MAY–SEPTEMBER 1825
FOURTEEN months in London had shown Borrow how hard was the road of
authorship. He confessed that he was not “formed by nature to be a
pallid indoor student.” “The peculiar atmosphere of the big city” did
not agree with him, and this fact, together with the anxiety and hard
work of the past twelve months, caused him to flag, and his first thought
was how to recover his health. He was disillusioned as to the busy
world, and the opportunities it offered to a young man fired with
ambition to make a stir in it. He determined to leave London, which he
did towards the end of May, {60} first despatching his trunk “containing
a few clothes and books to the old town [Norwich].” He struck out in a
south-westerly direction, musing on his achievements as an author, and
finding that in having preserved his independence and health, he had
“abundant cause to be grateful.”
Throughout his life Borrow was hypnotised by independence. Like many
other proud natures, he carried his theory of independence to such an
extreme as to become a slave to it and render himself unsociable,
sometimes churlish. It was this virtue carried to excess that drove
Borrow from London. He must tell men what was in his mind, and his one
patron, Sir Richard Phillips, he had mortally offended in this manner.
Finding that he was unequal to much fatigue, after a few hours’ walking
he hailed a passing coach, which took him as far as Amesbury in
Wiltshire. From here he walked to Stonehenge and on to Salisbury,
“inspecting the curiosities of the place,” and endeavouring by sleep and
good food to make up the wastage of the last few months. The weather was
fine and his health and spirits rapidly improved as he tramped on, his
“daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles.” He
encountered the mysterious stranger who “touched” against the evil eye.
F. H. Groome asserts, on the authority of W. B. Donne, that this was in
reality William Beckford. Borrow must have met him at some other time
and place, as he had already left Fonthill in 1825. It is, however,
interesting to recall that Borrow himself “touched” against the evil eye.
Mr Watts-Dunton has said:
“There was nothing that Borrow strove against with more energy than
the curious impulse, which he seems to have shared with Dr Johnson,
to touch the objects along his path in order to save himself from the
evil chance. He never conquered the superstition. In walking
through Richmond Park he would step out of his way constantly to
touch a tree, and he was offended if the friend he was with seemed to
observe it.” {61a}
The chance meeting with Jack Slingsby (in fear of his life from the
Flaming Tinman, and bound by oath not to continue on the same beat) gave
Borrow the idea of buying out Slingsby, beat, plant, pony and all. “A
tinker is his own master, a scholar is not,” {61b} he remarks, and then
proceeds to draw tears and moans from the dispirited Slingsby and his
family by a description of the joys of tinkering, “the happiest life
under heaven . . . pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-row,
listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky
kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest
bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow.” {62a}
By the expenditure of five pounds ten shillings, plus the cost of a
smock-frock and some provisions, George Borrow, linguist, editor and
translator, became a travelling tinker. With his dauntless little pony,
Ambrol, he set out, a tinkering Ulysses, indifferent to what direction he
took, allowing the pony to go whither he felt inclined. At first he
experienced some apprehension at passing the night with only a tent or
the stars as a roof. Rain fell to mar the opening day of the adventure,
but the pony, with unerring instinct, led his new master to one of
Slingsby’s usual camping grounds.
In the morning Borrow fell to examining what it was beyond the pony and
cart that his five pounds ten shillings had purchased. He found a tent,
a straw mattress and a blanket, “quite clean and nearly new.” There were
also a frying-pan, a kettle, a teapot (broken in three pieces) and some
cups and saucers. The stock-in-trade “consisted of various tools, an
iron ladle, a chafing-pan, and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles,
the latter being of tin, with the exception of one which was of copper,
all in a state of considerable dilapidation.” The pans and kettles were
to be sold after being mended, for which purpose there was “a block of
tin, sheet-tin, and solder.” But most precious of all his possessions
was “a small anvil and bellows of the kind which are used in forges, and
two hammers such as smiths use, one great, and the other small.” {62b}
Borrow had learned the blacksmith’s art when in Ireland, and the anvil,
bellows and smith’s hammers were to prove extremely useful.
