APRIL 1824–MAY 1825
ON 2nd April 1824, George Borrow was cast upon the world of London by the
death of his father, “with an exterior shy and cold, under which lurk
much curiosity, especially with regard to what is wild and extraordinary,
a considerable quantity of energy and industry, and an unconquerable love
of independence.” {40a}
It had become necessary for him to earn his own livelihood. Captain
Borrow’s pension had ceased with his death, and the old soldier’s savings
of a lifetime were barely sufficient to produce an income of a hundred
pounds a year for his widow. The provision made in the will for his
younger son during his minority would operate only for about four months,
as he would be of age in the following July. {40b} The clerkship with
Simpson & Rackham would expire at the end of March. Borrow had outlined
his ambitions in a letter written on 20th January 1824, when he was ill
and wretched, to Roger Kerrison, then in London: “If ever my health mends
[this has reference to a very unpleasant complaint he had contracted],
and possibly it may by the time my clerkship is expired, I intend to live
in London, write plays, poetry, etc., abuse religion and get myself
prosecuted,” for he was tired of the “dull and gloomy town.” It was
therefore with a feeling of relief that, on the evening of 1st April, he
took his seat on the top of the London coach, his hopes centred in a
small green box that he carried with him. It contained his
stock-in-trade as an author: his beloved manuscripts, “closely written
over in a singular hand.”
Among the bundles of papers were:
(i.) The Ancient Songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated by
himself, with notes philological, critical and historical.
(ii.) The Songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh Bard, also translated by
himself, with notes critical, philological and historical. {41}
(iii.) A romance in the German style.
In addition to his manuscripts, Borrow had some twenty or thirty pounds,
his testimonials, and a letter from William Taylor to Sir Richard
Phillips, the publisher, to whose _New Magazine_ he had already
contributed a number of translations of poems. He had also printed in
_The Monthly Magazine_ and _The New Monthly Magazine_ translations of
verse from the German, Swedish, Dutch, Danish and Spanish, and an essay
on Danish ballad writing.
On the morning of 2nd April there arrived at 16 Milman Street, Bedford
Row, London, W.C.,
“A lad who twenty tongues can talk,
And sixty miles a day can walk;
Drink at a draught a pint of rum,
And then be neither sick nor dumb;
Can tune a song and make a verse,
And deeds of Northern kings rehearse;
Who never will forsake his friend
While he his bony fist can bend;
And, though averse to broil and strife,
Will fight a Dutchman with a knife;
O that is just the lad for me,
And such is honest six-foot-three.” {42a}
It was through the Kerrisons that Borrow went to 16 Milman Street, where
Roger was lodging. His apartments seem to have been dismal enough,
consisting of “a small room, up two pair of stairs, in which I was to
sit, and another, still smaller, above it, in which I was to sleep.”
After the first feeling of loneliness had passed, dispelled largely by a
bright fire and breakfast, he sallied forth, the contents of the green
box under his arm, to present his letter of introduction to Sir Richard
Phillips, {42b} in whom centred his hopes of employment.
[Picture: Sir Richard Phillips. From the painting by James Saxon in the
National Portrait Gallery]
On arriving at the publisher’s house in Tavistock Square, he was
immediately shown into Sir Richard’s study, where he found “a tall, stout
man, about sixty, dressed in a loose morning gown,” and with him his
confidential clerk Bartlett (the Taggart of _Lavengro_). Sir Richard was
at first enthusiastic and cordial, but when he learned from William
Taylor’s letter that Borrow had come up to earn his livelihood by
authorship, his manner underwent a marked change. The bluff, hearty
expression gave place to “a sinister glance,” and Borrow found that
within that loose morning gown there was a second Sir Richard.
He learned two things—first, that Sir Richard Phillips had retired from
publishing and had reserved only _The Monthly Magazine_; {43} secondly,
that literature was a drug upon the market. With airy
self-assertiveness, the ex-publisher dismissed the contents of the green
box that Borrow had brought with him, which had already aroused
considerable suspicion in the mind of the maid who had admitted him to
the publisher’s presence.
