[194] Which will be published in my edition of _Borrow's Collected
Works_.
[195] Mr. James Barren of _The Inverness Courier_ informs me that Borrow
took a well-known route between Fort Augustus and Badenoch, although
nowadays it is rarely used, as Wade's Road has been abandoned; it is
very dilapidated. It was not quite so bad, he says, in 1858.
[196] Mr. Barron points out to me that as there was no direct railway
communication Borrow must have gone to Aberdeen or Huntly, and returned
from the latter town to Inverness. He must have taken a steamer from
Tobermory to Fort William, and thence probably walked by Glen Spean and
Laggan to Kingussie. After that he must have traversed one of the passes
leading by Ben Macdhui or the Cairngorms to Aberdeenshire.
[197] Mr. Sheriff Robertson's son kindly sends me the following extract
from the diary of his father, James Robertson, Sheriff of Orkney:
'_Friday, 26th November, 1858._--In the evening Geo. Petrie called with
"Bible Borrow." He is a man about 60, upwards of six feet in height, and
of an athletic though somewhat gaunt frame. His hair is pure white
though a little bit thin on the top, his features high and handsome, and
his complexion ruddy and healthy. He was dressed in black, his surtout
was old, his shoes very muddy. He spoke in a loud tone of voice, knows
Gaelic and Irish well, quoted Ian Lom, Duncan Ban M'Intyre, etc., is
publishing an account of Welsh, Irish, and Gaelic bards. He
travelled--on foot principally--from Inverness to Thurso, and is going
on to-morrow to Zetland. He walked lately through the upper part of
Badenoch, Lochaber, and the adjacent counties, and through Mull, which
he greatly admired.... In his rambles he associated exclusively with the
lower classes, and when I offered to give him letters of introduction to
Wm. F. Skene, Robert Chambers, Joseph Robertson, etc., he declined to
accept them. His mother died lately and he was travelling, he said, to
divert and throw off his melancholy. He talked very freely on all
subjects that one broached, but not with precision, and he appeared to
me to be an amiable man and a gentleman, but, withal, something of a
projector, if not an adventurer. He is certainly eccentric. I asked him
to take wine, etc., and he declined. He said he was bred at the High
School of Edinburgh, and that he was there in 1813, and mentioned that
he was partly educated in Ireland, and that by birth and descent he is
an Englishman.'
CHAPTER XXX
_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 notebooks 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,[198]
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.
Dr. Knapp publishes some vigorous correspondence between Mrs. Borrow and
her husband's publisher written prior to the issue of _The Romany Rye_.
'Mr. Borrow has not the slightest wish to publish the book,' she says.
'The manuscript was left with you because you wished to see it.'[199]
This was written in 1855, the wife presumably writing at her husband's
dictation. In 1857 the situation was not improved, as Borrow himself
writes to Mr. Murray: 'In your last letter you talk of _obliging me by
publishing my verse_. Now is not that speaking very injudiciously?'[200]
At last, however, in April 1857, _The Romany Rye_ appeared, and 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,[201] 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.'[202] 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.[203]
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.[204]
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A PAGE OF THE MANUSCRIPT OF _THE ROMANY RYE_
_From the Borrow Papers in the possession of the Author of 'George
Borrow and his Circle'_]
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 24th, 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 of 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, _19th 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-freeman) 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[198] Borrow was fond of writing out title-pages for his books, and I
have a dozen or so of these draft title-pages among my Borrow Papers.
[199] Dr. Knapp's _Life_, vol. ii. p. 167.
[200] Borrow's association with the firm of Murray deserves a chapter to
itself, but the material for writing such a chapter has already been
used by Dr. Knapp and Mr. Herbert Jenkins. The present Mr. John Murray,
John Murray IV., has seventy letters from Borrow to his firm in his
possession. The first of the name to publish Borrow's works was John
Murray II., who died in 1843. John Murray III., who died in 1892, and
his partner and cousin Robert Cooke, were Borrow's friends. He had
differences at times, but he was loyal to them and they were loyal to
him as good authors and good publishers ought to be. With all his
irritability Borrow had the sense to see that there was substantial
reason in their declining to issue his translations. That, although at
the end there were long intervals of silence, the publishers and their
author remained friends is shown by letters written to his daughter
after Borrow's death, and by the following little note from Borrow to
John Murray which was probably never sent. It is in the feeble, broken
handwriting of what was probably the last year of Borrow's life.
To John Murray, Esq.
'OULTON (_no date_).
'MY DEAR FRIEND,--Thank you most sincerely for sending me the last vol.
of the _Quarterly_, a truly remarkable one it is, full of literature of
every description--I should have answered the receipt of it before had I
not been very unwell. Should you come to these parts do me the favour to
look in upon me--it might do me good, and say the same thing from me to
my kind and true friend Robt. Cooke. His last visit to me did me much
good, and another might probably do me the same. What a horrible state
the country seems to be in, and no wonder--a monster-minister whose
principal aim seems to be the ruin of his native land, a parliament
either incompetent or indifferent. However, let us hope for the best.
Pray send my cordial respects to Mrs. Murray and kind regards to the
rest of your good family.--Ever sincerely yours,
GEORGE BORROW.'
[201] Mr. Sampson has written an admirable introduction to _The Romany
Rye_ in Methuen's 'Little Library,' but he goes rather far in his
suggestion that Borrow instead of writing 'Joseph Sell' for £20,
possibly obtained that sum by imitating 'the methods of Jerry Abershaw,
Galloping Dick,' or some of the 'fraternity of vagabonds' whose lives
Borrow had chronicled in his _Celebrated Trials_, in other words, that
he stole the money.
[202] _The Romany Rye_, Appendix, ch. vii.
[203] It is interesting to note that all the surviving members of Sir
Walter Scott's family belong to the Roman Catholic Church, as do certain
members of the family of Newman's opponent, Charles Kingsley. Several
members of Charles Dickens's family are also Roman Catholics.
[204] _Essays Critical and Historical_ by John Henry Cardinal Newman,
vol. i., Longmans. See also _Apologia pro Vita Sua_, pp. 96-97.
CHAPTER XXXI.
EDWARD FITZGERALD
Edward FitzGerald once declared that he was about the only friend with
whom Borrow had never quarrelled.[205] 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 consists 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. 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.[206] 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.[207]
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:
[Illustration: OULTON COTTAGE FROM THE BROAD
Showing the summer house on the left from a sketch by Henrietta
MacOubrey. The house which has replaced it has another aspect.]
