JULY 1859–JANUARY 1869
AFTER his second tour in Wales, Borrow had submitted to John Murray the
manuscript of his translation of _The Sleeping Bard_, which in 1830 had
so alarmed the little Welsh bookseller of Smithfield. “I really want
something to do,” Borrow wrote, “and seeing the work passing through the
press might amuse me.” Murray, however, could not see his way to accept
the offer, and the manuscript was returned. Borrow decided to publish
the book at his own expense, and accordingly commissioned a Yarmouth man
to print him 250 copies, upon the title-page of which John Murray
permitted his name to appear.
In the note in which he tells of the Welsh bookseller’s doubts and fears,
Borrow goes on to assure his readers that there is no harm in the book.
“It is true,” he says, “that the Author is any thing but mincing in
his expressions and descriptions, but there is nothing in the
Sleeping Bard which can give offence to any but the over fastidious.
There is a great deal of squeamish nonsense in the world; let us hope
however that there is not so much as there was. Indeed can we doubt
that such folly is on the decline, when we find Albemarle Street in
’60, willing to publish a harmless but plain speaking book which
Smithfield shrank from in ’30.”
The edition was very speedily exhausted, largely on account of an article
entitled, _The Welsh and Their Literature_, written years before, that
Borrow adapted as a review of the book, and published anonymously in _The
Quarterly Review_ (Jan. 1861). _The Sleeping Bard_ was not reprinted.
The next event of importance in Borrow’s life was his removal to London
with Mrs Borrow and Henrietta. Towards the end of the Irish holiday (4th
Nov. 1859), Mrs Borrow had written to John Murray: “If all be well in the
Spring, I shall wish to look around, and select a pleasant, healthy
residence within from three to ten miles of London.” Borrow may have
felt more at liberty to make the change now that his mother was dead,
although whilst she was at Oulton he was as little company for her at
Great Yarmouth as he would have been in London. Whatever led them to the
decision to take up their residence in London, Borrow and his wife left
Great Yarmouth at the end of June, and immediately proceeded to look
about them for a suitable house. Their choice eventually fell upon
number 22 Hereford Square, Brompton, which had the misfortune to be only
a few doors from number 26, where lived Frances Power Cobbe. The rent
was £65 per annum. The Borrows entered upon their tenancy at the
Michaelmas quarter, and were joined by Henrietta, who had remained behind
at Great Yarmouth during the house-hunting.
Miss Cobbe has given in her Autobiography a very unlovely picture of
George Borrow during the period of his residence in Hereford Square. No
woman, except his relatives and dependants, will tolerate egoism in a
man. Borrow was an egoist. If not permitted to lead the conversation,
he frequently wrapped himself in a gloomy silence and waited for an
opportunity to discomfit the usurper of the place he seemed to consider
his own. Among his papers were found after his death a large number of
letters from poor men whom Borrow had assisted. His friend the Rev.
Francis Cunningham once wrote to him a letter protesting against his
assisting Nonconformist schools. He gave to Church and Chapel alike.
This disproves misanthropy, and leaves egoism as the only explanation of
his occasional lapses into bitterness or rudeness. When in happy vein,
however, “his conversation . . . 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.” {445a}
Miss Cobbe would not humour an egoist, because constitutionally women,
especially clever women, dislike them, unless they wish to marry them.
When she heard it said, as it very frequently was said, that Borrow was a
gypsy by blood, she caustically remarked that if he were not he “_ought_
to have been.” Miss Cobbe had living with her a Miss Lloyd who, “amused
by his quaint stories and his (real or sham) enthusiasm for Wales, . . .
cultivated his acquaintance. I,” continued Miss Cobbe frankly, “never
liked him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite.” {445b}
On one occasion Borrow had accepted an invitation from Miss Cobbe to meet
some friends, but subsequently withdrew his acceptance “on finding that
Dr Martineau was to be of the party . . . nor did he ever after attend
our little assemblies without first ascertaining that Dr Martineau would
not be present!” This she explained by the assertion that Dr Martineau
had “horsed” Borrow when he was punished for running away from school at
Norwich. It appeared “irresistibly comic” to her mind.
There is an amusing account given by Miss Cobbe of how she worsted
Borrow, which is certainly extremely flattering to her accomplishments.
