LONDON AGAIN
ON the return to Yarmouth, the trials of a crotchety temper were resumed.
Murray’s reception of “The Romany Rye” so inflamed Borrow’s anger that in
April, 1856, he recalled the precious manuscript in the curtest of curt
notes. Murray, nothing loth to rid himself of this wild book, with its
tigerish animadversions upon the literary world at large, packed it up
and sent it to Yarmouth, where it remained for another year. Its author,
in high dudgeon, kept his mind as far as possible off his grievances by
tramping about East Anglia and endeavouring to reawaken the sensations of
his youth upon the English roads. He rejoices in the sight of a coach,
which even then seemed a strange anachronism, so thoroughly had the
railway revolutionised the conditions of travel. He is carried back
thirty years to the days of Thurtell by a meeting with an old man who
remembered the mill between Painter and Oliver, and could call up visions
of the concourse of pilfering rascals assembled on that occasion, so that
the adjoining field was found next day to be strewn with empty
pocket-books! He sees a horse fall down and refuse to rise in a street
of King’s Lynn, and at once becomes the horse-doctor, advising the
administration of reviving ale according to one story, and according to
another administering it himself.
Among the visits he paid during these excursions was one to Miss Anna
Gurney at North Repps; he took a speedy departure when she began to
propound to him questions in Arabic grammar, and consoled himself with a
dinner at “Tucker’s.” But this was the kind of life and experience
which, sending his memory back to his early exploits by grassy lane and
windy heath, was bound to turn his thoughts again to the manuscript
stowed away at Yarmouth in which so many of those adventures were
depicted. In the following February he withdrew it from its
hiding-place, read it over afresh with great relish, and decided that it
must be published. Such good stuff should be withheld from the public no
longer, Murray or no Murray.
Thus an ultimatum was despatched to Albemarle Street. The eminent
publisher was informed that, if he did not bring out “The Romany Rye,”
some less eminent publisher would be applied to. The firm, always
excellent friends to Borrow, resolved to humour him, but in the letter in
which the bargain was clinched Mr. Murray could not resist a sly dig; he
said the work would be published “to oblige him.” Whereat Borrow told
him that he believed his intentions were good, but that “people with the
best of intentions occasionally do a great deal of harm.” “The Romany
Rye” appeared in May.
If the reception of “Lavengro” disappointed its author, no less can be
said of the reception of its sequel. The majority of the critics did not
like it any better than Borrow liked them. Even his friend Whitwell
Elwin, who reviewed it for the _Quarterly_, reproved him vigorously for
the violence and vulgarity of the Appendix, and threw Bentley at him in
this wise: “No author was ever written down except by himself.” But
Elwin was fair, and more prescient than most of his contemporaries. He
admitted that “Lavengro” had not had its due, and said that it contained
“passages which, in their way, are not surpassed by anything in English
literature.” He spoke with warmth of the truth and vividness of the
descriptions of both scenes and persons, the purity, force, and
simplicity of the language, which “should confer immortality upon many of
its pages.” Elwin did not write without knowledge when he said that
“various parts of the history are known to be a faithful narrative of Mr.
Borrow’s career, while we ourselves can testify as to many other parts of
his volumes, that nothing can excel the fidelity with which he has
described both men and things. Far from his showing any tendency to
exaggeration, such of his characters as we chance to have known—and they
are not a few—are rather within the truth than beyond it. . . . There
can be no doubt that the larger part, and possibly the whole, of the work
is a narrative of actual occurrences.”
The review which most correctly anticipated the verdict of a later
generation, a generation that knew not Borrow but was emancipated from
some of the prejudices of the ’fifties, was that of the _Saturday
Review_. The writer saw the charm of these books—their raciness, their
naturalistic humour, their spirit of romance. He penetrated the secret
of Borrow’s style when he spoke of his “almost affectedly simple
language.” He realised the permanent power of a writer who could make
such wonderfully strong impressions without actual categorical
description of scenery or persons. Otherwise, the treatment of the book
was cool and neglectful, or hostile—in either case highly unsatisfactory
to Borrow. Perhaps we, who can read “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye”
together, and view them in a different atmosphere, are hardly able to
make sufficient allowance for the conduct of critics who had this sequel
to a half-forgotten book pitched on their tables after an interval of six
years, and found that its most vigorous passages consisted of terrific
denunciations of their harmless selves.