[Illustration: THE SUMMER HOUSE OULTON, AS IT IS TO DAY
Which when compared with Miss MacOubrey's sketch shows that it has been
reroofed and probably rebuilt altogether.]
To George Borrow, Esq., Oulton Hall.
GOLDINGTON HALL, BEDFORD, _May 24/57_[208]
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 Khayyám
who was an Epicurean Infidel some 500 years ago:
[Persian][209]
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.[210]
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.[211]
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.[212]
This introduction and meeting are described by Professor Cowell in the
following letter:[213]
CAMBRIDGE, _December 10, 1892._
DEAR SIR,--I fear I cannot help you much by my reminiscences
of Borrow. I never had the slightest interest in the gipsies,
but I always had a corner in my heart for Spain and Wales, and
consequently _The Bible in Spain_ and _Wild Wales_ have always
been favourite books. But though Borrow's works were well known
to me, I never saw him but once, and what I saw of him then
made me feel that he was one of those men who put the best part
of themselves into their books. We get the pure gold there
without the admixture of alloy which daily life seemed to
impart.
I was staying one autumn at Lowestoft some ten years or more
ago when I asked my dear old friend, Mr. Edward FitzGerald, to
give me a letter of introduction to Mr. George Borrow. Armed
with this I started on my pilgrimage and took a chaise for
Oulton Hall. I remember as we drew near we turned into a kind
of drift road through the fields where the long sweeping boughs
of the trees hung so low that I lost my hat more than once as
we drove along. My driver remarked that the old gentleman would
not allow any of his trees to be cut. When we reached the hall
I went in at the gate into the farmyard, but I could see nobody
about anywhere. I walked up to the front door, but nobody
answered my knock except some dogs, who began barking from
their kennels. At last in answer to a very loud knock, the door
was opened by an old gentleman whom I at once recognised by the
engraving to be Borrow himself. I gave him my letter and
introduced myself. He replied in a tone of humorous petulance,
'What is the good of your bringing me a letter when I haven't
got my spectacles to read it?' However, he took me into his
room, where I fancy my knock had roused him from a siesta. We
soon got into talk. He began by some unkind remarks about one
or two of our common friends, but I soon turned the subject to
books, especially Spanish and Welsh books. Here I own I was
disappointed in his conversation. I talked to him about Ab
Gwilym, whom he speaks so highly of in _Wild Wales_, but his
interest was languid. He did not seem interested when I told
him that the London Society of Cymmrodorion were publishing in
their journal the Welsh poems of Iolo Goch, the bard of Owen
Glendower who fought with our Henry v., two of whose poems
Borrow had given spirited translations of in _Wild Wales_. He
told me he had heaps of translations from Welsh books somewhere
in his cupboards but he did not know where to lay his hand on
them. He did not show me one Welsh or Spanish book of any kind.
You may easily imagine that I was disappointed with my
interview and I never cared to visit him again. Borrow was a
man of real genius, and his _Bible in Spain_ and _Wild Wales_
are unique books in their way, but with all his knowledge of
languages he was not a scholar. I should be the last person to
depreciate his _Sleeping Bard_, for I owe a great deal to it as
it helped me to read the Welsh original, but it is full of
careless mistakes. The very title is wrong; it should not be
the _Visions of the Sleeping Bard_ but the _Visions of the Bard
Sleep_, as the bard or prophet Sleep shows the author in a
series of dreams--his visions of life, death, and hell, which
form the three chapters of the book.
Borrow knew nothing of philology. His strange version of 'Om
mani padme hûm' (Oh! the gem in the lotus ho!) must have been
taken from some phonetic representation of the sounds as heard
by an ignorant traveller in China or Mongolia.
I have written this long letter lured on by my recollections,
but after all I can tell you nothing. Surely it is best that
Borrow should remain a name; we have the best part of him still
living in his best books.
'He gave the people of his best;
His worst he kept, his best he gave.'
I don't see why we should trouble ourselves about his 'worst.'
He had his weaker side like all of us, the foolish part of his
nature as well as the wise; but 'de mortuis nil nisi bonum'
especially applies in such cases.--I remain, dear sir, yours
sincerely,
E. B. COWELL.
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,[214] and this two years
after it was published. A letter, dated July 6, 1857,[215] 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 Khayyám'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 (June 23,
1857), 'delighted at the terseness so unusual in Oriental verse.'[216]
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:[217]
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.[218] 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,[219] and from it we gather that
there had been no correspondence in the interval.[220] 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 schoolfellows. 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. When Borrow died, in 1881,
FitzGerald, who followed him two years later, suggested to Dr. Aldis
Wright, afterwards to be his (FitzGerald's) executor, who was staying
with him at the time, that he should look over Borrow's books and
manuscripts if his stepdaughter so desired. If this had been arranged,
and Dr. Aldis Wright had written Borrow's life, there would have been no
second biographer.[221]
FOOTNOTES:
[205] This was said by FitzGerald to his friend Frederick Spalding.
[206] Edward FitzGerald to George Borrow, in Knapp's _Life_, vol. ii. p.
346.
[207] _The Works of Edward FitzGerald_, vol. ii. p. 59 (Macmillan).
[208] FitzGerald was staying with his friends Mr. and Mrs. W. K. Browne.
There is no letter other than this one to Borrow to recall that visit,
which is, however, referred to in the _FitzGerald Correspondence_
(Works, vol. ii. p. 75) by the following sentence:--'When in
Bedfordshire I put away almost all Books except Omar Khayyám! which I
could not help looking over in a Paddock covered with Buttercups and
brushed by a delicious Breeze, while a dainty racing Filly of Browne's
came startling up to wonder and to snuff about me.' The 'friend' of the
letter was of course Mr. W. K. Browne, who was more of an open air man
than a bookman.
[209] 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.
The literal translation is:
[Persian]
Since no one will guarantee thee a to-morrow,
[Persian]
Make thou happy now this lovesick heart;
[Persian]
Drink wine in the moonlight, O Moon, for the Moon
[Persian]
Shall seek us long and shall not find us.
[210] _The Works of Edward FitzGerald_, vol. ii. p. 74 (Macmillan).
[211] _Letters of Edward FitzGerald_, vol. ii. p. 15.
