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Books: The Life of George Borrow

H >> Herbert Jenkins >> The Life of George Borrow




In Norfolk all strangers are regarded with suspicion. Lifelong
friendships are not contracted in a day. The East Anglian is shrewd,
and requires to know something about those whom he admits to the
sacred inner circle of his friendship. Borrow was well-known in the
Mattishall district, and was looked upon with more than usual
suspicion. He was unquestionably a strange man, in speech, in
appearance, in habits. He could and would knock down any who
offended him; but, worst of all, he was the intimate of gypsies, sat
by their fires, spoke in their tongue. The population round about
was entirely an agricultural one, and all united in hating the
gypsies as their greatest enemies, because of their depredations.
Add to this the fact that Borrow was a frequenter of public-houses,
of which there were SEVEN in the village, and was wont to boast that
you could get at the true man only after he had been mellowed into
speech by good English ale. Then he would open his heart and
unburden his mind of all the accumulated knowledge that he possessed,
and add something to the epic of the soil. Borrow's overbearing
manner made people shy of him. On one occasion he told John, the son
and successor of Henry Hill, that he ought to be responsible for the
debt of his half-brother; the debt, it may be mentioned, was to
Borrow.

There is no better illustration of the suspicion with which Borrow
was regarded locally, than an incident that occurred during one of
his visits to Mattishall. He called upon John Hill at Church Farm to
collect his rent. The evening was spent very agreeably. Borrow
recited some of his ballads, quoted Scripture and languages, and sang
a song. He was particularly interested on account of Mrs Hill being
from London, where she knew many of his haunts. He remained the
whole evening with the family and partook of their meal; but was
allowed to go to one of the seven public-houses for a bed, although
there were spare bedrooms in the house that he might have occupied.
Such was the suspicion that Borrow's habits created in the minds of
his fellow East Anglians. {442a}



CHAPTER XXVIII: JULY 1859-JANUARY 1869



After his second tour in Wales, Borrow had submitted to John Murray
the manuscript of his translation of The Sleeping Bard, which in 1830
had so alarmed the little Welsh bookseller of Smithfield. "I really
want something to do," Borrow wrote, "and seeing the work passing
through the press might amuse me." Murray, however, could not see
his way to accept the offer, and the manuscript was returned. Borrow
decided to publish the book at his own expense, and accordingly
commissioned a Yarmouth man to print him 250 copies, upon the title-
page of which John Murray permitted his name to appear.

In the note in which he tells of the Welsh bookseller's doubts and
fears, Borrow goes on to assure his readers that there is no harm in
the book.


"It is true," he says, "that the Author is any thing but mincing in
his expressions and descriptions, but there is nothing in the
Sleeping Bard which can give offence to any but the over fastidious.
There is a great deal of squeamish nonsense in the world; let us hope
however that there is not so much as there was. Indeed can we doubt
that such folly is on the decline, when we find Albemarle Street in
'60, willing to publish a harmless but plain speaking book which
Smithfield shrank from in '30."


The edition was very speedily exhausted, largely on account of an
article entitled, The Welsh and Their Literature, written years
before, that Borrow adapted as a review of the book, and published
anonymously in The Quarterly Review (Jan. 1861). The Sleeping Bard
was not reprinted.

The next event of importance in Borrow's life was his removal to
London with Mrs Borrow and Henrietta. Towards the end of the Irish
holiday (4th Nov. 1859), Mrs Borrow had written to John Murray: "If
all be well in the Spring, I shall wish to look around, and select a
pleasant, healthy residence within from three to ten miles of
London." Borrow may have felt more at liberty to make the change now
that his mother was dead, although whilst she was at Oulton he was as
little company for her at Great Yarmouth as he would have been in
London. Whatever led them to the decision to take up their residence
in London, Borrow and his wife left Great Yarmouth at the end of
June, and immediately proceeded to look about them for a suitable
house. Their choice eventually fell upon number 22 Hereford Square,
Brompton, which had the misfortune to be only a few doors from number
26, where lived Frances Power Cobbe. The rent was 65 pounds per
annum. The Borrows entered upon their tenancy at the Michaelmas
quarter, and were joined by Henrietta, who had remained behind at
Great Yarmouth during the house-hunting.

