SEPTEMBER 1849–FEBRUARY 1854
ONE of the finest traits in Borrow’s character was his devotion to his
mother. He was always thoughtful for her comfort, even when fighting
that almost hopeless battle in Russia, and later in the midst of bandits
and bloody patriots in Spain. She was now, in 1849, an old woman, too
feeble to live alone, and it was decided to transfer her to Oulton. An
addition to the Hall was constructed for her accommodation, and she was
to be given an attendant-companion in the person of the daughter of a
local farmer.
For thirty-three years she had lived in the little house in Willow Lane;
yet it was not she, but Borrow, who felt the parting from old
associations. “I wish,” she writes to her daughter-in-law on 16th
September 1849, “my dear George would not have such fancies about _the
old house_; it is a mercy it has not fallen on my head before this.” The
old lady was anxious to get away. It would not be safe, she thought, for
her to be shut up alone, as the old woman who had looked after her could,
for some reason or other, do so no longer. She urges her daughter-in-law
to represent this to Borrow.
“There is a low, noisy set close to me,” she continues. “I shall not
die one day sooner, or live one day longer. If I stop here and die
on a sudden, half the things might be lost or stolen, therefore it
seems as if the Lord would provide me a _safer home_. I have made up
my mind to the change and only pray that I may be able to get through
the trouble.”
It would appear that the move, which took place at the end of September,
was brought about by the old lady’s appeals and insistence, and that
Borrow himself was not anxious for it. He felt a sentimental attachment
to the old place, which for so many years had been a home to him.
In 1853 Borrow removed to Great Yarmouth. During the summer of that
year, Dr Hake had peremptorily ordered Mrs George Borrow not to spend the
ensuing winter and spring at Oulton, and the move was made in August.
The change was found to be beneficial to Mrs Borrow and agreeable to all,
and for the next seven years (Aug. 1853–June 1860) Borrow’s headquarters
were to be at Great Yarmouth, where he and his family occupied various
lodgings.
Shortly before leaving Oulton, Borrow had received the following
interesting letter from FitzGerald:—
BOULGE, WOODBRIDGE, 22nd _July_ 1853.
MY DEAR SIR,—I take the liberty of sending you a book [Six Dramas
from Calderon], of which the title-page and advertisement will
sufficiently explain the import. I am afraid that I shall in general
be set down at once as an impudent fellow in 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. I mean, that whether you like or not what I
send you, you will do so from knowledge and in the candour which
knowledge brings.
I had even a mind to ask you to look at these plays before they were
printed, relying on our common friend Donne for a mediator; but I
know how wearisome all MS. inspection is; and, after all, the whole
affair was not worth giving you such a trouble. You must pardon all
this, and believe me,—Yours very faithfully,
EDWARD FITZGERALD.
Soon after his arrival by the sea, Borrow performed an act of bravery of
which _The Bury Post_ (17th Sept. 1852) gave the following account, most
likely written by Dr Hake:—
“INTREPIDITY.—Yarmouth jetty presented an extra-ordinary and
thrilling spectacle on Thursday, the 8th inst., about one o’clock.
The sea raged frantically, and a ship’s boat, endeavouring to land
for water, was upset, and the men were engulfed in a wave some thirty
feet high, and struggling with it in vain. The moment was an awful
one, when George Borrow, the well-known author _of Lavengro_, and
_The Bible in Spain_, dashed into the surf and saved one life, and
through his instrumentality the others were saved. We ourselves have
known this brave and gifted man for years, and, daring as was this
deed we have known him more than once to risk his life for others.
We are happy to add that he has sustained no material injury.”
Borrow was a splendid swimmer. {404a} In the course of one of his
country walks with Robert Cooke (John Murray’s partner), with whom he was
on very friendly terms,
“he suggested a bathe in the river along which they were walking. Mr
Cooke told me that Borrow, having stripped, took a header into the
water and disappeared. More than a minute had elapsed, and as there
were no signs of his whereabouts, Mr Cooke was becoming alarmed, lest
he had struck his head or been entangled in the weeds, when Borrow
suddenly reappeared a considerable distance off, under the opposite
bank of the stream, and called out ‘What do you think of that?’”
{404b}
Elizabeth Harvey, in telling the same story, says that on coming up he
exclaimed: “There, if that had been written in one of my books, they
would have said it was a lie, wouldn’t they?” {404c}
The paragraph about Borrow’s courage was printed in various newspapers
throughout the country, amongst others in the _Plymouth Mail_ under the
heading of “Gallant Conduct of Mr G. Borrow,” and was read by Borrow’s
Cornish kinsmen, who for years had heard nothing of Thomas Borrow.