[212] _Ibid._, vol. iv. p. 85 (Macmillan).
[213] First published in _The Sphere_, October 31, 1903. The letter was
written to Mr. James Hooper of Norwich.
[214] _Works of Edward FitzGerald_, vol. ii. p. 135 (Macmillan).
[215] Published by Dr. Knapp in _Borrow's Life_, vol. ii. p. 348
(Murray).
[216] We learn from FitzGerald that Borrow's eyesight gave way about
this time, and his wife had to keep all books from him.
[217] There are two or three references to Borrow in _William Bodham
Donne and his Friends_, edited by Catharine B. Johnson (Methuen). The
most important of these is in a letter from Donne to Bernard Barton,
dated from Bury St. Edmunds, September 12th, 1848:
'We have had a great man here, and I have been walking with him and
aiding him to eat salmon and mutton and drink port--George Borrow; and
what is more, we fell in with some gypsies and I heard the speech of
Egypt, which sounded wonderously like a medley of broken Spanish and dog
Latin. Borrow's face lighted by the red turf fire of the tent was worth
looking at. He is ashy white now, but twenty years ago, when his hair
was like a raven's wing, he must have been hard to discriminate from a
born Bohemian. Borrow is best on the tramp, if you can walk four and a
half miles per hour--as I can with ease and do by choice--and can walk
fifteen of them at a stretch--which I can compass also--then he will
talk Iliads of adventures even better than his printed ones. He cannot
abide those amateur pedestrians who saunter, and in his chair he is
given to groan and be contradictory. But on Newmarket Heath, in Rougham
Woods, he is at home, and specially when he meets with a thorough
vagabond like your present correspondent.'
In June 1874 FitzGerald writes to Donne:
'I saw in some _Athenæum_ a somewhat contemptuous notice of G. B.'s
_Rommany Lil_ or whatever the name is. I can easily understand that B.
should not meddle with _science_ of any sort; but some years ago he
would not have liked to be told so; however, old age may have cooled him
now.'
[218] Mr. Robert Cooke was a partner in John Murray's firm at this time.
[219] It is to be found in Dr. Knapp's _Life_, vol. ii. pp. 248-9.
[220] I have a copy of FitzGerald's.
[221] Dr. Aldis Wright tells me that he did go over to Oulton to see
Mrs. MacOubrey, and gave her the best advice he could, but it was
neglected.
CHAPTER XXXII
_WILD WALES_
The year 1854 was an adventurous one in Borrow's life, for he, so
essentially a Celt, as Mr. Watts-Dunton has more than once reminded
us,[222] 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 notebooks, 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.'
[Illustration: _WILD WALES_ IN ITS BEGINNINGS.
Two pages from one of George Borrow's Pocket-books with pencilled notes
made on his journey through Wales.]
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.[223]
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 _Lavengro_ (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,[224] 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. 29th, 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 of
expression.--I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,
MARY HOWITT.[225]
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF THE TITLE-PAGE OF _WILD WALES_
_From the original Manuscript in the possession of the Author of 'George
Borrow and his Circle.'_]
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.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF THE FIRST PAGE OF _WILD WALES_
_From the original Manuscript in the possession of the Author of 'George
Borrow and his Circle.'_]
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' ([Russian]) is
the Russian for forehead, 'tal' is Welsh for the same; 'iasnhy'
(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 'Tchel[=o]iasnoe,' which would be wondrously like
the Welsh name; unfortunately, however, Russian grammar would
compel any one wishing to Russianise 'Taliesin' to say not
'Tchel[=o]iasnoe' but 'Iasnoetchelo.'--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.[226]
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 17th._
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, _3rd 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 Badnor
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 hairbreadth 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.[227] 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.[228] 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.'[229] '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.
FOOTNOTES:
[222] 'Not one drop of East Anglian blood was in the veins of Borrow's
father, and very little in the veins of his mother. Borrow's ancestry
was pure Cornish on one side, and on the other mainly French.'--Theodore
Watts-Dunton: Introduction to _The Romany Rye_ (Ward and Lock).
[223] The advertisement describes it thus: 'In two volumes, _Songs of
Europe: or Metrical Translations from all the European Languages; With
Brief Prefatory Remarks on each Language and its Literature_.'
[224] _Wild Wales: Its People, Language, and Scenery_. By George Borrow.
3 vols. John Murray, 1862.
[225] Mary Botham (1799-1888) was born at Coleford, Gloucestershire, and
married William Howitt in 1821. The pair compiled many books together.
The statement in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ that 'nothing
that either of them wrote will live' is quite unwarranted. William
Howitt's _Homes and Haunts of the most eminent British Poets_ (Bentley,
2 vols., 1847) is still eagerly sought after for every good library. In
_Mary Howitt: An Autobiography_ (Isbister, 2 vols., 1889), a valuable
book of reminiscences, there is no mention of Borrow.
[226] Edward James Mortimer Collins (1827-1876), once bore the title of
'King of the Bohemians' among his friends; wrote _Sweet and Twenty_ and
many other novels once widely popular.
[227] Goronwy or Gronow Owen (1723-1769), born at Rhos Fawr in Anglesey,
and died at St. Andrews, Brunswick County, Virginia.
[228] Borrow had at many points certain affinities to Carlyle's hero
Johnson, but lacked his epigrammatic wit--and much else. But he seems to
have desired to emulate Johnson in one particular, as we find in the
following dialogue:--
'I wouldn't go on foot there this night for fifty pounds.'
'Why not?' said I.
'For fear of being knocked down by the colliers, who will be all out and
drunk.'
'If not more than two attack me,' said I, 'I shan't so much mind. With
this book I am sure I can knock down one, and I think I can find play
for the other with my fists.'
[229] When searching for the home of Goronwy Owen Borrow records a
meeting with one of his descendants--a little girl of seven or eight
years of age, named Ellen Jones, who in recent years has been
interviewed as to her impressions of Borrow's visit. 'He did speak
_funny_ Welsh,' she says, '... he could not pronounce the "ll." 'He had
plenty of words, but bad pronunciation.'--Herbert Jenkins: _Life of
Borrow_, p. 418. But Borrow in _Wild Wales_ frequently admits his
imperfect acquaintance with spoken Welsh.
CHAPTER XXXIII
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, _53a, 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.
(Keep this.)
GEORGE BORROW.
