George Borrow was one of those whose mental powers are strong, and whose
bodily frame is yet stronger—a conjunction of forces often detrimental
to a literary career, in an age of intellectual predominance. His temper
was good and bad; his pride was humility; his humility was pride; his
vanity, in being negative, was of the most positive kind. He was reticent
and candid, measured in speech, with an emphasis that made trifles
significant.
Borrow was essentially hypochondriacal. Society he loved and hated
alike: he loved it that he might be pointed out and talked of; he hated
it because he was not the prince that he felt himself in its midst. His
figure was tall, and his bearing very noble: he had a finely moulded
head, and thick white hair—white from his youth; his brown eyes were
soft, yet piercing; his nose somewhat of the “semitic” type, which gave
his face the cast of the young Memnon. His mouth had a generous curve;
and his features, for beauty and true power, were such as can have no
parallel in our portrait gallery, where it is to be hoped the likeness of
him, in Mr. Murray’s possession, may one day find a place.
Borrow and his family used to stay with me at Bury; I visited him, less
often, at his cottage on the lake at Oulton, a fine sheet of water
that flows into the sea at Lowestoft. He was much courted there by his
neighbours and by visitors to the seaside. I there met Baron Alderson
and his daughters who had ridden from Lowestoft to see him, and I had a
long talk with the judge on wine. Borrow, being a lion, was invited to
accompany me to some of the great houses in the neighbourhood. On one
occasion we went to dine at Hardwick Hall, the residence of Sir Thomas
and Lady Cullum. The party consisted of Lord Bristol; Lady Augusta
Seymour, his daughter; Lord and Lady Arthur Hervey; Sir Fitzroy Kelly;
Mr. Thackeray, and ourselves. At that date, Thackeray had made money by
lectures on the Satirists, and was in good swing; but he never could
realize the independent feelings of those who happen to be born to
fortune—a thing which a man of genius should be able to do with ease. He
told Lady Cullum, which she repeated to me, that no one could conceive
how it mortified him to be making a provision for his daughters by
delivering lectures; and I thought she rather sympathized with him in
this his degradation. He approached Borrow, who, however, received him
very dryly. As a last attempt to get up a conversation with him, he said,
“Have you read my Snob Papers in _Punch_?”
“In _Punch_?” asked Borrow. “It is a periodical I never look at!”
It was a very fine dinner. The plates at dessert were of gold; they once
belonged to the Emperor of the French, and were marked with his “N” and
his Eagle.
Thackeray, as if under the impression that the party was invited to look
at him, thought it necessary to make a figure, and absorb attention
during the dessert, by telling stories and more than half acting them;
the aristocratic party listening, but appearing little amused. Borrow
knew better how to behave in good company, and kept quiet; though,
doubtless, he felt his mane.
Lady Cullum was a young woman of high principle; she became a firm friend
of Borrow for many years after, looking him up in London when he moved to
Hereford Square. Sir Thomas Cullum was a quiet, kind-hearted man; he was
the father-in-law of Mr. Milner Gibson, who married his only daughter,
born of a first marriage. Gibson was a man of pleasing manners; I
remember his saying that parliamentary life enabled one to bear anything
of an adversary with temper, except being touched by him.
But I am sorry to say Borrow was not always on his best behaviour in
company. He once went with me to a dinner at Mr. Bevan’s country house,
Rougham Rookery, and placed me in an extremely awkward position.
Mr. Bevan was a Suffolk banker, a partner of Mr. Oakes. He was one of
the kindest and most benevolent of men. His wife was gentle, unassuming,
attentive to her guests. In fact, not only they, but their sons and
daughters were beloved on account of their amiable dispositions.
A friend of Borrow, the heir to a very considerable estate, had run
himself into difficulties, and owed money, which was not forthcoming, to
the Bury banking house; and in order to secure repayment, Mr. Bevan was
said to have “struck the docket.” I knew this beforehand from Borrow,
who, however, accepted the invitation, and was seated at dinner at Mrs.
Bevan’s side.
This lady, a simple, unpretending woman, 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?” On this he fretted and fumed, rose from the table and
walked up and down among the servants, during the whole of dinner, and
afterwards wandered about the rooms and passage, till the carriage could
be ordered for our return home.
Mr. J. W. Donne, the librarian of the London library, and afterwards
reader of plays, told me, while he was a resident at Bury, that Borrow
had behaved in a somewhat like manner to Miss Agnes Strickland, who,
hearing that Borrow was in the same room with her, at a reception, urged
him to make her acquainted with her brother-author. Borrow was unwilling
to be introduced, but was prevailed on to submit. He sat down at her
side; before long, she spoke with rapture of his works, and asked his
permission to send him a copy of her “Queens of England.” He exclaimed,
“For God’s sake, don’t, madame; I should not know where to put them or
what to do with them.” On this he rose, fuming, as was his wont when
offended, and said to Mr. Donne, “What a damned fool that woman is!”
The fact is that, whenever Borrow was induced to do anything unwillingly,
he lost his temper.