When he had thoroughly dashed the young author’s hopes of employment, Sir
Richard informed him of a new publication he had in preparation, _The
Universal Review_ [_The Oxford Review_ of _Lavengro_], which was to
support the son of the house and the wife he had married. With a promise
that he should become a contributor to the new review, an earnest
exhortation to write a story in the style of _The Dairyman’s Daughter_,
and an invitation to dinner for the following Sunday, the first interview
between George Borrow and Sir Richard Phillips ended, and Borrow left the
great man’s presence to begin his exploration of London, first leaving
his manuscripts at Milman Street. During the rest of the day he walked
“scarcely less than thirty miles about the big city.” It was late when
he returned to his lodgings, thoroughly tired, but with a copy of _The
Dairyman’s Daughter_, for “a well-written tale in the style” of which Sir
Richard Phillips “could afford as much as ten pounds.” The day had been
one of the most eventful in Borrow’s life.
On the following Sunday Borrow dined at Tavistock Square, and met Lady
Phillips, young Phillips and his bride. He learned that Sir Richard was
a vegetarian of twenty years’ standing and a total abstainer, although
meat and wine were not banished from his table. When publisher and
potential author were left alone, the son having soon followed the ladies
into the drawing-room, Borrow heard of Sir Richard’s amiable intentions
towards him. He was to compile six volumes of the lives and trials of
criminals [the _Newgate Lives and Trials_ of _Lavengro_], each to contain
not less than a thousand pages. {44a} For this work he was to receive
the munificent sum of fifty pounds, which was to cover all expenses
incurred in the purchase of books, papers and manuscripts necessary to
the compilation of the work. This was only one of the employments that
the fertile brain of the publisher had schemed for him. He was also to
make himself useful in connection with the forthcoming _Universal
Review_. “Generally useful, sir—doing whatever is required of you”; for
it was not Sir Richard’s custom to allow young writers to select their
own subjects.
With impressive manner and ponderous diction, Sir Richard Phillips
unfolded his philanthropic designs regarding the young writer to whom his
words meant a career. He did not end with the appointment of Borrow as
general utility writer upon _The Universal Review_; but proceeded to
astonish him with the announcement that to him, George Borrow,
understanding German in a manner that aroused the “strong admiration” of
William Taylor, was to be entrusted the translating into that tongue of
Sir Richard Phillips’ book of Philosophy. {44b} If translations of
Goethe into English were a drug, Sir Richard Phillips’ _Proximate Causes_
was to prove that neither he nor his book would be a drug in Germany.
For this work the remuneration was to be determined by the success of the
translation, an arrangement sufficiently vague to ensure eventual
disagreement.
When Sir Richard had finished his account of what were his intentions
towards his guest, he gave him to understand that the interview was at an
end, at the same time intimating how seldom it was that he dealt so
generously with a young writer. Borrow then rose from the table and
passed out of the house, leaving his host to muse, as was his custom on
Sunday afternoons, “on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity
of man.”
For the next few weeks Borrow was occupied in searching in out-of-the-way
corners for criminal biography. If he flagged, a visit from his
philosopher-publisher spurred him on to fresh effort. He received a copy
of _Proximate Causes_, with an injunction that he should review it in
_The Universal Review_, as well as translate it into German. He was
taken to and introduced to the working editor {45a} of the new
publication, which was only ostensibly under the control of young
Phillips.