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.
It was in the year 1843 that Borrow, on a visit to London following upon
the success of _The Bible in Spain_, sat to Henry Wyndham Phillips for
his portrait at the instigation of Mr. Murray, who gave Borrow a
replica, retaining for himself Phillips's more finished picture, which
has been reproduced again and again in the present Mr. Murray's Borrow
productions.[230]
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 upon 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 January 30, 1869. She was buried in Brompton Cemetery,
where Borrow was laid beside her twelve years later. For neighbour, 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_,[231] 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[232] 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 biographies and have doubtless found
acceptance.[233] 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.'[234]
Another reminiscence of Borrow in London is furnished by Mr. A. T.
Story, who writes:[235]
I had the pleasure of meeting Borrow on several occasions in
London some forty years ago. I cannot be quite certain of the
year, but I think it was either in 1872 or '73. I saw him first
in James Burns's publishing office in Southampton Row. I
happened to call just as a tall, strongly-built man with an
unforgettable face was leaving. When he had gone, Mr. Burns
asked: 'Do you know who that gentleman was?' and when I said I
did not, he said: 'He is the man whose book, _The Bible in
Spain_, I saw you take down from the shelf there the other day
and read.' 'What, George Borrow?' I exclaimed. He nodded, and
then said Borrow had called several times.
A few days later I had an opportunity of making the good man's
acquaintance and hearing a conversation between him and Mr.
Burns. They talked about Spiritualism, with which Borrow had
very little patience, though, after some talk he consented to
attend a séance to be held that evening in Burns's
drawing-room. We sat together, and I had the pleasure of
hearing from time to time his grunts of disapproval. When the
discourse--'in trance'--was over, he asked me if I believed in
'this sort of thing,' and when I said I was simply an
investigator he remarked, 'That's all right, I, too, am an
investigator--of things in general--and it would not take me
long to sum up that little man (the medium) as a humbug, but a
very clever humbug.'
That evening I had a long walk and a talk with him, and after
that several other opportunities of talk, the last being one
night when I chanced upon him on Westminster Bridge. It was a
superb starlight night, and he was standing about midway over
the bridge gazing down into the river. When I approached him he
said: 'I have been standing here for twenty minutes looking
round and meditating. There is not another city like this in
the world, nor another bridge like this, nor a river, nor a
Parliament House like that--with its little men making little
laws--which the Lawgiver that made yonder stars--look at
them!--is continually confounding--and will confound. O, we
little men! How long before we are dust? And the stars there,
how they smile at our puny lives and tricks--here to-day, gone
to-morrow. And yet to-night how glorious it is to be here!'
So he rhapsodised. And then it was, 'Where can we get a bite
and sup? I've been footing it all day among the hills
there--the Surrey Hills--for a breath of fresh air.'
In appearance, at the time I knew him, Borrow was neither thin
nor stout, but well proportioned and apparently of great
strength.
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 few
records of the tragedy that are worth perpetuating.[236] 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:--
What land has let the dreamer from its gates,
What face belovèd hides from him away?
A dreamer outcast from some world of dreams,
He goes for ever lonely on his way.
Like a great pine upon some Alpine height,
Torn by the winds and bent beneath the snow
Half overthrown by icy avalanche,
The lone of soul throughout the world must go.
Alone among his kind he stands alone,
Torn by the passions of his own strange heart,
Stoned by continual wreckage of his dreams,
He in the crowd for ever is apart.
Like the great pine that, rocking no sweet rest,
Swings no young birds to sleep upon the bough,
But where the raven only comes to croak--
'There lives no man more desolate than thou!'
FOOTNOTES:
[230] The frontispiece to the present volume is from the replica in the
possession of Borrow's executor, who has kindly permitted me to have it
photographed for the purpose. There are slight and interesting
variations from Mr. Murray's portrait. Phillips (1820-1868), the artist
of these pictures, is often confused with his father, Thomas
(1770-1845), the Royal Academician and a much superior painter, who, by
the way, painted many portraits of authors for Mr. John Murray. Henry
Phillips was never an R.A. A letter from Phillips to Borrow in my
possession shows that he visited the latter at Oulton. The portrait of
Borrow is pronounced by Henry Dalrymple, his schoolfellow, from whose
manuscript we have already quoted, to be 'very like him.' This fact is
the more remarkable as the only photograph of Borrow that is known, one
taken in a group with Mrs. Simms Reeve of Norwich in 1848--five years
later--has many points of difference. The reader will here be able to
compare the two portraits in this book. A third portrait of Borrow--a
crude painting by his brother John taken in his early years, is now in
the London National Portrait Gallery.
[231] _Life of Frances Power Cobbe as told by Herself_. With Additions
by the Writer and Introduction by Blanche Atkinson. 2 vols., 1904.
Frances Power Cobbe was born in Dublin in 1822, and died at Hengwrt in
1904.
[232] Miss Lloyd, who was a Welshwoman. Miss Cobbe lived with her and
was doubtless a jealous woman. There are many kindly letters from Miss
Lloyd to Borrow in my collection. She seems always to be anxious to
invite him to her house.
[233] About three months before her death Miss Cobbe replied to an
inquiry made by Mr. James Hooper of Norwich concerning her estimate of
Borrow. As it is all but certain that Borrow was never intoxicated in
his life, we may find the letter of interest only as giving a point of
view:
'HENGWRT, DOLGELLEY, N. WALES, _Jan_. 26, 1904.
'I can have no objection to your asking me if my little sketch of George
Borrow in my _Life_ is my _dernier mot_ about him. If I were to give my
_dernier mot_, it would be much more to his disadvantage than anything I
liked to insert in my biography. I see his American biographer has
accused me of 'bitterness.' I do not think that what is contained in my
book is 'bitter' at all. But if I were to have told my last interview
with him,--when I was driven practically to drive him out of our house,
more or less drunk, or mad with some opiate--the charge might have had
some colour. He was not a good man, and not a true or honourable one, by
any manner of means.'
Here assuredly we miss the fine charity which led Goethe's friend, the
Duchess of Weimar, to urge that there was a special moral law for poets.
Not for one moment does it occur to Miss Cobbe that her neighbour was a
man of genius who had written four imperishable contributions to English
literature. To her he was merely a conceited, brusque old man.
Concerning the adage that 'no man is a hero to his valet,' well may
Carlyle remark that that is more often the fault of the valet than of
the hero.