Miss Cobbe has given in her Autobiography a very unlovely picture of
George Borrow during the period of his residence in Hereford Square.
No woman, except his relatives and dependants, will tolerate egoism
in a man. Borrow was an egoist. If not permitted to lead the
conversation, he frequently wrapped himself in a gloomy silence and
waited for an opportunity to discomfit the usurper of the place he
seemed to consider his own. Among his papers were found after his
death a large number of letters from poor men whom Borrow had
assisted. His friend the Rev. Francis Cunningham once wrote to him a
letter protesting against his assisting Nonconformist schools. He
gave to Church and Chapel alike. This disproves misanthropy, and
leaves egoism as the only explanation of his occasional lapses into
bitterness or rudeness. When in happy vein, however, "his
conversation . . . was unlike that of any other man; whether he told
a long story or only commented on some ordinary topic, he was always
quaint, often humorous." {445a}

Miss Cobbe would not humour an egoist, because constitutionally
women, especially clever women, dislike them, unless they wish to
marry them. When she heard it said, as it very frequently was said,
that Borrow was a gypsy by blood, she caustically remarked that if he
were not he "OUGHT to have been." Miss Cobbe had living with her a
Miss Lloyd who, "amused by his quaint stories and his (real or sham)
enthusiasm for Wales, . . . cultivated his acquaintance. I,"
continued Miss Cobbe frankly, "never liked him, thinking him more or
less of a hypocrite." {445b}

On one occasion Borrow had accepted an invitation from Miss Cobbe to
meet some friends, but subsequently withdrew his acceptance "on
finding that Dr Martineau was to be of the party . . . nor did he
ever after attend our little assemblies without first ascertaining
that Dr Martineau would not be present!" This she explained by the
assertion that Dr Martineau had "horsed" Borrow when he was punished
for running away from school at Norwich. It appeared "irresistibly
comic" to her mind.

There is an amusing account given by Miss Cobbe of how she worsted
Borrow, which is certainly extremely flattering to her
accomplishments. Once when talking with him she happened to say


"something about the imperfect education of women, and he said it was
RIGHT they should be ignorant, and that no man could endure a clever
wife. I laughed at him openly," she continues, "and told him some
men knew better. What did he think of the Brownings? 'Oh, he had
heard the name; he did not know anything of them. Since Scott, he
read no modern writer; Scott WAS GREATER THAN HOMER! What he liked
were curious, old, erudite books about mediaeval and northern
things.' I said I knew little of such literature, and preferred the
writers of our own age, but indeed I was no great student at all.
Thereupon he evidently wanted to astonish me; and, talking of
Ireland, said, 'Ah, yes; a most curious, mixed race. First there
were the Firbolgs,--the old enchanters, who raised mists.' . . .
'Don't you think, Mr Borrow,' I asked, 'it was the Tuatha-de-Danaan
who did that? Keatinge expressly says that they conquered the
Firbolgs by that means.' (Mr B. somewhat out of countenance), 'Oh!
Aye! Keatinge is THE authority; a most extraordinary writer.'
'Well, I should call him the Geoffrey of Monmouth of Ireland.' (Mr
B. changing the VENUE), 'I delight in Norse-stories; they are far
grander than the Greek. There is the story of Olaf the Saint of
Norway. Can anything be grander? What a noble character!' 'But,' I
said, 'what do YOU think of his putting all those poor Druids on the
Skerry of Shrieks, and leaving them to be drowned by the tide?'
(Thereupon Mr B. looked at me askant out of his gipsy eyes, as if he
thought me an example of the evils of female education!) 'Well!
Well! I forgot about the Skerry of Shrieks. Then there is the story
of Beowulf the Saxon going out to sea in his burning ship to die.'
'Oh, Mr Borrow! that isn't a Saxon story at all. It is in the
Heimskringla! It is told of Hakon of Norway.' Then, I asked him
about the gipsies and their language, and if they were certainly
Aryans? He didn't know (or pretended not to know) what Aryans were;
and altogether displayed a miraculous mixture of odd knowledge and
more odd ignorance. Whether the latter were real or assumed I know
not!" {446a}


These were some of the neighbourly little pleasantries indulged in by
Miss Cobbe, regarding a man who was a frequent guest at her house.