In the provision that he should purchase at his own expense all the
necessary materials for _Celebrated Trials_, Borrow found a serious tax
upon his resources; but a harder thing to bear with patience and
good-humour were the frequent visits he received from Sir Richard
himself, who showed the keenest possible interest in the progress of the
compilation. He had already caused a preliminary announcement to be made
{45b} to the effect that:
“A Selection of the most remarkable Trials and Criminal Causes is
printing, in five volumes. {46a} It will include all famous cases,
from that of Lord Cobham, in the reign of Henry the Fifth, to that of
John Thurtell: and those connected with foreign as well as English
jurisprudence. Mr Borrow, the editor, has availed himself of all the
resources of the English, German, French, and Italian languages; and
his work, including from 150 to 200 {46b} of the most interesting
cases on record, will appear in October next.” {46c}
Sir Richard’s visits to Milman Street were always accompanied by numerous
suggestions as to criminals whose claims to be included in this literary
chamber of horrors were in his, Sir Richard’s, opinion unquestionable.
The English character of the compilation was soon sacrificed in order to
admit notable malefactors of other nationalities, and the drain upon the
editor’s small capital became greater than ever.
The leisure that he allowed himself, Borrow spent in exploring the city,
or in the company of Francis Arden (Ardrey in _Lavengro_), whom he had
met by chance in the coffee-room of a hotel. The two appear to have been
excellent friends, perhaps because of the dissimilarity of their natures.
“He was an Irishman,” Borrow explains, “I an Englishman; he fiery,
enthusiastic and opened-hearted; I neither fiery, enthusiastic, nor
open-hearted; he fond of pleasure and dissipation, I of study and
reflection.” {46d}
They went to the play together, to dog-fights, gaming-houses, in short
saw the sights of London. The arrival of Francis Arden at 16 Milman
Street was a signal for books and manuscripts to be thrown aside in
favour either of some expedition or an hour or two’s conversation.
Borrow, however, soon tired of the pleasures of London, and devoted
himself almost entirely to work. Although he saw less of Francis Arden
in consequence, they continued to be excellent friends.
After being some four weeks in London, Borrow received a surprise visit
(29th April) from his brother, whom he found waiting for him one morning
when he came down to breakfast. John told him of his mother’s anxiety at
receiving only one letter from him since his departure, of her fits of
crying, of the grief of Captain Borrow’s dog at the loss of his master.
He also explained the reason for his being in London. He had been
invited to paint the portrait of Robert Hawkes, an ex-mayor of Norwich,
for a fee of a hundred guineas. Lacking confidence in his own ability,
he had declined the honour and suggested that Benjamin Haydon should be
approached. At the request of a deputation of his fellow citizens, which
had waited upon him, he had undertaken to enter into negotiations with
Haydon. He even undertook to come up to London at his own expense, that
he might see his old master and complete the bargain. Borrow
subsequently accompanied his brother when calling upon Haydon, and was
enabled to give a thumbnail-sketch of the painter of the Heroic at work
that has been pronounced to be photographic in its faithfulness.
John returned to Norwich about a fortnight later accompanied by Haydon,
who was to become the guest of his sitter, {47} and George was left to
the compilation of _Celebrated Trials_. Sir Richard Phillips appears to
have been a man as prolific of suggestion as he was destitute of tact.
He regarded his authors as the instruments of his own genius. Their
business it was to carry out his ideas in a manner entirely congenial to
his colossal conceit. His latest author he exposed “to incredible
mortification and ceaseless trouble from this same rage for
interference.”
The result of all this was an attack of the “Horrors.” Towards the end
of May, Roger Kerrison received from Borrow a note saying that he
believed himself to be dying, and imploring him to “come to me
immediately.” The direct outcome of this note was, not the death of
Borrow, but the departure from Milman Street of Roger Kerrison, lest he
should become involved in a tragedy connected with Borrow’s oft-repeated
threat of suicide. Kerrison became “very uneasy and uncomfortable on his
account, so that I have found it utterly impossible to live any longer in
the same lodgings with him.” {48a} Looked at dispassionately it seems
nothing short of an act of cowardice on Kerrison’s part to leave alone a
man such as Borrow, who might at any moment be assailed by one of those
periods of gloom from which suicide seemed the only outlet. On the other
hand, from an anecdote told by C. G. Leland (“Hans Breitmann”), there
seems to be some excuse for Kerrison’s wish to live alone. “I knew at
that time [about 1870],” he writes, {48b} “a Mr Kerrison, who had been as
a young man, probably in the Twenties, on intimate terms with Borrow. He
told me that one night Borrow acted very wildly, whooping and
vociferating so as to cause the police to follow him, and after a long
run led them to the edge of the Thames, ‘and there they thought they had
him.’ But he plunged boldly into the water and swam in his clothes to
the opposite shore, and so escaped.”