[234] _Personal and Family Glimpses of Remarkable People_. By Edward W.
Whately. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1889.
[235] London _Daily Chronicle_, July 9, 1913.
[236] There is an interview between Borrow and his wife's medical
attendant, Dr. Playfair, recorded in Herbert Jenkins's _Life_, that is
full of poignancy.
CHAPTER XXXIV
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.[237]
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?'[238] 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. The most competent of these, because
writing from personal knowledge, was Walter Theodore Watts-Dunton, who
is known in literature as Theodore Watts, the author of _Aylwin_ and
_The Coming of Love_, and the writer of many acute and picturesque
criticisms. Mr. Watts-Dunton--who added his mother's name of Dunton to
his own in later life--was the son of a solicitor of St. Ives in
Huntingdonshire. In early life he was himself a solicitor, which
profession he happily abandoned for literature. His friendship with
Algernon Charles Swinburne is one of the romances of the Victorian era.
His affectionate solicitude doubtless kept that great poet alive for
many a year beyond what would otherwise have been his lot. Watts-Dunton
was, as we have seen, introduced to Borrow by Hake. He has written a
romance which, if he could be persuaded to publish it, would doubtless
command the same attention as _Aylwin_, in which Borrow is introduced as
'Dereham' and Hake as 'Gordon,' and here he tells the story of that
introduction:
One day when I was sitting with him in his delightful home,
near Roehampton, whose windows at the back looked over Richmond
Park, and in front over the wildest part of Wimbledon Common,
one of his sons came in and said that he had seen Dereham
striding across the common, evidently bound for the house.
'Dereham,' I said, 'is there a man in the world I should so
like to see as Dereham?'
And then I told Gordon how I had seen him years before swimming
in the sea off Yarmouth, but had never spoken to him.
'Why do you want so much to see him?' asked Gordon.
'Well, among other things, I want to see if he is a true Child
of the Open Air.'[239]
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 19th, '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.
Mr. A. Egmont Hake, one of Dr. Hake's sons, has also given us an
interesting reminiscence of Borrow:[240]
Though he was a friend of my family before he wrote _Lavengro_,
few men have ever made so deep an impression on me as George
Borrow. His tall, broad figure, his stately bearing, his fine
brown eyes, so bright yet soft, his thick white hair, his oval,
beardless face, his loud rich voice, and bold heroic air, were
such as to impress the most indifferent of lookers-on. Added to
this there was something not easily forgotten in the manner in
which he would unexpectedly come to our gates, singing some
gipsy song, and as suddenly depart. His conversation, too, 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.... It was at Oulton that the author of _The
Bible in Spain_ spent his happiest days. The _ménage_ in his
Suffolk home was conducted with great simplicity, but he always
had for his friends a bottle or two of wine of rare vintage,
and no man was more hearty than he over the glass. He passed
his mornings in his summer-house, writing on small scraps of
paper, and these he handed to his wife who copied them on
foolscap. It was in this way and in this retreat that the
manuscript of _Lavengro_ as well as of _The Bible in Spain_ was
prepared, the place of which he says, 'I hastened to my
summer-house by the side of the lake and there I thought and
wrote, and every day I repaired to the same place and thought
and wrote until I had finished _The Bible in Spain_.' In this
outdoor studio, hung behind the door, were a soldier's coat and
a sword which belonged to his father; these were household gods
on which he would often gaze while composing.
To Mr. Watts-Dunton we owe by far the best description of Borrow's
personal appearance:
What Borrow lacked in adaptability was in great degree
compensated by his personal appearance. No one who has ever
walked with him, either through the streets of London or along
the country roads, could fail to remark how his appearance
arrested the attention of the passers-by. As a gypsy woman once
remarked to the present writer, 'Everybody as ever see'd the
white-headed Romany Rye never forgot him.' When he chanced to
meet troops marching along a country road, it was noticeable
that every soldier, whether on foot or horseback, would
involuntarily turn to look at Borrow's striking figure. He
stood considerably above six feet in height, was built as
perfectly as a Greek statue, and his practice of athletic
exercises gave his every movement the easy elasticity of an
athlete under training. Those East Anglians who have bathed
with him on the east coast, or others who have done the same in
the Thames or the Ouse, can vouch for his having been an almost
faultless model of masculine symmetry, even as an old man. With
regard to his countenance, 'noble' is the only word which can
be used to describe it. When he was quite a young man his thick
crop of hair had become of a silvery whiteness.[241] There was
a striking relation between the complexion, which was as
luminous and sometimes rosy as an English girl's, and the
features--almost perfect Roman-Greek in type, with a dash of
Hebrew. To the dark lustre of the eyes an increased intensity
was lent by the fair skin. No doubt, however, what most struck
the observer was the marked individuality, not to say
singularity, of his expression. If it were possible to describe
this expression in a word or two, it might, perhaps, be called
a self-consciousness that was both proud and shy.[242]
Here is another picture by Mr. Watts-Dunton of this London period:[243]
At seventy years of age, after breakfasting at eight o'clock in
Hereford Square, he would walk to Putney, meet one or more of
us at Roehampton, roam about Wimbledon and Richmond Park with
us, bathe in the Fen Ponds with a north-east wind cutting
across the icy water like a razor, run about the grass
afterwards, like a boy to shake off some of the water-drops,
stride about the park for hours, and then, after fasting for
twelve hours, eat a dinner at Roehampton that would have done
Sir Walter Scott's eyes good to see. Finally, he would walk
back to Hereford Square, getting home late at night. And if the
physique of the man was bracing, his conversation, unless he
happened to be suffering from one of his occasional fits of
depression, was still more so. Its freshness, raciness, and
eccentric whim no pen could describe. There is a kind of
humour, the delight of which is that while you smile at the
pictures it draws, you smile quite as much to think that there
is a mind so whimsical, crotchety, and odd as to draw them.
This was the humour of Borrow.
And there is yet another description, equally illuminating, in which Mr.