Once when talking with him she happened to say
“something about the imperfect education of women, and he said it was
_right_ they should be ignorant, and that no man could endure a
clever wife. I laughed at him openly,” she continues, “and told him
some men knew better. What did he think of the Brownings? ‘Oh, he
had heard the name; he did not know anything of them. Since Scott,
he read no modern writer; Scott _was greater than Homer_! What he
liked were curious, old, erudite books about mediæval and northern
things.’ I said I knew little of such literature, and preferred the
writers of our own age, but indeed I was no great student at all.
Thereupon he evidently wanted to astonish me; and, talking of
Ireland, said, ‘Ah, yes; a most curious, mixed race. First there
were the Firbolgs,—the old enchanters, who raised mists.’ . . .
‘Don’t you think, Mr Borrow,’ I asked, ‘it was the Tuatha-de-Danaan
who did that? Keatinge expressly says that they conquered the
Firbolgs by that means.’ (Mr B. somewhat out of countenance), ‘Oh!
Aye! Keatinge is _the_ authority; a most extraordinary writer.’
‘Well, I should call him the Geoffrey of Monmouth of Ireland.’ (Mr
B. changing the _venue_), ‘I delight in Norse-stories; they are far
grander than the Greek. There is the story of Olaf the Saint of
Norway. Can anything be grander? What a noble character!’ ‘But,’ I
said, ‘what do _you_ think of his putting all those poor Druids on
the Skerry of Shrieks, and leaving them to be drowned by the tide?’
(Thereupon Mr B. looked at me askant out of his gipsy eyes, as if he
thought me an example of the evils of female education!) ‘Well!
Well! I forgot about the Skerry of Shrieks. Then there is the story
of Beowulf the Saxon going out to sea in his burning ship to die.’
‘Oh, Mr Borrow! that isn’t a Saxon story at all. It is in the
Heimskringla! It is told of Hakon of Norway.’ Then, I asked him
about the gipsies and their language, and if they were certainly
Aryans? He didn’t know (or pretended not to know) what Aryans were;
and altogether displayed a miraculous mixture of odd knowledge and
more odd ignorance. Whether the latter were real or assumed I know
not!” {446}
These were some of the neighbourly little pleasantries indulged in by
Miss Cobbe, regarding a man who was a frequent guest at her house.
“His has indeed been a fantastic fate!” writes Mr Theodore
Watts-Dunton. “When the shortcomings of any illustrious man save
Borrow are under discussion, ‘_les défauts de ses qualités_’ is the
criticism—wise as charitable—which they evoke. Yes, each one is
allowed to have his angularities save Borrow. Each one is allowed to
show his own pet unpleasant facets of character now and then—allowed
to show them as inevitable foils to the pleasant ones—save Borrow.
_His_ weaknesses no one ever condones. During his lifetime his
faults were for ever chafing and irritating his acquaintances, and
now that he and they are dead, these faults of his seem to be chafing
and irritating people of another generation. A fantastic fate, I
say, for him who was so interesting to some of us!” {447a}
On occasion Borrow could be inexcusably rude, as he was to a member of
the Russian Embassy who one day called at Hereford Square for a copy of
_Targum_ for the Czar, when he told him that his Imperial master could
fetch it himself. Again, no one can defend him for affronting the “very
distinguished scholar” with whom he happened to disagree, by thundering
out, “Sir, you’re a fool!” Such lapses are deplorable; but why should we
view them in a different light from those of Dr Johnson?
What would have been regarded in another distinguished man as a pleasant
vein of humour was in Borrow’s case looked upon as evidence of his
unveracity. A contemporary tells how, on one occasion, he went with him
into “a tavern” for a pint of ale, when Borrow pointed out
“a yokel at the far end of the apartment. The foolish bumpkin was
slumbering. Borrow in a stage whisper, gravely assured me that the
man was a murderer, and confided to me with all the emphasis of
honest conviction the scene and details of his crime. Subsequently I
ascertained that the elaborate incidents and fine touches of local
colour were but the coruscations of a too vivid imagination, and that
the villain of the ale-house on the common was as innocent as the
author of _The Romany Rye_.” {447b}
If Borrow had been called upon to explain this little pleasantry he would
in all probability have replied in the words of Mr Petulengro, that he
had told his acquaintance “things . . . which are not exactly true,
simply to make a fool of you, brother.”