A serious misfortune now befell Borrow in the premature death of _The
Universal Review_, which expired with the sixth number (March
1824—January 1825). It is not known what was the rate of pay to young
and impecunious reviewers {49a} certainly not large, if it may be judged
by the amount agreed upon for _Celebrated Trials_. Still, its end meant
that Borrow was now dependent upon what he received for his compilation,
and what he merited by his translation into German of _Proximate Causes_.
There appears to have been some difficulty about payment for Borrow’s
contributions to the now defunct review, which considerably widened the
breach that the _Trials_ had created. Sir Richard became more exacting
and more than ever critical. {49b} The end could not be far off. Borrow
had come to London determined to be an author, and by no juggling with
facts could his present drudgery be considered as authorship.
Occasionally his mind reverted to the manuscripts in the green box, his
faith in which continued undiminished. He made further efforts to get
his translations published, but everywhere the answer was the same, in
effect, “A drug, sir, a drug!”
At last he determined to approach John Murray (the Second), “Glorious
John, who lived at the western end of the town”; but he called many times
without being successful in seeing him. Another seventeen years were to
elapse before he was to meet and be published by John Murray.
Yet another dispute arose between Borrow and Sir Richard Phillips.
Neither appeared to have realised the supreme folly of entrusting to a
young Englishman the translation into German of an English work. A novel
would have presented almost insurmountable difficulties; but a work of
philosophy! The whole project was absurd. The diction of philosophy in
all languages is individual, just as it is in other branches of science,
and a very thorough knowledge of, and deep reading in both languages are
necessary to qualify a man to translate from a foreign tongue into his
own. To expect an inexperienced youth to reverse the order seems to
suggest that Sir Richard Phillips must have been a publisher whose
enthusiasm was greater than his judgment.
One day when calling at Tavistock Square, Borrow found Sir Richard in a
fury of rage. He had submitted the first chapter of the translation of
_Proximate Causes_ to some Germans, who found it utterly unintelligible.
This was only to be expected, as Borrow confesses that, when he found
himself unable to comprehend what was the meaning of the English text, he
had translated it _literally into German_!
The result of the interview was that Borrow, after what appears to be a
tactless, not to say impertinent, rejoinder, {50a} relapsed into silence
and finally left the house, ordered back to his compilation by Sir
Richard, as soon as he became sufficiently calm to appear coherent, and
Borrow walked away musing on the “difference in clever men.”
The discovery of the inadequacy of the German translation apparently
urged Borrow to hasten on with _Celebrated Trials_. _The Universal
Review_ was dead, the German version of _Proximate Causes_ {50b} had
passed out of his hands. It was desirable, therefore, that the remaining
undertaking should be completed as soon as possible, that the two might
part. The last of the manuscript was delivered, the proofs passed for
press, and on 19th March the work appeared, the six volumes, running to
between three and four thousand pages, containing accounts of some four
hundred trials, including that of Borrow’s old friend Thurtell for the
murder of Mr Weare.