Watts-Dunton records how he won Borrow's heart by showing a familiarity
with Douglas Jerrold's melodrama _Ambrose Gwinett_:
From that time I used to see Borrow often at Roehampton,
sometimes at Putney, and sometimes, but not often, in London. I
could have seen much more of him than I did had not the
whirlpool of London, into which I plunged for a time, borne me
away from this most original of men; and this is what I so
greatly lament now: for of Borrow it may be said, as it was
said of a greater man still, that 'after Nature made _him_ she
forthwith broke the mould.' The last time I ever saw him was
shortly before he left London to live in the country. It was, I
remember well, on Waterloo Bridge, where I had stopped to gaze
at a sunset of singular and striking splendour, whose gorgeous
clouds and ruddy mists were reeling and boiling over the
West-End. Borrow came up and stood leaning over the parapet,
entranced by the sight, as well he might be. Like most people
born in flat districts, he had a passion for sunsets. Turner
could not have painted that one, I think, and certainly my pen
could not describe it; for the London smoke was flushed by the
sinking sun, and had lost its dunness, and, reddening every
moment as it rose above the roofs, steeples, and towers, it
went curling round the sinking sun in a rosy vapour, leaving,
however, just a segment of a golden rim, which gleamed as
dazzlingly as in the thinnest and clearest air--a peculiar
effect which struck Borrow deeply. I never saw such a sunset
before or since, not even on Waterloo Bridge; and from its
association with 'the last of Borrow' I shall never forget
it.[244]
Mr. Watts-Dunton concludes his reminiscences--the most valuable personal
record that we have of Borrow--with a sonnet that now has its place in
literature:
We talked of 'Children of the Open Air'
Who once in Orient valleys lived aloof,
Loving the sun, the wind, the sweet reproof
Of storms, and all that makes the fair earth fair,
Till, on a day, across the mystic bar
Of moonrise, came the 'Children of the Roof,'
Who find no balm 'neath Evening's rosiest woof,
Nor dews of peace beneath the Morning Star.
We looked o'er London where men wither and choke,
Roofed in, poor souls, renouncing stars and skies,
And lore of woods and wild wind-prophecies--
Yea, every voice that to their fathers spoke:
And sweet it seemed to die ere bricks and smoke
Leave never a meadow outside Paradise.
FOOTNOTES:
[237] Theodore Watts-Dunton's memoir of Thomas Gordon Hake in the
_Athenæum_, January 19, 1895.
An interesting letter that I have received from Mr. Watts-Dunton clears
up several points and may well have place here:--
'THE PINES, 11 PUTNEY HILL, S.W., _31st May 1913._
'You ask me what I have written upon George Borrow. When Borrow died
(26th July 1881), the first obituary notice of him in the _Athenæum_ was
not by me, but by W. Elwin. This appeared on the 6th August 1881. At
this time the general public had so forgotten that Borrow was alive that
I remember once, at one of old Mrs. Procter's receptions, it had been
discussed, as Lowell and Browning afterwards told me, as to whether I
was or was not "an archer of the long bow" because I said that on the
previous Sunday I had walked with Borrow in Richmond Park, and was
frequently seeing him, and that on the Sunday before I had walked in the
same beautiful park with Dr. Gordon Latham, another celebrity of the
past "known to be dead." The fact is, Borrow's really great books were
_Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_, and the latter had fallen almost dead
from the press, smothered by Victorian respectability and philistinism.
He was thoroughly soured and angry, and no wonder! He fought shy of
literary society. He quite resented being introduced to strangers.
'Elwin's article was considered very unsatisfactory. Knowing that the
most competent man in England to write about Borrow was my old friend,
Dr. Gordon Hake, I suggested that MacColl should ask the doctor (one of
the few men whom Borrow really loved) to furnish the _Athenæum_ with
another article. This was agreed to, and another article was written,
either by Dr. Hake himself, or by one of his sons--I don't quite
remember at this distance of time. It appeared in the _Athenæum_ of the
13th August 1881. But even this article did not seem to MacColl to
vitalise one of the most remarkable personalities of the 19th century;
and as I was then a leading writer in the literary department of the
_Athenæum_, MacColl asked me to give him an article upon Borrow whom I
had known so well. I did so, and the article "caught on," as MacColl
said, more than had any _Athenæum_ article for a long time. This
appeared 3rd September 1881. When MacColl read the article he was so
much pleased with it that he urged me to follow it up with an article on
Borrow in connection with the Children of the Open Air--a subject upon
which I had previously written a good deal in the _Athenæum_. This
appeared on the 10th September 1881, and became still more popular, and
the _Athenæum_ containing it had quite an exceptional sale.
'The Hake whom you inquire about, Egmont Hake, has drifted out of my
ken. He at one time lived in Paris, and wrote a book called _Paris
Originals_. I know that he did, at one time, contemplate writing upon
Borrow, and corresponded with Mrs. MacOubrey with this view; but the
affair fell through. As a son of Dr. Hake's he could not fail to know
Borrow. He wrote a brief article about him, in the _Dictionary of
National Biography_. But the two Hakes who were thrown across Borrow
most intimately were Thomas Hake and George Hake, the latter of whom
lately died in Africa. Thomas Hake, the eldest of the family, knew
Borrow in his own childhood, which the other members of the family did
not. After Dr. Gordon Hake went to live in Germany, after the Roehampton
home was broken up, I saw a good deal of Borrow. He always thought that
no one sympathised with him and understood him so thoroughly as I
did,--Ever most cordially yours,
'THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.'
Since receiving this letter I have been in communication with Mr. Egmont
Hake, who generously offered to place his Borrow material at my
disposal, but this offer came too late to be of service. Mr. Hake will,
however, shortly publish his _Memoirs_ in which he will include some
interesting impressions of George Borrow which it has been my privilege
to read in manuscript.
[238] Dr. Hake was equally severe in his references to Thackeray, of
whom scarcely any one has spoken ill. 'Thackeray spent a good deal of
his time on stilts,' he says. '... He was a very disagreeable companion
to those who did not want to boast that they knew him.'--_Memoirs_, p.
86. 'Thackeray,' he says elsewhere, 'as if under the impression that
the party was invited to look at him, thought it necessary to
make a figure.... Borrow knew better how to behave in good
company.'--_Memoirs_, p. 166.
[239] _Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic_. By James Douglas.
Hodder and Stoughton, 1904, p. 96.
[240] 'Recollections of George Borrow,' by A. Egmont Hake in _The
Athenæum_, Aug. 13, 1881.
[241] Borrow's hair was black until he was about twenty years of age,
when it turned white.
[242] _Chambers's Cyclopaedia of English Literature_, vol. iii. p. 430.