Apparently quite convinced that George was his son, they deputed Robert
Taylor, a farmer of Penquite Farm (who had married Anne Borrow,
granddaughter of Henry Borrow), to write to Borrow and invite him to
visit Trethinnick. The letter was dated 10th October and directed to
“George Borrow, Yarmouth.” Borrow replied as follows:—
YARMOUTH, 14_th_ _Octr._, 1853.
MY DEAR SIR,—I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of
the 10th inst. in which you inform me of the kind desire of my
Cornish relatives to see me at Trethinnock (sic). Please to inform
them that I shall be proud and happy to avail myself of their
kindness and to make the acquaintance of “one and all” {405} of them.
My engagements will prevent my visiting them at present, but I will
appear amongst them on the first opportunity. I am delighted to
learn that there are still some living at Trethinnock who remember my
honoured father, who had as true a Cornish heart as ever beat.
I am at present at Yarmouth, to which place I have brought my wife
for the benefit of her health; but my residence is Oulton Hall,
Lowestoft, Suffolk. With kind greetings to my Cornish kindred, in
which my wife and my mother join,—I remain, my dear Sir, ever
sincerely yours,—
GEORGE BORROW.
Borrow was not free to visit his kinsfolk until the following Christmas.
First advising Robert Taylor of his intention, and receiving his approval
and instructions for the journey, Borrow set out from Great Yarmouth on
23rd December. He spent the night at Plymouth. Next morning on finding
the Liskeard coach full, he decided to walk. Leaving his carpet-bag to
be sent on by the mail, and throwing over his arm the cloak that had seen
many years of service, he set out upon his eighteen-mile tramp. He
arrived at Liskeard in the afternoon, and was met by his cousin Henry
Borrow and Robert Taylor, as well as by several local celebrities.
After tea Borrow, accompanied by Robert Taylor, rode to Penquite, four
miles away. “Ride by night to Penquite, Borrow records in his _Journal_.
House of stone and slate on side of a hill. Mrs Taylor. Hospitable
reception. Christmas Eve. Log on fire.” He found alive of his own
generation, Henry, William, Thomas, Elizabeth (who lived to be 94 years
of age) and Nicholas, the children of Henry Borrow, Captain Borrow’s
eldest brother. Also Anne, daughter of Henry, who married Robert Taylor,
and their daughter, likewise named Anne, and William Henry, son of
Nicholas.
In the Cornish Note Books there appears under the date of 3rd January the
following entry: “Rain and snow. Rode with Mr Taylor to dine at
Trethinnick. House dilapidated. A family party. Hospitable people.”
On first entering his father’s old home tears had sprung to Borrow’s
eyes, and he was much affected. There was present at the dinner the
vicar of St Cleer, the Rev. J. R. P. Berkeley, a pleasant Irish clergyman
who, years later, was able to give to Dr Knapp an account of what took
place. He noticed the “vast difference in appearance and manners between
the simple yet shrewd Cornish farmers and the betravelled gentleman their
kinsman;” yet for all this there were shades of resemblance—in a look,
some turn of thought or tone of voice. George Borrow was not at his best
that evening, Mr Berkeley relates of the dinner at Trethinnick:
“his feelings were too much excited. He was thinking of the time
when his father’s footsteps and his father’s voice re-echoed in the
room in which we were sitting. His eyes wandered from point to
point, and at times, if I was not mistaken, a tear could be seen
trembling in them. At length he could no longer control his
feelings. He left the hall suddenly, and in a few moments, but for
God’s providential care, the career of George Borrow would have been
ended. There was within a few feet of the house a low wall with a
drop of some feet into a paved yard. He walked rapidly out, and, it
being nearly dark, he stepped one side of the gate and fell over the
wall. He did not mention the accident, although he bruised himself a
good deal, and it was some days before I heard of it. His words to
me that evening, when bidding me good-bye, were: ‘Well, we have
shared the old-fashioned hospitality of old-fashioned people in an
old-fashioned house.’” {407a}
Borrow created something of a sensation in the neighbourhood. As a
celebrity his autograph was much sought after; but he would gratify
nobody. His hosts experienced many little surprises from their guest’s
strange ways. He would plunge into a moorland pool to fetch a bird that
had fallen to his gun, or, round the family fireside, he would shout his
ballads of the North, at one time alarming his audience by seizing a
carving-knife and brandishing it about in the air to emphasize the
passionate nature of his song. When a card-party proved too dull he
slipped off and found his way into some slums, picking up all the
disreputable characters he could find, working off his knowledge of cant
on them, and getting out of them what he could. {407b}
On one occasion when dining at the house of a local celebrity he was
suddenly missed from table during dessert.