Borrow’s name did not appear. He was “the editor,” and as such was
referred to in the preface contributed by Sir Richard himself. Among
other things he tells of how, in some cases, “the Editor has compressed
into a score of pages the substance of an entire volume.” Sir Richard
was a philosopher as well as a preface-writing publisher, and it was only
natural that he should speculate as to the effect upon his editor’s mind
of months spent in reading and editing such records of vice. “It may be
expected,” he writes, “that the Editor should convey to his readers the
intellectual impressions which the execution of his task has produced on
his mind. He confesses that they are mournful.” Sir Richard was either
a master of irony, or a man of singular obtuseness.
One effect of this delving into criminal records had been to raise in
Borrow’s mind strange doubts about virtue and crime. When a boy, he had
written an essay in which he strove to prove that crime and virtue were
mere terms, and that we were the creatures of necessity or circumstance.
These broodings in turn reawakened the theory that everything is a lie,
and that nothing really exists except in our imaginations. The world was
“a maze of doubt.” These indications of an overtaxed brain increased,
and eventually forced Borrow to leave London. His work was thoroughly
uncongenial. He disliked reviewing; he had failed in his endeavours to
render _Proximate Causes_ into intelligible German; and it had taken him
some time to overcome his dislike of the sordid stories of crime and
criminals that he had to read and edit. He became gloomy and depressed,
and prone to compare the real conditions of authorship with those that
his imagination had conjured up.
The most important result of his labours in connection with _Celebrated
Trials_ was that upon his literary style. There is a tremendous
significance in the following passage. It tells of the transition of the
actual vagabond into the literary vagabond, with power to express in
words what proved so congenial to Borrow’s vagabond temperament:
“Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked
that of compiling the Newgate Lives and Trials [Celebrated Trials]
the best; that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I
originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough; but the
lives—how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in what
racy, genuine language were they told. What struck me most with
respect to these lives was the art which the writers, whoever they
were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy thing to
tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to tell one on
paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. People are
afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to embellish
their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations and
reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to
shine can never tell a plain story. ‘So I went with them to a music
booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk
their flash language, which I did not understand,’ {52a} says, or is
made to say, Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years
before the time of which I am speaking. I have always looked upon
this sentence as a masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so
concise and yet so clear.” {52b}
By the time the work was published and Borrow had been paid his fee, all
relations between editor and publisher had ceased, and there was “a poor
author, or rather philologist, upon the streets of London, possessed of
many tongues,” which he found “of no use in the world.” {52c} A month
after the appearance of _Celebrated Trials_ (18th April), and a little
more than a year after his arrival in London, Borrow published a
translation of Klinger’s _Faustus_. {53a} He himself gives no
particulars as to whether it was commissioned or no. It may even have
been “the Romance in the German style” from the Green Box. It is known
that he received payment for it by a bill at five or six months, {53b}
but there is no mention of the amount. It would appear that the
translation had long been projected, for in _The Monthly Magazine_, July
1824, there appeared, in conjunction with the announcement of _Celebrated
Trials_, the following paragraph: “The editor of the preceding has ready
for the press, a Life of Faustus, his Death and Descent into Hell, which
will also appear the next winter.”
_Faustus_ did not meet with a very cordial reception. _The Literary
Gazette_ (16th July 1825) characterised it as “another work to which no
respectable publisher ought to have allowed his name to be put. The
political allusion and metaphysics, which may have made it popular among
a low class in Germany, do not sufficiently season its lewd scenes and
coarse descriptions for British palates. We have occasionally
publications for the fireside,—these are only fit for the fire.”
Borrow had apparently been in some doubt about certain passages, for in a
note headed “The Translator to the Public,” he defends the work as moral
in its general teaching:
“The publication of the present volume may at first sight appear to
require some brief explanation from the Translator, inasmuch as the
character of the incidents may justify such an expectation on the
part of the reader. It is, therefore, necessary to state that,
although scenes of vice and crime are here exhibited, it is merely in
the hope that they may serve as beacons, to guide the ignorant and
unwary from the shoals on which they might otherwise be wrecked. The
work, when considered as a whole, is strictly moral.”