A few days after pitching his tent, Borrow received from his old enemy
Mrs Herne, Mr Petulengro’s mother-in-law, a poisoned cake, which came
very near to ending his career. He then encountered the Welsh preacher
(“the worthiest creature I ever knew”) and his wife, who were largely
instrumental in saving him from Mrs Herne’s poison. Having remained with
his new friends for nine days, he accompanied them as far as the Welsh
border, where he confessed himself the translator of Ab Gwilym, giving as
an excuse for not accompanying them further that it was “neither fit nor
proper that I cross into Wales at this time, and in this manner. When I
go into Wales, I should wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with
hat and beaver, mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that
which bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover,” he
continued, “to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome
me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and to attend me
to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where I should wish to be
invited to a dinner at which all the bards should be present, and to be
seated at the right hand of the president, who, when the cloth was
removed, should arise, and amidst cries of silence, exclaim—‘Brethren and
Welshmen, allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend
the translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and glory of
Wales.’” {63a}
He returned with Mr Petulengro, who directed him to Mumber Lane (Mumper’s
Dingle), near Willenhall, in Staffordshire, “the little dingle by the
side of the great north road.” Here Borrow encamped and shod little
Ambrol, who kicked him over as a reminder of his clumsiness.
He had refused an invitation from Mr Petulengro to become a Romany _chal_
and take a Romany bride, the granddaughter of his would-be murderess, who
“occasionally talked of” him. He yearned for solitude and the country’s
quiet. He told Mr Petulengro that he desired only some peaceful spot
where he might hold uninterrupted communion with his own thoughts, and
practise, if so inclined, either tinkering or the blacksmith’s art, and
he had been directed to Mumper’s Dingle, which was to become the setting
of the most romantic episode in his life.
In the dingle Borrow experienced one of his worst attacks of the
“Horrors”—the “Screaming Horrors.” He raged like a madman, a prey to
some indefinable, intangible fear; clinging to his “little horse as if
for safety and protection.” {64a} He had not recovered from the
prostrating effects of that night of tragedy when he was called upon to
fight Anselo Herne, “the Flaming Tinman,” who somehow or other seemed to
be part of the bargain he had made with Jack Slingsby, and encounter the
queen of road-girls, Isopel Berners. The description of the fight has
been proclaimed the finest in our language, and by some the finest in the
world’s literature.
Isopel Berners is one of the great heroines of English Literature. As
drawn by Borrow, with her strong arm, lion-like courage and tender
tearfulness, she is unique. However true or false the account of her
relations with Borrow may be, she is drawn by him as a living woman. He
was incapable of conceiving her from his imagination. It may go
unquestioned that he actually met an Isopel Berners, {64b} but whether or
no his parting from her was as heart-rendingly tragic as he has depicted
it, is open to very grave question.
[Picture: Mumber Lane (Mumper’s Dingle)]
With this queen of the roads he seems to have been less reticent and more
himself than with any other of his vagabond acquaintance, not excepting
even Mr Petulengro. To the handsome, tall girl with “the flaxen hair,
which hung down over her shoulders unconfined,” and the “determined but
open expression,” he showed a more amiable side of his character; yet he
seems to have treated her with no little cruelty. He told her about
himself, how he “had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and had
dealings with ferocious publishers,” bringing tears to her eyes, and when
she grew too curious, he administered an antidote in the form of a few
Armenian numerals. If his _Autobiography_ is to be credited, Isopel
loved him, and he was aware of it; but the knowledge did not hinder him
from torturing the poor girl by insisting that she should decline the
verb “to love” in Armenian.
Borrow’s attitude towards Isopel was curiously complex; he seemed to find
pleasure in playing upon her emotions. At times he appeared as
deliberately brutal to her, as to the gypsy girl Ursula when he talked
with her beneath the hedge. He forced from Isopel a passionate rebuke
that he sought only to vex and irritate “a poor ignorant girl . . . who
can scarcely read or write.” He asked her to marry him, but not until he
had convinced her that he was mad. How much she had become part of his
life in the dingle he did not seem to realise until after she had left
him. Isopel Berners was a woman whose character was almost masculine in
its strength; but she was prepared to subdue her spirit to his, wished to
do so even. With her strength, however, there was wisdom, and she left
Borrow and the dingle, sending him a letter of farewell that was
certainly not the composition of “a poor girl” who could “scarcely read
or write.” The story itself is in all probability true; but the letter
rings false. Isopel may have sent Borrow a letter of farewell, but not
the one that appears in _The Romany Rye_.