"His has indeed been a fantastic fate!" writes Mr Theodore Watts-
Dunton. "When the shortcomings of any illustrious man save Borrow
are under discussion, 'les defauts de ses qualites' is the criticism-
-wise as charitable--which they evoke. Yes, each one is allowed to
have his angularities save Borrow. Each one is allowed to show his
own pet unpleasant facets of character now and then--allowed to show
them as inevitable foils to the pleasant ones--save Borrow. HIS
weaknesses no one ever condones. During his lifetime his faults were
for ever chafing and irritating his acquaintances, and now that he
and they are dead, these faults of his seem to be chafing and
irritating people of another generation. A fantastic fate, I say,
for him who was so interesting to some of us!" {447a}


On occasion Borrow could be inexcusably rude, as he was to a member
of the Russian Embassy who one day called at Hereford Square for a
copy of Targum for the Czar, when he told him that his Imperial
master could fetch it himself. Again, no one can defend him for
affronting the "very distinguished scholar" with whom he happened to
disagree, by thundering out, "Sir, you're a fool!" Such lapses are
deplorable; but why should we view them in a different light from
those of Dr Johnson?

What would have been regarded in another distinguished man as a
pleasant vein of humour was in Borrow's case looked upon as evidence
of his unveracity. A contemporary tells how, on one occasion, he
went with him into "a tavern" for a pint of ale, when Borrow pointed
out


"a yokel at the far end of the apartment. The foolish bumpkin was
slumbering. Borrow in a stage whisper, gravely assured me that the
man was a murderer, and confided to me with all the emphasis of
honest conviction the scene and details of his crime. Subsequently I
ascertained that the elaborate incidents and fine touches of local
colour were but the coruscations of a too vivid imagination, and that
the villain of the ale-house on the common was as innocent as the
author of The Romany Rye." {447b}


If Borrow had been called upon to explain this little pleasantry he
would in all probability have replied in the words of Mr Petulengro,
that he had told his acquaintance "things . . . which are not exactly
true, simply to make a fool of you, brother."

It is strange how those among his contemporaries who disliked him,
denied Borrow the indulgence that is almost invariably accorded to
genius. Those who were not for him were bitterly against him. In
their eyes he was either outrageously uncivil or insultingly rude.
Dr Hake, although a close friend, saw Borrow's dominant weakness, his
love of the outward evidences of fame. Dr Hake's impartiality gives
greater weight to his testimony when he tells of Borrow's first
meeting with Dr Robert Latham, the ethnologist, philologist and
grammarian. Latham much wanted to meet Borrow, and promised Dr Hake
to be on his best behaviour. He was accordingly invited to dinner
with Borrow. Latham as usual began to show off his knowledge. He
became aggressive, and finally very excited; but throughout the meal
Borrow showed the utmost patience and courtesy, much to his host's
relief. When he subsequently encountered Latham in the street he
always stopped "to say a kind word, seeing his forlorn condition."

Dr Hake had settled at Coombe End, Roehampton, and now that the
Borrows were in London, the two families renewed their old
friendship. Borrow would walk over to Coombe End, and on arriving at
the gate would call out, "Are you alone?" If there were other
callers he would pass by, if not he would enter and frequently
persuade Dr Hake, and perhaps his sons, to accompany him for a walk.

"There was something not easily forgotten," writes Mr A. Egmont Hake,
"in the manner in which he would unexpectedly come to our gates,
singing some gypsy song, and as suddenly depart." {448a} They had
many pleasant tramps together, mostly in Richmond Park, where Borrow
appeared to know every tree and showed himself very learned in deer.
He was


"always saying something in his loud, self-asserting voice; sometimes
stopping suddenly, drawing his huge stature erect, and changing the
keen and haughty expression of his face into the rapt and half
fatuous look of the oracle, he would without preface recite some long
fragment from Welsh or Scandinavian bards, his hands hanging from his
chest and flapping in symphony. Then he would push on again, and as
suddenly stop, arrested by the beautiful scenery, and exclaim, 'Ah!
this is England, as the Pretender said when he again looked on his
fatherland.' Then on reaching any town, he would be sure to spy out
some lurking gypsy, whom no one but himself would have known from a
common horse-dealer. A conversation in Romany would ensue, a
shilling would change hands, two fingers would be pointed at the
gypsy, and the interview would be at an end." {449a}


One day he asked Dr Hake's youngest boy if he knew how to fight a man
bigger than himself, and on being told that he didn't, advised him to
"accept his challenge, and tell him to take off his coat, and while
he was doing it knock him down and then run for your life." {449b}

Once Borrow arrived at Dr Hake's house to find another caller in the
person of Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton, and they "went through a pleasant
trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle . . .
Borrow made himself agreeable to Watts [-Dunton], recited a fairy
tale in the best style to him, and liked him." Borrow did not
recognise in Mr Watts-Dunton the young man whom he had seen bathing
on the beach at Great Yarmouth, pleased to be near his hero, but too
much afraid to venture to address him. Writing of this meeting at
Coombe End, Mr Watts-Dunton says: "There is however no doubt that
Borrow would have run away from me had I been associated in his mind
with the literary calling. But at that time I had written nothing at
all save poems, and a prose story or two of a romantic kind." Borrow
hated the literary man, he was at war with the whole genus.