It must be confessed that Faustus does not err on the side of restraint.
Many of its scenes might appear “lewd . . . and coarse” to anyone who for
a moment allowed his mind to wander from the morality of “its general
teaching.” The attacks upon the lax morals of the priesthood must have
proved particularly congenial to the translator.
The more Borrow read his translations of Ab Gwilym, the more convinced he
became of their merit and the profit they would bring to him who
published them. The booksellers, however, with singular unanimity,
declined the risk of introducing to the English public either Welsh or
Danish ballads; and their translator became so shabby in consequence,
that he refrained from calling upon his friend Arden, for whom he had
always cherished a very real friendship. He began to lose heart. His
energy left him and with it went hope. He was forced to review his
situation. Authorship had obviously failed, and he found himself with no
reasonable prospect of employment.
There is no episode in Borrow’s life that has so exercised the minds of
commentators and critics as his account of the book he terms in
_Lavengro_, _The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_, _the Great
Traveller_. Some dismiss the whole story as apocryphal; others see in it
a grain of truth distorted into something of vital importance; whilst
there are a number of earnest Borrovians that accept the whole story as
it is written. Dr Knapp has said that Joseph Sell “was not a book at
all, and the author of it never said that it was.” This was obviously an
error, for the bookseller is credited with saying, “I think I shall
venture on sending your book to the press,” {55a} referring to it as a
“book” four times in nine lines. Again, in another place, Borrow
describes how he rescued himself “from peculiarly miserable circumstances
by writing a book, an original book, within a week, even as Johnson is
said to have written his _Rasselas_ and Beckford his _Vathek_.” {55b}
This removes all question of the _Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_
being included in a collection of short stories. The title would not be
the same, the date is most probably wrongly given, as in the case of
Marshland Shales; but the general accuracy of the account as written
seems to be highly probable. Many efforts have been made to trace the
story; but so far unsuccessfully. It must be remembered that Borrow
loved to stretch the long arm of coincidence; but he loved more than
anything else a dramatic situation. He was always on the look out for
effective “curtains.”
In favour of the story having been actually written, is the knowledge
that Borrow invented little or nothing. Collateral evidence has shown
how little he deviated from actual happenings, although he did not
hesitate to revise dates or colour events. The strongest evidence,
however, lies in the atmosphere of truth that pervades Chapters LV.–LVII.
of _Lavengro_. They are convincing. At one time or another during his
career, it would appear that Borrow wrote against time from grim
necessity; otherwise he must have been a master of invention, which
everything that is known about him clearly shows that he was not.
_Joseph Sell_ has disappeared, a most careful search of the Registers at
Stationers’ Hall can show no trace of that work, or any book that seems
to suggest it, and the contemporary literary papers render no assistance.
According to Borrow’s own account, one morning on getting up he found
that he had only half a crown in the world. It was this circumstance,
coupled with the timely notice that he saw affixed to a bookseller’s
window to the effect that “A Novel or Tale is much wanted,” that
determined him to endeavour to emulate Dr Johnson and William Beckford.
He had tired of “the Great City,” and his thoughts turned instinctively
to the woods and the fields, where he could be free to meditate and muse
in solitude.
When he returned to Milman Street after seeing the bookseller’s
advertisement, he found that his resources had been still further reduced
to eighteen-pence. He was too proud to write home for assistance, he had
broken with Sir Richard Phillips, and he had no reasonable expectation of
obtaining employment of any description; for his accomplishments found no
place in the catalogue of everyday wants. He was a proper man with his
hands, and knew some score or more languages. No matter how he regarded
the situation, the facts were obvious. Between him and actual starvation
there was the inconsiderable sum of eighteen-pence and the bookseller’s
advertisement. The gravity of the situation banished the cloud of
despondency that threatened to settle upon him, and also the doubts that
presented themselves as to whether he possessed the requisite ability to
produce what the bookseller required. The all-important question was,
could he exist sufficiently long on eighteen-pence to complete a story?