[243] _The Athenæum_, September 3, 1881.
[244] _The Athenæum_, September 10, 1881. I am indebted to my friend Mr.
John Collins Francis., of _The Athenæum_ newspaper, for generously
placing the columns of that journal at my disposal for the purposes of
this book.
CHAPTER XXXV
BORROW'S UNPUBLISHED WRITINGS
To many in our day, less utilitarian than those of an earlier era,
Borrow must have been an interesting man of letters had he not written
his four great books. Single-minded devotion to the less commercially
remunerative languages has now become respectable and even estimable.
Students of the Scandinavian languages, and of the Celtic, abound in our
midst. Borrow was a forerunner with Bowring of much of this 'useless'
learning. Borrow came to consider Bowring's apparent neglect of him to
be unforgivable. But that time had not arrived, when in 1842 he wrote to
him as follows:
To Dr. John Bowring
OULTON, LOWESTOFT, SUFFOLK, _July 14th, 1842._
DEAR DEAR SIR,--Pray excuse my troubling you with a line. I
wish you would send as many of the papers and manuscripts,
which I left at yours some twelve years ago, as you can find.
Amongst others there is an essay on Welsh poetry, a translation
of the _Death of Balder_, etc. If I am spared to the beginning
of next year, I intend to bring out a volume called _Songs of
Denmark_, consisting of some selections from the _Kæmpe Viser_
and specimens from Ewald, Grundtvig, Oehlenschläger, and I
suppose I must give a few notices of those people. Have you any
history of Danish literature from which I could glean a few
hints. I think you have a book in two volumes containing
specimens of Danish poetry. It would be useful to me as I want
to translate Ingemann's _Dannebrog_; and one or two other
pieces. I shall preface all with an essay on the Danish
language. It is possible that a book of this description may
take, as Denmark is quite an untrodden field.
Could you lend me for a short time a Polish and French or
Polish and German dictionary. I am going carefully through
Makiewitz, about whom I intend to write an _article_.
_The Bible in Spain_ is in the press, and with God's permission
will appear about November in three volumes. I shall tell
Murray to send a copy to my oldest, I may say my _only_ friend.
Pray let me know how you are getting on. I every now and then
see your name in the _Examiner_, the only paper I read. Should
you send the papers and the books it must be by the Yarmouth
coach which starts from Fetter Lane. Address: George Borrow,
Crown Inn, Lowestoft, Suffolk. With kindest remembrances to
Mrs. Bowring, Miss Bowring, and family--I remain, Dear Sir,
ever yours,
GEORGE BORROW.
[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A POEM FROM _TARGUM_
A Translation from the French by George Borrow
My Eighteenth Year
Where is my eighteenth year? far back
Upon life's variegated track;
Yet fondly oft I turn my eye,
And for my eighteenth year I sigh.
Each pleasure then I took with zest,
And hope was inmate of my breast,
Enchanting hope, consoling thing,
The plucker out of sorrow's sting.
The sun above shone brighter then
Fairer were women, kinder men
If tears I shed they soon were o'er
And I was happier than before.]
Now with the achieved success of _The Bible in Spain_ and the leisure of
a happy home Borrow could for the moment think of the ambition of
'twelve years ago'--an ambition to put before the public some of the
results of his marvellous industry. The labours of the dark, black years
between 1825 and 1830 might now perchance see the light. Three such
books got themselves published, as we have seen, _Romantic Ballads_,
_Targum_, and _The Talisman_. _The Sleeping Bard_ had been translated
and offered to 'a little Welsh bookseller' of Smithfield in 1830, who,
however, said, when he had read it, 'were I to print it I should be
ruined.' That fate followed the book to the end, and Borrow was
premature when he said in his Preface to _The Sleeping Bard_ that such
folly is on the decline, because he found 'Albemarle Street in '60
willing to publish a harmless but plain-speaking book which Smithfield
shrank from in '30.' At the last moment John Murray refused to publish,
but seems to have agreed to give his imprint to the title-page. Borrow
published the book at his own expense, it being set up by James Matthew
Denew, of 72 Hall Plain, Great Yarmouth. Fourteen years later--in
1874--Mr. Murray made some amends by publishing _Romano Lavo-Lil_, in
which are many fine translations from the Romany, and that, during his
lifetime, was the 'beginning and the end' of Borrow's essays in
publishing so far as his translations were concerned. Webber, the
bookseller of Ipswich, did indeed issue _The Turkish Jester_--advertised
as ready for publication in 1857--in 1884, and Jarrold of Norwich _The
Death of Balder_ in 1889; but enthusiasts have asked in vain for _Celtic
Bards_, _Chiefs and Kings_, _Songs of Europe_, and _Northern Skalds,
Kings and Earls_. It is not recorded whether Borrow offered these to any
publisher other than 'Glorious John' of Albemarle Street, but certain it
is that Mr. Murray would have none of them. The 'mountains of
manuscript' remained to be the sorrowful interest of Borrow as an old
man as they had--many of them--been the sorrow and despair of his early
manhood. Here is a memorandum in his daughter's handwriting of the work
that Borrow was engaged upon at the time of his death:
Songs of Ireland.
Songs of the Isle of Man.
Songs of Wales.
Songs of the Gaelic Highlands.
Songs of Anglo-Saxon England.
Songs of the North, Mythological.
Songs of the North, Heroic.
Songs of Iceland.
Songs of Sweden.
Songs of Germany.
Songs of Holland.
Songs of Ancient Greece.
Songs of the Modern Greeks.
Songs of the Klephts.
Songs of Denmark, Early Period.
Songs of Denmark, Modern Period.
Songs of the Feroe Isles.
Songs of the Gascons.
Songs of Modern Italy.
Songs of Portugal.
Songs of Poland.
Songs of Hungary.
Songs and Legends of Turkey.
Songs of Ancient Rome.
Songs of the Church.
Songs of the Troubadours.
Songs of Normandy.
Songs of Spain.
Songs of Russia.
Songs of the Basques.
Songs of Finland.
These translations were intended to form a volume with copious
notes, but were only completed a month before Mr. Borrow's
death, which occurred at his residence, Oulton Cottage,
Suffolk, July 26th, 1881, in the seventy-ninth year of his age.
This grand old man, full of years and honour, was buried beside
his wife (who had proved a noble helpmate to him), in Brompton
Cemetery, August 4th.