Among Borrow’s papers Dr Knapp discovered a fragment of manuscript in
which Mr Petulengro is shown deliberating upon the expediency of
emulating King Pharaoh in the number of his wives. Mrs Petulengro
desires “a little pleasant company,” and urges her husband to take a
second spouse. He proceeds:—
“Now I am thinking that this here Bess of yours would be just the
kind of person both for my wife and myself. My wife wants something
_gorgiko_, something genteel. Now Bess is of blood gorgious; if you
doubt it, look at her face, all full of _pawno ratter_, white blood,
brother; and as for gentility, nobody can make exceptions to Bess’s
gentility, seeing she was born in the workhouse of Melford the
Short.”
Mr Petulengro sees in Bess another advantage. If “the Flaming Tinman”
{66a} were to descend upon them, as he once did, with the offer to fight
the best of them for nothing, and Tawno Chikno were absent, who was to
fight him? Mr Petulengro could not do so for less than five pounds; but
with Bess as a second wife the problem would be solved. She would fight
“the Flaming Tinman.”
This proves nothing, one way or the other, and can scarcely be said to
“dispel any allusions,” as Dr Knapp suggests, or confirm the story of
Isopel. Why did Borrow omit it from Lavengro? Not from caprice surely.
It has been stated that those who know the gypsies can vouch for the fact
that no such suggestion could have been made by a gypsy woman.
It would appear that Isopel Berners existed, but the account of her given
by Borrow in Lavengro and The Romany Rye is in all probability coloured,
just as her stature was heightened by him. If she were taller than he,
she must have appeared a giantess. Borrow was an impressionist, and he
has probably succeeded far better in giving a faithful picture of Isopel
Berners than if he had been photographically accurate in his
measurements.
According to Borrow’s own account, he left Willenhall mounted upon a fine
horse, purchased with money lent to him by Mr Petulengro, a small valise
strapped to the saddle, and “some desire to meet with one of those
adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as plentiful as
blackberries.” From this point, however, _The Romany Rye_ becomes
dangerous as autobiography. {66b}
For one thing, it was unlike Borrow to remain in debt, and it is
incredible that he should have ridden away upon a horse purchased with
another man’s money, without any set purpose in his mind. Therefore the
story of his employment at the Swan Inn, Stafford, where he found his
postilion friend, and the subsequent adventures must be reluctantly
sacrificed. They do not ring true, nor do they fit in with the rest of
the story. That he experienced such adventures is highly probable; but
it is equally probable that he took some liberty with the dates.
Up to the point where he purchases the horse, Borrow’s story is
convincing; but from there onwards it seems to go to pieces, that is as
autobiography. The arrival of Ardry (Arden) at the inn, {67a} _passing
through Stafford on his way to Warwick_ to be present at a dog and lion
fight that had already taken place (26th July), is in itself enough to
shake our confidence in the whole episode of the inn. In _The Gypsies of
Spain_ Mr Petulengro is made to say:
“I suppose you have not forgot how, fifteen years ago, when you made
horseshoes in the little dingle by the side of the great north road,
I lent you fifty cottors [guineas] to purchase the wonderful trotting
cob of the innkeeper with the green Newmarket coat, which three days
after you sold for two hundred. Well, brother, if you had wanted the
two hundred instead of the fifty, I could have lent them to you, and
would have done so, for I knew you would not be long pazorrhus
[indebted] to me.” {67b}
It seems more in accordance with Borrow’s character to repay the loan
within three days than to continue in Mr Petulengro’s debt for weeks, at
one time making no actual effort to realise upon the horse. The question
as to whether Borrow received a hundred and fifty (as he himself states)
or two hundred pounds is immaterial. It is quite likely that he sold the
horse before he left the dingle, and that the adventures he narrates may
be true in all else save the continued possession of his steed, that is,
with the exception of the Francis Ardry episode, the encounter with the
man in black, and the arrival at Horncastle during the fair. If Borrow
left London on 24th May, and he could not have left earlier, as has been
shown, he must have visited the Fair (Tamworth) with Mr Petulengro on
26th July, and set out from Willenhall about 2nd August.