It is strange how those among his contemporaries who disliked him, denied
Borrow the indulgence that is almost invariably accorded to genius.
Those who were not for him were bitterly against him. In their eyes he
was either outrageously uncivil or insultingly rude. Dr Hake, although a
close friend, saw Borrow’s dominant weakness, his love of the outward
evidences of fame. Dr Hake’s impartiality gives greater weight to his
testimony when he tells of Borrow’s first meeting with Dr Robert Latham,
the ethnologist, philologist and grammarian. Latham much wanted to meet
Borrow, and promised Dr Hake to be on his best behaviour. He was
accordingly invited to dinner with Borrow. Latham as usual began to show
off his knowledge. He became aggressive, and finally very excited; but
throughout the meal Borrow showed the utmost patience and courtesy, much
to his host’s relief. When he subsequently encountered Latham in the
street he always stopped “to say a kind word, seeing his forlorn
condition.”
Dr Hake had settled at Coombe End, Roehampton, and now that the Borrows
were in London, the two families renewed their old friendship. Borrow
would walk over to Coombe End, and on arriving at the gate would call
out, “Are you alone?” If there were other callers he would pass by, if
not he would enter and frequently persuade Dr Hake, and perhaps his sons,
to accompany him for a walk.
“There was something not easily forgotten,” writes Mr A. Egmont Hake, “in
the manner in which he would unexpectedly come to our gates, singing some
gypsy song, and as suddenly depart.” {448} They had many pleasant tramps
together, mostly in Richmond Park, where Borrow appeared to know every
tree and showed himself very learned in deer. He was
“always saying something in his loud, self-asserting voice; sometimes
stopping suddenly, drawing his huge stature erect, and changing the
keen and haughty expression of his face into the rapt and half
fatuous look of the oracle, he would without preface recite some long
fragment from Welsh or Scandinavian bards, his hands hanging from his
chest and flapping in symphony. Then he would push on again, and as
suddenly stop, arrested by the beautiful scenery, and exclaim, ‘Ah!
this is England, as the Pretender said when he again looked on his
fatherland.’ Then on reaching any town, he would be sure to spy out
some lurking gypsy, whom no one but himself would have known from a
common horse-dealer. A conversation in Romany would ensue, a
shilling would change hands, two fingers would be pointed at the
gypsy, and the interview would be at an end.” {449a}
One day he asked Dr Hake’s youngest boy if he knew how to fight a man
bigger than himself, and on being told that he didn’t, advised him to
“accept his challenge, and tell him to take off his coat, and while he
was doing it knock him down and then run for your life.” {449b}
Once Borrow arrived at Dr Hake’s house to find another caller in the
person of Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton, and they “went through a pleasant
trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle . . .
Borrow made himself agreeable to Watts [-Dunton], recited a fairy tale in
the best style to him, and liked him.” {449c} Borrow did not recognise
in Mr Watts-Dunton the young man whom he had seen bathing on the beach at
Great Yarmouth, pleased to be near his hero, but too much afraid to
venture to address him. Writing of this meeting at Coombe End, Mr
Watts-Dunton says: “There is however no doubt that Borrow would have run
away from me had I been associated in his mind with the literary calling.
But at that time I had written nothing at all save poems, and a prose
story or two of a romantic kind.” {450} Borrow hated the literary man,
he was at war with the whole genus.
[Picture: The Rev. Andrew Brandram. From an old silhouette in the
possession of the British and Foreign Bible Society]
Mr Watts-Dunton confesses that he made great efforts to enlist Borrow’s
interest. He touched on Bamfylde Moore Carew, beer, bruisers, philology,
“gentility nonsense,” the “trumpery great”; but without success. Borrow
was obviously suspicious of him. Then with inspiration he happened to
mention what proved to be a magic name.