“A search revealed him in a remote room surrounded by the children of
the house, whom he was amusing by his stories and catechising in the
subject of their studies and pursuits. He excused his absence by
saying that he had been fascinated by the intelligence of the
children, and had forgotten about the dinner.” {407c}
His hatred of gentility led him into some actions that can only be
characterised as childish. Even in Cornwall he was on the lookout for
his fetish. On one occasion when dining with the ex-Mayor of Liskeard,
he pulled out of his pocket and used instead of a handkerchief, a dirty
old grease-stained rag with which he was wont to clean his gun. {408}
This was done as a protest against something or other that seemed to him
to suggest mock refinement.
When at Wolsdon as the guest of the Pollards there arrived a lady and
gentleman of the name of Hambly, according to the Note Books. In spite
of this brief reference, Borrow immediately recognised a hated name.
Never was one of the name good, he informed Mr Berkeley. He may even
have been informed that they were descendants of the Headborough whom his
father had knocked down. He showed his detestation for the name by being
as rude as he could to those who bore it.
Borrow was as incapable of dissimulating his dislikes as he was of
controlling his moods. Even during his short stay at Penquite he was on
one occasion, at least, plunged into a deep melancholy, sitting before a
huge fire entirely oblivious to the presence of others in the room. Mrs
Berkeley, who, with the vicar himself, was a caller, thinking to produce
some good effect upon the gloomy man, sat down at the piano and played
some old Irish and Scottish airs. After a time Borrow began to listen,
then he raised his head, and finally “he suddenly sprang to his feet,
clapped his hands several times, danced about the room, and struck up
some joyous melody. From that moment he was a different man.” He told
them “tales and side-splitting anecdotes,” he joined the party at supper,
and when the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave he pressed Mrs
Berkeley’s hands, and told her that her music had been as David’s harp to
his soul.
To the young man he met during this visit who informed him that he had
left the Army as it was no place for a gentleman, Borrow replied that it
was no place for a man who was not a gentleman, and that he was quite
right in leaving it. To speak against the Army to Borrow was to speak
against his honoured father.
How Borrow struck his Cornish kinsfolk is shown in a letter written by
his hostess to a friend. “I must tell you,” she writes, “a bit about our
distinguished visitor.” She gives one of the most valuable portraits of
Borrow that exists. He was to her:
“A fine tall man of about six feet three, well-proportioned and not
stout; able to walk five miles an hour successively; rather florid
face without any hirsute appendages; hair white and soft; eyes and
eyebrows dark; good nose and very nice mouth; well-shaped
hands—altogether a person you would notice in a crowd. His character
is not so easy to portray. The more I see of him the less I know of
him. He is very enthusiastic and eccentric, very proud and
unyielding. He says very little of himself, and one cannot ask him
if inclined to . . . He is a marvel in himself. There is no one here
to draw him out. He has an astonishing memory as to dates when great
events have taken place, no matter in what part of the world. He
seems to know everything.” {409}
Borrow was gratified at the welcome he received, and was much pleased
with the neighbourhood and its people. “My relations are most excellent
people,” he wrote to his wife, “but I could not understand more than half
they said.” He was puzzled to know why the head of a family, which was
reputed to be worth seventy thousand pounds, should live in a house which
could not boast of a single grate—“nothing but open chimneys.”
He remained at Penquite for upwards of a fortnight, at one time galloping
over snowy hills and dales with Anne Taylor, Junr., “as gallant a girl as
ever rode,” at another, alert as ever for fragments of folk-lore or
philology, jotting down the story of a pisky-child from the dictation of
his cousin Elizabeth.
On 9th January Borrow left Penquite on a tour to Truro, Penzance,
Mousehole, and Land’s End, armed with the inevitable umbrella, grasped in
the centre by the right hand, green, manifold and bulging, that so
puzzled Mr Watts-Dunton and caused him on one occasion to ask Dr Hake,
“Is he a genuine Child of the Open Air?” It was one of the first things
to which Borrow’s pedestrian friends had to accustom themselves. With
this “damning thing . . . gigantic and green,” Borrow set out upon his
excursion, now examining some Celtic barrow, now enquiring his way or the
name of a landmark, occasionally singing in that tremendous voice of his,
“Look out, look out, Swayne Vonved!”
At Mousehole he called upon a relative, H. D. Burney (who was, it would
seem, in charge of the Coast Guard Station), to whom he had a letter of
introduction from Robert Taylor. Mr Burney entertained him with stories,
showed him places and things of interest in the neighbourhood, and
accompanied him on his visit to St Michael’s Mount. Borrow returned to
Penquite on the 25th with a considerable store of Cornish legends and
Cornish words, and the knowledge that you can only see Cornwall or know
anything about it by walking through it.
The next excursion was to the North Coast, Pentire Point, Tintagel, King
Arthur’s Castle, etc. On the 1st of February he left Penquite, and slept
the night at Trethinnick. The next morning he set out on horseback
accompanied by Nicholas Borrow.
