidocq_, _Principal Agent of the French Police until_
1827, _and now proprietor of the paper manufactory at St. Mandé_.
Written by himself.  Translated from the French.  In Four Volumes.
London: Whittaker, Treacher and Arnot, Ave Maria Lane, 1829.

{80b}  This with other documents I have presented to the Borrow Museum,
Norwich.

{80c}  In 1830 Borrow had another disappointment.  He translated _The
Sleeping Bard_ from the Welsh.  This also failed to find a publisher.  It
was issued in 1860, under which date we discuss it.

    {91a}  Keep not standing, fixed and rooted,
       Briskly venture, briskly roam:
    Head and hand, where’er thou foot it,
       And stout heart, are still at home.
    In each land the sun does visit:
       We are gay whate’er betide.
    To give room for wandering is it,
       That the world was made so wide.

                                                  (Carlyle’s translation.)

{91b}  Through the will of his stepdaughter, Henrietta MacOubrey.

{92}  Canton’s _History of the Bible Society_, vol. i. 195.

{102}  _Letters of George Borrow to the British and Foreign Bible
Society_, published by Direction of the Committee.  Edited by T. H.
Darlow.  Hodder and Stoughton, 1911.  The Russian Correspondence occupies
pages 1–97.

{103a}  Darlow: _Letters to the Bible Society_, p. 32.

{103b}  _Ibid._, p. 47.

{103c}  _Ibid._, pp. 60, 61.

{104}  Mr. Glen.

{105}  Darlow: _Letters to the Bible Society_, p. 96.

{106}  Darlow: _Letters to the Bible Society_, p. 65.

{107}   Darlow: _Letters to the Bible Society_, p. 81.

{110}  _Norfolk Chronicle_, 17th October, 1835.

{113}  When in Madrid in May, 1913, I called upon Mr. William Summers,
the courteous Secretary of the Madrid Branch of the British and Foreign
Bible Society in the Flor Alta.  Mr. Summers informs me that the issues
of the British and Foreign Bible Society, Bibles and Testaments, in Spain
for the years 1910–12 are as follows:

Year.            Bibles.     Testaments.     Portions.        Total.
1910               5,309           8,971        70,594        84,874
1911               5,665          11,481        79,525        96,671
1912               9,083          11,842        85,024       105,949

The Calle del Principe is now rapidly being pulled down and new buildings
taking the place of those Borrow knew.

{145a}  The following suggestion has, however, been made to me by a
friend of Henrietta MacOubrey, _née_ Clarke:

    “I think Borrow intended ‘Carreta’ for ‘dearest.’  It is impossible
    to think that he would call his wife a ‘cart.’  Perhaps he intended
    ‘Carreta’ for ‘Querida.’  Probably their pronunciation was not
    Castillian, and they spelled the word as they pronounced it.  In
    speaking of her to ‘Hen.’ Borrow always called her ‘Mamma.’  Mrs.
    MacOubrey took a great fancy to me because she said I was like
    ‘Mamma.’  She meant in character, not in person.”

{148}  Knapp’s _Life_, vol. i. p. 378.

{151}   _The Academy_, 13th June, 1874.

{155}  This was Miss Catherine Gurney, who was born in 1776, in Magdalen
Street, Norwich, and died at Lowestoft in 1850, aged seventy-five.  She
twice presided over the Earlham home.  The brother referred to was Joseph
John Gurney.

{159}  4750 copies were sold in the three volume form in 1843, and a
sixth and cheaper edition the same year sold 9000 copies.

{164}  _The Times_, 12th April, 1843.

{197}  The whole of this diary will be issued in my edition of _The
Collected Works_.  It has appeared, with my permission, in the Manx Folk
Lore Magazine, _Mannin_, November, 1914.

{199}  They lived first at 169 King Street, then at two addresses
unknown, then successively at 37, 38 and 39 Camperdown Terrace; their
last address was 28 Trafalgar Place.

{229}   I am indebted to Mr. Edward Heron-Allen for the information that
this is the original of the last verse but one in FitzGerald’s first
version of the _Rubáiyát_:

    r 74.

    Ah Moon of my Delight, who knowest no wane,
    The Moon of Heaven is rising once again,
       How oft, hereafter rising, shall she look
    Through this same Garden after me—in vain.

{255}  Henrietta’s guitar is now in my possession and is a very handsome
instrument.

{256}  Henrietta MacOubrey put every difficulty in the way of Dr. Knapp,
and I hold many letters from her strongly denouncing his _Life_.

{268}  A word that is very misleading, as no writer was ever so little
the founder of a school.

{269a}  Although this fact was not known until 1908 when I published _The
Brontës_: _Life and Letters_.  See vol. ii. p. 24, where Charlotte Brontë
writes: “In George Borrow’s works I found a wild fascination, a vivid
graphic power of description, a fresh originality, an athletic
simplicity, which give them a stamp of their own.”

{269b}  Theodore Watts-Dunton, Augustine Birrell and Francis Hindes
Groome.  Lionel Johnson’s essay on Borrow is the more valuable in its
enthusiasm in that it was written by a Roman Catholic.  Writing in the
_Outlook_ (1st April, 1899) he said:

    “What the four books mean and are to their lovers is upon this sort.
    Written by a man of intense personality, irresistible in his hold
    upon your attention, they take you far afield from weary cares and
    business into the enamouring airs of the open world, and into days
    when the countryside was uncontaminated by the vulgar conventions
    which form the worst side of ‘civilised’ life in cities.  They give
    you the sense of emancipation, of manumission into the liberty of the
    winding road and fragrant forest, into the freshness of an ancient
    country-life, into a _milieu_ where men are not copies of each other.
    And you fall in with strange scenes of adventure, great or small, of
    which a strange man is the centre as he is the scribe; and from a
    description of a lonely glen you are plunged into a dissertation upon
    difficult old tongues, and from dejection into laughter, and from
    gypsydom into journalism, and everything is equally delightful, and
    nothing that the strange man shows you can come amiss.  And you will
    hardly make up your mind whether he is most Don Quixote, or Rousseau,
    or Luther, or Defoe; but you will always love these books by a brave
    man who travelled in far lands, travelled far in his own land,
    travelled the way of life for close upon eighty years, and died in
    perfect solitude.  And this will be the least you can say, though he
    would not have you say it—_Requiescat in pace Viator_.”

{269c}  In _Res Judicatæ_, 1892 (a paper reprinted from _The Reflector_,
8th January, 1888), in his introduction to _Lavengro_ (Macmillan, 1900),
in an essay entitled “The Office of Literature,” in the second series of
_Obiter Dicta_, and in an address at Norwich, on 5th July, 1913,
reprinted in full in the _Eastern Daily Press_ of 7th July, 1913.

{270a}  There are but three references to Borrow in Stevenson’s writings,
all of them perfunctory.  These are in _Memories and Portraits_ (“A
Gossip on a Novel of Dumas’”), in _Familiar Studies of Men and Books_
(“Some Aspects of Robert Burns”), and in _The Ideal House_.

{270b}  _The Spectator_, 12th July, 1913.