“I tried other subjects in the same direction,” Mr Watts-Dunton
continues, “but with small success, till in a lucky moment I
bethought myself of Ambrose Gwinett, . . . the man who, after having
been hanged and gibbeted for murdering a traveller with whom he had
shared a double-bedded room at a seaside inn, revived in the night,
escaped from the gibbet-irons, went to sea as a common sailor, and
afterwards met on a British man-of-war the very man he had been
hanged for murdering. The truth was that Gwinett’s supposed victim,
having been attacked on the night in question by a violent bleeding
of the nose, had risen and left the house for a few minutes’ walk in
the sea-breeze, when the press-gang captured him and bore him off to
sea, where he had been in service ever since. The story is true, and
the pamphlet, Borrow afterwards told me (I know not on what
authority), was written by Goldsmith from Gwinett’s dictation for a
platter of cow-heel.
“To the bewilderment of Dr Hake, I introduced the subject of Ambrose
Gwinett in the same manner as I might have introduced the story of
‘Achilles’ wrath,’ and appealed to Dr Hake (who, of course, had never
heard of the book or the man) as to whether a certain incident in the
pamphlet had gained or lost by the dramatist who, at one of the minor
theatres, had many years ago dramatized the story. Borrow was caught
at last. ‘What?’ said he, ‘you know that pamphlet about Ambrose
Gwinett?’ ‘Know it?’ said I, in a hurt tone, as though he had asked
me if I knew ‘Macbeth’; ‘of course I know Ambrose Gwinett, Mr Borrow,
don’t you?’ ‘And you know the play?’ said he. ‘Of course I do, Mr
Borrow,’ I said, in a tone that was now a little angry at such an
insinuation of crass ignorance. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘it’s years and
years since it was acted; I never was much of a theatre man, but I
did go to see _that_.’ ‘Well I should rather think you _did_, Mr
Borrow,’ said I. ‘But,’ said he, staring hard at me, ‘you—you were
not born!’ ‘And I was not born,’ said I, ‘when the “Agamemnon” was
produced, and yet one reads the “Agamemnon,” Mr Borrow. I have read
the drama of “Ambrose Gwinett.” I have it bound in morocco, with
some more of Douglas Jerrold’s early transpontine plays, and some
Æschylean dramas by Mr Fitzball. I will lend it to you, Mr Borrow,
if you like.’ He was completely conquered, ‘Hake!’ he cried, in a
loud voice, regardless of my presence, ‘Hake! your friend knows
everything.’ Then he murmured to himself. ‘Wonderful man! Knows
Ambrose Gwinett!’
“It is such delightful reminiscences as these that will cause me to
have as long as I live a very warm place in my heart for the memory
of George Borrow.” {451a}
After this, intercourse proved easy. At Borrow’s suggestion they walked
to the Bald-Faced Stag, in Kingston Vale, to inspect Jerry Abershaw’s
sword. This famous old hostelry was a favourite haunt of Borrow’s, where
he would often rest during his walk and drink “a cup of ale” (which he
would call “swipes,” and make a wry face as he swallowed) and talk of the
daring deeds of Jerry the highwayman.
Many people have testified to the pleasure of being in the company of the
whimsical, eccentric, humbug-hating Borrow.
“He was a choice companion on a walk,” writes Mr A. Egmont Hake,
“whether across country or in the slums of Houndsditch. His
enthusiasm for nature was peculiar; he could draw more poetry from a
wide-spreading marsh with its straggling rushes than from the most
beautiful scenery, and would stand and look at it with rapture.”
{451b}
Since the tour in Wales in 1854, from which he returned with the four
“Note Books,” Borrow had been working steadily at _Wild Wales_. In 1857
the book had been announced as “ready for the press”; but this was
obviously an anticipation. The manuscript was submitted to John Murray
early in November 1861. On the 20th of that month he wrote the following
letter, addressing it, not to Borrow, but to his wife:—
DEAR MRS BORROW,—The MS. of _Wild Wales_ has occupied my thoughts
almost ever since Friday last.
I approached this MS. with some diffidence, recollecting the
unsatisfactory results, on the whole, of our last publication—_Romany
Rye_. I have read a large part of this new work with care and
attention, and although it is beautifully written and in a style of
English undefiled, which few writers can surpass, there is yet a want
of stirring incident in it which makes me fearful as to the result of
its publication.
In my hands at least I cannot think it would succeed even as well as
_Romany Rye_—and I am fearful of not doing justice to it. I do not
like to undertake a work with the chance of reproach that it may have
failed through my want of power to promote its circulation, and I do
wish, for Borrow’s own sake, that in this instance he would try some
other publisher and perhaps some other form of publication.