To the vicar of St Cleer and his family, Borrow was a very welcome
visitor. Mr Berkeley’s eldest son, a boy of ten years of age, on being
introduced to the distinguished caller, gazed at him for some moments and
then without a word left the room and, going straight to his mother in
another apartment cried, “Well, mother, that _is_ a man.” Borrow was
delighted when he heard of the child’s enthusiasm. Mr Berkeley give a
picture of his distinguished visitor far more prepossessing than many
that exist. He was particularly struck, as was everybody, by the beauty
of Borrow’s hands, and their owner’s vanity over them as the legacy of
his Huguenot ancestors. Mr Berkeley found Borrow’s countenance pleasing,
betokening calm firmness, self-confidence and a mind under control,
though capable of passion. He could on occasion prove a delightful
talker, and he gave to the vicar’s family a new maxim to implant upon
their Christianity, the old prize-fighters receipt for a quiet life:
“Learn to box, and keep a civil tongue in your head.” He would often
drop in at the vicarage in the evening, when he would
“sit in the centre of a group before the fire with his hands on his
knees—his favourite position—pouring forth tales of the scenes he had
witnessed in his wanderings. . . . Then he would suddenly spring from
his seat and walk to and fro the room in silence; anon he would clap
his hands and sing a Gypsy song, or perchance would chant forth a
translation of some Viking poem; after which he would sit down again
and chat about his father, whose memory he revered as he did his
mother’s; {411} and finally he would recount some tale of suffering
or sorrow with deep pathos—his voice being capable of expressing
triumphant joy or the profoundest sadness.”
It was Borrow’s intention to write a book about his visit to Cornwall,
and he even announced it at the end of _The Romany Rye_. He was
delighted with the Duchy, and evidently gave his relatives to understand
that it was his intention to use the contents of his Note Books as the
nucleus of a book. “He will undoubtedly write a description of his
visit,” Mrs Taylor wrote to her friend. “I walked through the whole of
Cornwall and saw everything,” Borrow wrote to his wife after his return
to London. “I kept a Journal of every day I was there, and it fills
_two_ pocket books.”
Borrow left Cornwall the second week in February and was in London on the
10th, where he was to break his journey home in order to obtain some data
at the British Museum for the Appendix of _The Romany Rye_. {412a} On
13th February he writes to his wife:—
“For three days I have been working hard at the Museum, I am at
present at Mr Webster’s, but not in the three guinea lodgings. I am
in rooms above, for which I pay thirty shillings a week. I live as
economically as I can; but when I am in London I am obliged to be at
certain expense. I must be civil to certain friends who invite me
out and show me every kindness. Please send me a five pound note by
return of post.”
His wife appears to have been anxious for his return home, and on the
17th he writes to her:—
“It is hardly worth while making me more melancholy than I am. Come
home, come home! is the cry. And what are my prospects when I get
home? though it is true that they are not much brighter here. I have
nothing to look forward to. Honourable employments are being given
to this and that trumpery fellow; while I, who am an honourable man,
must be excluded from everything.”
Of literature he expressed himself as tired, there was little or nothing
to be got out of it, save by writing humbug, which he refused to do. “My
spirits are very low,” he continues, “and your letters make them worse.
I shall probably return by the end of next week; but I shall want more
money. I am sorry to spend money for it is our only friend, and God
knows I use as little as possible, but I can’t travel without it.” {412b}
A few days later there is another letter with farther reference to money,
and protests that he is spending as little as possible. “Perhaps you had
better send another note,” he writes, “and I will bring it home
unchanged, if I do not want any part of it. I have lived very
economically as far as I am concerned personally; I have bought nothing,
and have been working hard at the Museum.” {413}
These constant references to money seem to suggest either some difference
between Borrow and his wife, or that he felt he was spending too much
upon himself and was anticipating her thoughts by assuring her of how
economically he was living. He had an unquestioned right to spend, for
he had added considerable sums to the exchequer from the profits of his
first two books.
Borrow returned to Yarmouth on 25th February. _The Romany Rye_ was now
rapidly nearing completion; but there was no encouragement to publish a
new book. He worked at _The Romany Rye_, not because he saw profit in
it, not because he was anxious to give another book to an uneager public;
but because of the sting in its tail, because of the thunderbolt Appendix
in which he paid off old scores against the critics and his personal
enemies. _The Romany Rye_ was to him a work of hate; it was a bomb
disguised as a book, which he intended to throw into the camp of his
foes. He was tired of literature, by which he meant that he was tired of
producing his best for a public that neither wanted nor understood it.
He forgot that the works of a great writer are sometimes printed in his
own that they may be read in another generation.