Mr Watts-Dunton confesses that he made great efforts to enlist
Borrow's interest. He touched on Bamfylde Moore Carew, beer,
bruisers, philology, "gentility nonsense," the "trumpery great"; but
without success. Borrow was obviously suspicious of him. Then with
inspiration he happened to mention what proved to be a magic name.


"I tried other subjects in the same direction," Mr Watts-Dunton
continues, "but with small success, till in a lucky moment I
bethought myself of Ambrose Gwinett, . . . the man who, after having
been hanged and gibbeted for murdering a traveller with whom he had
shared a double-bedded room at a seaside inn, revived in the night,
escaped from the gibbet-irons, went to sea as a common sailor, and
afterwards met on a British man-of-war the very man he had been
hanged for murdering. The truth was that Gwinett's supposed victim,
having been attacked on the night in question by a violent bleeding
of the nose, had risen and left the house for a few minutes' walk in
the sea-breeze, when the press-gang captured him and bore him off to
sea, where he had been in service ever since. The story is true, and
the pamphlet, Borrow afterwards told me (I know not on what
authority), was written by Goldsmith from Gwinett's dictation for a
platter of cow-heel.

"To the bewilderment of Dr Hake, I introduced the subject of Ambrose
Gwinett in the same manner as I might have introduced the story of
'Achilles' wrath,' and appealed to Dr Hake (who, of course, had never
heard of the book or the man) as to whether a certain incident in the
pamphlet had gained or lost by the dramatist who, at one of the minor
theatres, had many years ago dramatized the story. Borrow was caught
at last. 'What?' said he, 'you know that pamphlet about Ambrose
Gwinett?' 'Know it?' said I, in a hurt tone, as though he had asked
me if I knew 'Macbeth'; 'of course I know Ambrose Gwinett, Mr Borrow,
don't you?' 'And you know the play?' said he. 'Of course I do, Mr
Borrow,' I said, in a tone that was now a little angry at such an
insinuation of crass ignorance. 'Why,' said he, 'it's years and
years since it was acted; I never was much of a theatre man, but I
did go to see THAT.' 'Well I should rather think you DID, Mr
Borrow,' said I. 'But,' said he, staring hard at me, 'you--you were
not born!' 'And I was not born,' said I, 'when the "Agamemnon" was
produced, and yet one reads the "Agamemnon," Mr Borrow. I have read
the drama of "Ambrose Gwinett." I have it bound in morocco, with
some more of Douglas Jerrold's early transpontine plays, and some
AEschylean dramas by Mr Fitzball. I will lend it to you, Mr Borrow,
if you like.' He was completely conquered, 'Hake!' he cried, in a
loud voice, regardless of my presence, 'Hake! your friend knows
everything.' Then he murmured to himself. 'Wonderful man! Knows
Ambrose Gwinett!'

"It is such delightful reminiscences as these that will cause me to
have as long as I live a very warm place in my heart for the memory
of George Borrow." {451a}


After this, intercourse proved easy. At Borrow's suggestion they
walked to the Bald-Faced Stag, in Kingston Vale, to inspect Jerry
Abershaw's sword. This famous old hostelry was a favourite haunt of
Borrow's, where he would often rest during his walk and drink "a cup
of ale" (which he would call "swipes," and make a wry face as he
swallowed) and talk of the daring deeds of Jerry the highwayman.

Many people have testified to the pleasure of being in the company of
the whimsical, eccentric, humbug-hating Borrow.


"He was a choice companion on a walk," writes Mr A. Egmont Hake,
"whether across country or in the slums of Houndsditch. His
enthusiasm for nature was peculiar; he could draw more poetry from a
wide-spreading marsh with its straggling rushes than from the most
beautiful scenery, and would stand and look at it with rapture."
{451b}


Since the tour in Wales in 1854, from which he returned with the four
"Note Books," Borrow had been working steadily at Wild Wales. In
1857 the book had been announced as "ready for the press"; but this
was obviously an anticipation. The manuscript was submitted to John
Murray early in November 1861. On the 20th of that month he wrote
the following letter, addressing it, not to Borrow, but to his wife:-


Dear Mrs Borrow,--The MS. of Wild Wales has occupied my thoughts
almost ever since Friday last.