In my hands I am convinced the work will not answer the author’s
expectations, and I am not prepared to take on me this amount of
responsibility.
I will give the best advice I can if called upon, and shall be only
too glad if I can be useful to Mr Borrow. I regret to have to write
in this sense, but believe me always, Dear Mrs Borrow,
Your faithful friend,
JOHN MURRAY.
The reply to this letter has not been preserved. It would appear that
some “stirring incidents” were added, among others most probably the
account of Borrow blessing the Irish reapers, who mistook him for Father
Toban. This anecdote was one of John Murray’s favourite passages. It is
evident that some concession was made to induce Murray to change his
mind. In any case _Wild Wales_ appeared towards the close of 1862 in an
edition of 1000 copies. The publisher’s misgivings were not justified,
as the first edition produced a profit, up to 30th June 1863, of £531,
14s., which was equally divided between author and publisher. The
second, and cheap, edition of 3000 copies lasted for thirteen years, and
the deficiency on this absorbed the greater part of the publisher’s
profit.
In a way it is the most remarkable of Borrow’s books; for it shows that
he was making a serious effort to regain his public. It is an older,
wiser and chastened Borrow that appears in its pages, striding through
the land of the bards at six miles an hour, his satchel slung over his
shoulder, his green umbrella grasped in his right hand, shouting the
songs of Wales, about which he knew more than any man he met. There are
no gypsies (except towards the end of the book a reference to his meeting
with Captain Bosvile), no bruisers, the pope is scarcely mentioned, and
“gentility-nonsense” is veiled almost to the point of elimination. It
seems scarcely conceivable that the hand that had written the appendix to
_The Romany Rye_ could have so restrained itself as to write _Wild
Wales_. Borrow had evidently read and carefully digested Whitwell
Elwin’s friendly strictures upon _The Romany Rye_. Instead of the pope,
the gypsies and the bruisers of England, there were the vicarage cat, the
bards and the thousand and one trivial incidents of the wayside. There
were occasional gleams of the old fighting spirit, notably when he
characterises sherry, {453} as “a silly, sickly compound, the use of
which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a
race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters,—in fact, into what
Englishmen are at the present day.” He has created the atmosphere of
Wales as he did that of the gypsy encampment. He shows the jealous way
in which the Welsh cling to their language, and their suspicion of the
_Saesneg_, or Saxon. Above all, he shows how national are the Welsh
poets, belonging not to the cultured few; but to the labouring man as
much as to the landed proprietor. Borrow earned the respect of the
people, not only because he knew their language; but on account of his
profound knowledge of their literature, their history, and their
traditions. No one could escape him, he accosted every soul he met, and
evinced a desire for information as to place-names that instantly
arrested their attention.
The most curious thing about _Wild Wales_ is the omission of all mention
of the Welsh Gypsies, who, with those of Hungary, share the distinction
of being the aristocrats of their race. Several explanations have been
suggested to account for the curious circumstance. Had Borrow’s
knowledge of Welsh Romany been scanty, he could very soon have improved
it. The presence of his wife and stepdaughter was no hindrance; for, as
a matter of fact, they were very little with him, even when they and
Borrow were staying at Llangollen; but during the long tours they were
many miles away. In all probability the Welsh Gypsies were sacrificed to
British prejudice, much as were pugilism and the baiting of the pope.
In spite of its simple charm and convincing atmosphere, _Wild Wales_ did
not please the critics. Those who noticed it (and there were many who
did not) either questioned its genuineness, or found it crowded with
triviality and self-glorification. It was full of the superfluous, the
superfluous repeated, and above all it was too long (some 250,000 words).
_The Spectator_ notice was an exception; it did credit to the critical
faculty of the man who wrote it. He declined “to boggle and wrangle over
minor defects in what is intrinsically good,” and praised _Wild Wales_ as
“the first really clever book . . . in which an honest attempt is made to
do justice to Welsh literature.”
Borrow had much time upon his hands in London, which he occupied largely
in walking. He visited the Metropolitan Gypsyries at Wandsworth, “the
Potteries,” and “the Mounts,” as described in _Romano Lavo-Lil_.