Sir Richard Phillips had told him to live on bread and water. He now did
so.
For a week he wrote ceaselessly at the _Life and Adventures of Joseph
Sell_, _the Great Traveller_. He wrote with the feverish energy of a man
who sees the shadow of actual starvation cast across his manuscript.
When the tale was finished there remained the work of revision, and after
that, worst of all, fears lest the bookseller were already suited.
Fortune, however, was kind to him, and he was successful in extracting
for his story the sum of twenty pounds. Borrow had not mixed among
gypsies for nothing. He, a starving and unknown author, succeeded in
extracting from a bookseller twenty pounds for a story, twice the amount
offered by Sir Richard Phillips for a novel on the lines of _The
Dairyman’s Daughter_. It was an achievement.
The first argument against the story, as related by Borrow, is that he
was not without resources at the time. Why should he be so impoverished
a few weeks after receiving payment for _Celebrated Trials_? {57} Above
all, why did he not realise upon Simpkin & Marshall’s bill for _Faustus_?
He would have experienced no difficulty in discounting a bill accepted by
such a firm. It seems hardly conceivable that he should preserve this
piece of paper when he had only eighteen-pence in the world. Everything
seems to point to the fact that in May 1825 Borrow was not in want of
money, and if he were not, why did he almost kill himself by writing the
_Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell_? Again, at that period he had met
with no adventures such as might be included in the life of a “Great
Traveller,” and Borrow was not an inventive writer. Later he possessed
plenty of material; for there can be no question that he roamed about the
world for a considerable portion of those seven mysterious years of his
life that came to be known as the “Veiled Period.” His accuracy as to
actual occurrences has been so emphasised that this particular argument
holds considerable significance.
The strongest evidence against _Joseph Sell_ having been written in 1825,
however, lies in the fact that Greenwich Fair was held on 23rd May, and
not 12th May, as given by Dr Knapp. By his error Dr Knapp makes Borrow
leave London a day before the Fair took place that he describes. Borrow
must have left London on the day following Greenwich Fair (24th May). If
he left later, then those things which tend to confirm his story of the
life in the Dingle do not fit in, as will be seen. He certainly could
not have left before Greenwich Fair was held.
In one of his brother John’s letters, written at the end of 1829, there
is a significant passage, “Let me know how you sold your manuscript.”
{58} What manuscript is it that is referred to? There is no record of
George having sold a manuscript in the autumn of 1829. The passage can
scarcely have reference to some article or translation; it seems to
suggest something of importance, an event in George’s life that his
brother is anxious to know more about. If this be _Joseph Sell_, then it
explains where Borrow got the money from to go up to London at the end of
1829, when he entered into relations with Dr Bowring. It is merely a
theory, it must be confessed; but there is certain evidence that seems to
support it. In the first place, Borrow was a chronicler before all else.
He possessed an amazing memory and a great gift for turning his
experiences into literary material. If he coloured facts, he appears to
have done so unconsciously, to judge from those portions of _The Bible in
Spain_ that were covered by letters to the Bible Society. Not only are
the facts the same, but, with very slight changes, the words in which he
relates them. He never hesitated to change a date if it served his
purpose, much as an artist will change the position of a tree in a
landscape to suit the exigencies of composition. His five volumes of
autobiography bristle with coincidences so amazing that, if they were
actually true, he must have been the most remarkable genius on record for
attracting to himself strange adventures. He met the sailor son of the
old Apple-Woman returning from his enforced exile; Murtagh tells him of
how the postilion frightened the Pope at Rome by his denunciation, a
story Borrow had already heard from the postilion himself; the Hungarian
at Horncastle narrates how an Armenian once silenced a Moldavian, the
same Moldavian whom Borrow had encountered in London; the postilion meets
the man in black again. There are scores of such coincidences, which
must be accepted as dramatic embellishments.