It has been pointed out by that distinguished scholar and
gentleman-gypsy, Mr John Sampson, {68} that as the Horse Fair at
Horncastle was held 12th–21st August, if Borrow took the horse there it
could not have been in the manner described in _The Romany Rye_, where he
is shown as spending some considerable time at the inn, if we may judge
by the handsome cheque (£10) offered to him by the landlord as a bonus on
account of his services. Then there was the accident and the consequent
lying-up at the house of the man who knew Chinese, but could not tell
what o’clock it was. To confirm Borrow’s itinerary all this must have
been crowded into less than three weeks, fully a third of which Borrow
spent in recovering from his fall. This would mean that for less than a
fortnight’s work, the innkeeper offered him ten pounds as a gratuity, in
addition to the bargain he had made, which included the horse’s keep.
Mr Sampson has supported his itinerary with several very important pieces
of evidence. Borrow states in _Lavengro_ that “a young moon gave a
feeble light” as he mounted the coach that was to take him to Amesbury.
The moon was in its first quarter on 24th May. There actually was a
great thunderstorm in the Willenhall district about the time that Borrow
describes (18th July). It is Mr Sampson also who has identified the fair
to which Borrow went with the gypsies as that held at Tamworth on 26th
July.
Whatever else Borrow may have been doing immediately after leaving the
dingle, he appears to have been much occupied in speculating as to the
future. Was he not “sadly misspending his time?” He was forced to the
conclusion that he had done nothing else throughout his life but misspend
his time. He was ambitious. He chafed at his narrow life. “Oh! what a
vast deal may be done with intellect, courage, riches, accompanied by the
desire of doing something great and good!” {69a} he exclaims, and his
thoughts turned instinctively to the career of his old school-fellow,
Rajah Brooke of Sarawak. {69b} He was now, by his own confession, “a
moody man, bearing on my face, as I well knew, the marks of my strivings
and my strugglings, of what I had learnt and unlearnt.” {69c} He
recognised the possibilities that lay in every man, only awaiting the
hour when they should be called forth. He believed implicitly in the
power of the will. {69d} He possessed ambition and a fine workable
theory of how success was to be obtained; but he lacked initiative. He
expected fortune to wait for him on the high-road, just as he knew
adventures awaited him. He would not go “across the country,” to use a
phrase of the time common to postilions. He was too independent, perhaps
too sensitive of being patronised, to seek employment. That he cared
“for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories,” was an
error into which his friend Mr Petulengro might well fall. The
mightiness of the man’s pride could be covered only by a cloak of assumed
indifference. He must be independent of the world, not only in material
things, but in those intangible qualities of the spirit. It was this
that lost him Isopel Berners, whose love he awakened by a strong right
arm and quenched with an Armenian noun. Again, his independence stood in
the way of his happiness. A man is a king, he seemed to think, and the
attribute of kings is their splendid isolation, their godlike solitude.
If his Ego were lonely and crying out for sympathy, Borrow thought it a
moment for solitude, in which to discipline his insurgent spirit. The
“Horrors” were the result of this self-repression. When they became
unbearable, his spirit broke down, the yearning for sympathy and
affection overmastered him, and he stumbled to his little horse in the
desolate dingle, and found comfort in the faithful creature’s whinny of
sympathy and its affectionate licking of his hand. The strong man clung
to his dumb brute friend as a protection against the unknown horror—the
screaming horror that had gripped him.
One quality Borrow possessed in common with many other men of strange and
taciturn personality. He could always make friends when he chose.
Ostlers, scholars, farmers, gypsies; it mattered not one jot to him what,
or who they were. He could earn their respect and obtain their
good-will, if he wished to do so. He demanded of men that they should
have done things, or be capable of doing things. They must know
everything there was to be known about some one thing; and the ostler,
than whom none could groom a horse better, was worthy of being ranked
with the best man in the land. He demanded of every man that he should
justify his existence, and was logical in his attitude, save in the
insignificant particular that he applied the same rule to himself only in
theory.
He was shrewd and a good judge of character, provided it were Protestant
character, and could hold his own with a Jew or a Gypsy. He was fully
justified in his boast of being able to take “precious good care of”
himself, and “drive a precious hard bargain”; yet these qualities were
not to find a market until he was thirty years of age.
Sometime during the autumn (1825) Borrow returned to Norwich, where he
busied himself with literary affairs, among other things writing to the
publishers of _Faustus_ about the bill that was shortly to fall due. The
fact of the book having been destroyed at both the Norwich libraries,
gave him the idea that he might make some profit by selling copies of the
suppressed volume. Hence his offer to Simpkin & Marshall to take copies
in lieu of money.