And so what many will consider Borrow's 'craze' for verse translations
remained with him to the end. We know with what equanimity he bore his
defeat in early years. Did he not make humorous 'copy' out of it in
_Lavengro_. It must have been a greater disappointment that his
publisher would have none of his wares when he had proved by writing
_The Bible in Spain_ that at least some of his work had money in it. For
years it was Borrow's opinion that Lockhart stood in his way, wishing to
hold the field with his _Ancient Spanish Ballads_ (1821), and
maintaining that Borrow was no poet. The view that Borrow had no poetry
in him and that his verse is always poor has been held by many of
Borrow's admirers. The view will not have the support of those who have
had the advantage of reading all Borrow's less known published writings,
and the many manuscripts that he left behind him. But on the general
question let us hear Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton:--
It should never be forgotten that Borrow was, before everything
else, a poet.... By poet I do not mean merely a man who is
skilled in writing lyrics and sonnets and that kind of thing,
but primarily a man who has the poetic gift of seeing through
'the show of things,' and knowing where he is--the gift of
drinking deeply of the waters of life, and of feeling grateful
to Nature for so sweet a draught.'[245]
Possibly Mr. Watts-Dunton did not contemplate his idea being applied to
Borrow's verse translations, but all the same the quality of poetic
imagination may be found here in abundance. The little Welsh bookseller
of Smithfield said to Borrow in reference to _The Sleeping Bard_:
Were I to print it I should be ruined; the terrible description
of vice and torment would frighten the genteel part of the
English public out of its wits, and I should to a certainty be
prosecuted by Sir James Scarlett. I am much obliged to you for
the trouble you have given yourself on my account--but, Myn
Diawl! I had no idea, till I had read him in English, that Elis
Wyn had been such a terrible fellow.
And here the little Welsh bookseller paid Borrow a signal compliment. In
the main Borrow provided a prose translation of _The Sleeping Bard_. In
_Targum_ however, he showed himself a quite gifted balladist, far
removed from the literary standard of _Romantic Ballads_ ten years
earlier. Space does not permit of any quotation in this chapter, and I
must be content here to declare that the spirit of poetry came over
Borrow on many occasions. The whole of Borrow's _Songs of Scandinavia_
will ultimately be published, although for eighty and more years[246]
the pile of neatly written manuscript of that book, which is now in my
possession, has appealed for publication in vain. There will be found,
in such a ballad as _Orm Ungerswayne_, for example, a practical
demonstration that Borrow had the root of the matter in him. It is true
that Borrow's limited acquaintance with English poetry was a serious
drawback to great achievement, and his many translations from his
favourite Welsh bard Goronwy Owen that are before me are too much under
the influence of Pope. In addition to the _Songs of Scandinavia_ I have
before me certain other ballads in manuscript--such portions of his
various unpublished but frequently advertised works as did not fall to
Dr. Knapp.[247] Of these I do not hesitate to say that whatever the
difference of opinion as to their poetic quality there can be no
difference of opinion as to their being well-told stories of an
exceedingly interesting and invigorating character. But I must leave for
another time and another opportunity any discussion of Borrow's poetic
achievement of which at present the world has had little opportunity of
knowing anything.[248] Of prose manuscript there is also a considerable
quantity, including diaries of travel and translations of nine or ten
stories from various languages. Of the minor books already published we
have already spoken of _Faustus_, _Romantic Ballads_, _Targum_, and _The
Talisman_, and Borrow's last and least interesting book _Romano
Lavo-Lil_. There remains but to recall:--
_The Sleeping Bard_, published by John Murray, 1860
_The Turkish Jester_, " W. Webber, 1884
_The Death of Balder_, " Jarrold and Sons, 1889
These eight little volumes will always remain Borrow's least-read books.
Only in _Targum_ and _The Sleeping Bard_ do we find much indication of
those qualities which made him famous. It is not in the least surprising
that the other work failed to find a publisher, and, indeed, from a
merely commercial point of view, the late John Murray had more excuse
for refusing _Romano Lavo-Lil,_ which he did publish, than _The Sleeping
Bard_, which he refused to publish--at least on his own responsibility.
Such books, whatever their merits, are issued to-day only by learned
societies. In a quite different category were those many ballads[249]
from diverse languages that Borrow had hoped to issue under such titles
as _Celtic Bards_, _Chiefs and Kings_, and _Northern Skalds, Kings and
Earls_. These books would have had no difficulty in finding a publisher
to-day were they offered by a writer of one half the popularity of
Borrow.[250]
[Illustration: BORROW AS A PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES
An 'Advertisement' put forth by Borrow in Norwich during the years of
struggle before he was sent to Russia by the Bible Society. This
interesting document, which is in Borrow's handwriting, is in the
possession of Mr. Frank J. Farrell of Great Yarmouth, by whose courtesy
it is reproduced here.]
There is, I repeat, excellent work in these ballads. As to _Targum_ let
it not be forgotten that Hasfeld--really a good judge--said in _The
Athenæum_ that 'the work is a pearl of genius,' and that William Bodham
Donne declared that 'the language and rhythm are vastly superior to
Macaulay's _Lays of Ancient Rome_.' As to _The Sleeping Bard_ Borrow
himself was able to make his own vigorous defence of that work. In
emulation of Walter Scott he reviewed himself in _The Quarterly_.[251]
His article is really an essay on Welsh poetry, and incidentally he
quotes from his unpublished _Celtic Bards, Chiefs and Kings_ a lengthy
passage, the manuscript of which is in my possession. We are introduced
again to all Borrow's old friends of _Wild Wales_: Hew Morris, Goronwy
Owen, and finally Elis Wyn. Borrow quotes from _The Romany Rye_, but as
becomes a reviewer of his own book, gives no praise to his achievement.
I find no plays among Borrow's 'mountains of manuscript' in my
possession, and so I am not disposed to accept the suggestion that the
following letter from Gifford to Borrow refers to a play which Borrow
pretended to be the work of a friend while it was really his own. If it
was his own he doubtless took Gifford's counsel to heart and promptly
destroyed the manuscript:--
To George Borrow, Esq.
_A Specimen of Gifford's criticism on a friend's_ play, _which
I was desired to send to him_.
MY DEAR BORROW,--I have read your M.S. very attentively, and
may say of it with Desdemona of the song--
'It is silly, sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like to old age.'