I approached this MS. with some diffidence, recollecting the
unsatisfactory results, on the whole, of our last publication--Romany
Rye. I have read a large part of this new work with care and
attention, and although it is beautifully written and in a style of
English undefiled, which few writers can surpass, there is yet a want
of stirring incident in it which makes me fearful as to the result of
its publication.

In my hands at least I cannot think it would succeed even as well as
Romany Rye--and I am fearful of not doing justice to it. I do not
like to undertake a work with the chance of reproach that it may have
failed through my want of power to promote its circulation, and I do
wish, for Borrow's own sake, that in this instance he would try some
other publisher and perhaps some other form of publication.

In my hands I am convinced the work will not answer the author's
expectations, and I am not prepared to take on me this amount of
responsibility.

I will give the best advice I can if called upon, and shall be only
too glad if I can be useful to Mr Borrow. I regret to have to write
in this sense, but believe me always, Dear Mrs Borrow,

Your faithful friend,
JOHN MURRAY.


The reply to this letter has not been preserved. It would appear
that some "stirring incidents" were added, among others most probably
the account of Borrow blessing the Irish reapers, who mistook him for
Father Toban. This anecdote was one of John Murray's favourite
passages. It is evident that some concession was made to induce
Murray to change his mind. In any case Wild Wales appeared towards
the close of 1862 in an edition of 1000 copies. The publisher's
misgivings were not justified, as the first edition produced a
profit, up to 30th June 1863, of 531 pounds, 14s., which was equally
divided between author and publisher. The second, and cheap, edition
of 3000 copies lasted for thirteen years, and the deficiency on this
absorbed the greater part of the publisher's profit.

In a way it is the most remarkable of Borrow's books; for it shows
that he was making a serious effort to regain his public. It is an
older, wiser and chastened Borrow that appears in its pages, striding
through the land of the bards at six miles an hour, his satchel slung
over his shoulder, his green umbrella grasped in his right hand,
shouting the songs of Wales, about which he knew more than any man he
met. There are no gypsies (except towards the end of the book a
reference to his meeting with Captain Bosvile), no bruisers, the pope
is scarcely mentioned, and "gentility-nonsense" is veiled almost to
the point of elimination. It seems scarcely conceivable that the
hand that had written the appendix to The Romany Rye could have so
restrained itself as to write Wild Wales. Borrow had evidently read
and carefully digested Whitwell Elwin's friendly strictures upon The
Romany Rye. Instead of the pope, the gypsies and the bruisers of
England, there were the vicarage cat, the bards and the thousand and
one trivial incidents of the wayside. There were occasional gleams
of the old fighting spirit, notably when he characterises sherry,
{453a} as "a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform
a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of
sketchers, scribblers, and punsters,--in fact, into what Englishmen
are at the present day." He has created the atmosphere of Wales as
he did that of the gypsy encampment. He shows the jealous way in
which the Welsh cling to their language, and their suspicion of the
Saesneg, or Saxon. Above all, he shows how national are the Welsh
poets, belonging not to the cultured few; but to the labouring man as
much as to the landed proprietor. Borrow earned the respect of the
people, not only because he knew their language; but on account of
his profound knowledge of their literature, their history, and their
traditions. No one could escape him, he accosted every soul he met,
and evinced a desire for information as to place-names that instantly
arrested their attention.

The most curious thing about Wild Wales is the omission of all
mention of the Welsh Gypsies, who, with those of Hungary, share the
distinction of being the aristocrats of their race. Several
explanations have been suggested to account for the curious
circumstance. Had Borrow's knowledge of Welsh Romany been scanty, he
could very soon have improved it. The presence of his wife and
stepdaughter was no hindrance; for, as a matter of fact, they were
very little with him, even when they and Borrow were staying at
Llangollen; but during the long tours they were many miles away. In
all probability the Welsh Gypsies were sacrificed to British
prejudice, much as were pugilism and the baiting of the pope.

In spite of its simple charm and convincing atmosphere, Wild Wales
did not please the critics. Those who noticed it (and there were
many who did not) either questioned its genuineness, or found it
crowded with triviality and self-glorification. It was full of the
superfluous, the superfluous repeated, and above all it was too long
(some 250,000 words). The Spectator notice was an exception; it did
credit to the critical faculty of the man who wrote it. He declined
"to boggle and wrangle over minor defects in what is intrinsically
good," and praised Wild Wales as "the first really clever book . . .
in which an honest attempt is made to do justice to Welsh
literature."