Sometimes he would be present at some sporting event, such as the race
between the Indian Deerfoot and Jackson, styled the American Deer—tame
sport in comparison with the “mills” of his boyhood. He did very little
writing, and from 1862, when _Wild Wales_ appeared, until he published
_The Romano Lavo-Lil_ in 1874, his literary output consisted of only some
translations contributed to _Once a Week_ (January 1862 to December
1863).
In 1865 he was to lose his stepdaughter, who married a William MacOubrey,
M.D., described in the marriage register as a physician of Sloane Street,
London, and subsequently upon his tombstone as a barrister. In the July
of 1866 Borrow and his wife went to Belfast on a visit to the newly
married pair. From Belfast Borrow took another trip into Scotland,
crossing over to Stranraer. From there he proceeded to Glen Luce and
subsequently to Newton Stewart, Castle Douglas, Dumfries, Ecclefechan,
Gretna Green, Carlisle, Langholm, Hawick, Jedburgh, Yetholm (where he saw
Esther Blyth of Kirk Yetholm), Kelso, Abbotsford, Melrose, Berwick,
Edinburgh, Glasgow, and so back to Belfast, having been absent for nearly
four weeks.
Mrs Borrow’s health had been the cause of the family leaving Oulton for
Great Yarmouth, and about the time of the Irish visit it seems to have
become worse. When Borrow was away upon his excursion he received a
letter at Carlisle in which his wife informed him that she was not so
well; but urging him not to return if he were enjoying his trip and it
were benefiting his health.
In the autumn of the following year (1867) they were at Bognor, Mrs
Borrow taking the sea air, her husband tramping about the country and
penetrating into the New Forest. On their return to town Mrs Borrow
appears to have become worse. There was much correspondence to be
attended to with regard to the Oulton Estate, and she had to go down to
Suffolk to give her personal attention to certain important details.
Miss Cobbe throws a little light on the period in a letter to a friend,
in which she says:
“Mr Borrow says his wife is very ill and anxious to keep the peace
with C. (a litigious neighbour). Poor old B. was very sad at first,
but I cheered him up and sent him off quite brisk last night. He
talked all about the Fathers again, arguing that their quotations
went to prove that it was _not_ our gospels they had in their hands.
I knew most of it before, but it was admirably done. I talked a
little theology to him in a serious way (finding him talk of his
‘horrors’) and he abounded in my sense of the non-existence of Hell,
and of the presence and action on the soul of _a_ Spirit, rewarding
and punishing. He would not say ‘God’; but repeated over and over
again that he spoke not from books but from his own personal
experience.” {456}
On 24th January (1869) Mrs Borrow was taken suddenly ill and the family
doctor being out of town, Borrow sent for Dr W. S. Playfair of 5 Curzon
Street. A letter from Dr Playfair, 25th January, to the family doctor is
the only coherent testimony in existence as to what was actually the
matter with Mrs Borrow. It runs:—
“I found great difficulty in making out the case exactly,” he writes,
“since Mr Borrow himself was so agitated that I could get no very
clear account of it. I could detect no marked organic affection
about the heart or lungs, of which she chiefly complained. It seemed
to me to be either a very aggravated form of hysteria, or, what
appears more likely, some more serious mental affection. In any
case, the chief requisite seemed very careful and intelligent nursing
or management, and I doubt very much, from what I saw, whether she
gets that with her present surroundings. If it is really the more
serious mental affection, I should fancy that the sooner means are
taken to have her properly taken care of, the better.”
Dr Playfair saw in Borrow’s highly nervous excitable nature, if not the
cause of his wife’s breakdown, at least an obstacle to her recovery, and
was of opinion that Mrs Borrow’s disorder had been greatly aggravated by
her husband’s presence.
Mrs Borrow never rallied from the attack, and on the 30th she died of
“valvular disease of the heart and dropsy,” being then in her
seventy-seventh year. On 4th February she was buried in Brompton
Cemetery, and the lonely man, her husband, returned to Hereford Square.
The grave bears the inscription, “To the Beloved Memory of My Mother,
Mary Borrow, who fell asleep in Jesus, 30th January 1869.” It is strange
that this should be in Henrietta’s and not Borrow’s name.
Mrs Borrow evidently made over her property to her husband during her
lifetime, as there is no will in existence, and no application appears to
have been made either by Borrow or anyone else for letters of
administration.