The disappointed author went off alone in August to seek solace in a
second tour through the country which still held the warmest place in his
affections. He walked through the greater part of South Wales to the
very tip of the Pembrokeshire promontory, and then cut across to Hereford
and Shropshire. At Uppington and Donnington he sought out the tracks of
Gronwy Owen, and returned to London and Yarmouth once more full of his
Celtic bards and prophets. Occasionally antiquarian researches were
interrupted to give time for original vaticinations on public affairs.
He was a fierce opinionist, who contrived as a rule to find his opinions
on the side which was against the constituted authority, whatever it
might be. The conduct of Indian policy during the Mutiny pleased him no
better than the conduct of the Russian war. In a letter to Murray, after
defending the tone of “The Romany Rye” on the ground that it denounced
boldly the evils which were hurrying the country to destruction and had
kindled God’s anger against it, “namely, the pride, insolence, cruelty,
covetousness, and hypocrisy of its people, and, above all, that rage for
gentility which must be indulged in at the expense of every good and
honourable feeling,” he goes on to discuss affairs in the East. Some of
his choicest anathemas are reserved for “the miserable newspapers,” which
proclaimed a firm determination to put down the rebels in India, “but
forget to tell us how India is to be held without the sepoys.” The
international situation seemed to his hypochondriac mind to be full of
irremediable gloom, and he turned again, sighing, from these melancholy
reflections to his Welsh poets. His passionate desire was reawakened to
reveal the wonders of Cymric literature to a stiff-necked generation of
Englishmen. He had turned out once more his translation of the “Visions”
of Elis Wyn, which had been too strong for the stomach of the little
bookseller of Smithfield nearly thirty years before. He delivered it to
Murray on his way back from Wales. Borrow suggested that it would be
likely to sell if it could be adorned with three engravings by
Cruikshank—“the dance of the fairies in the first part; another the old
poet in Hades flinging a skull at the head of Elis Wyn in the second; and
the last, the personification of Sin in the third part at the very
conclusion.” But Murray was no more impressed with the saleable quality
of the Sleeping Bard than the bookseller of Smithfield had been;
Cruikshank continued to throw stones at the Bottle Imp instead of
flinging skulls at Elis Wyn, and the manuscript went back to Yarmouth.
All literary enterprises were suddenly set aside in August, 1858, by a
family tragedy. No less a phrase can describe Borrow’s loss when his
mother died, for the bonds between them were exceedingly close. Her love
had a poignant quality which was sharpened by the anxiety, well-concealed
from him, with which his weaknesses filled her. His love for her was
more than filial. It had kept him in East Anglia for many years; it had
an important influence, which has been previously suggested, upon his
attitude towards the Catholic Church; he could never forget that it was
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes that drove his mother’s family out
of France.
The death occurred rather suddenly. The severance had so extreme an
effect upon him that he was inconsolable during many weeks. At last, to
obtain distraction, he set off on a walking tour in the Highlands. He
devoted much of his time to roaming all over the island of Mull, which he
described as perhaps the wildest country in Europe. He noted that the
place-names of Mull strongly resembled those of the Isle of Man, and
wrote scraps of discourse on the Gaelic dialects. Leaving Mull, he
penetrated, principally on foot, into the farthest north, crossing to
Orkney and Shetland at the end of November. A quiet seven months at
Yarmouth followed, and in June, 1859, he paid a visit to Ireland. Mrs.
Borrow and Miss Clarke remained in Dublin while he plodded through the
country. He walked to the wilds of Connemara, pursuing his customary
line of inquiry into language and legend, and thence extended his tramp
to the Giants’ Causeway. In Dublin he studied with zest the records of
the associations which were exploring the ancient literature of the
country, and gloated over the stories of Finn and Ossian. He became a
member of the Ossianic Society soon after his arrival in the Irish
capital. Unfortunately, Borrow left no record of the tour or of his
studies in Dublin.
Ireland was, indeed, soon forgotten after his return home in November.
At Yarmouth he came almost immediately under the magic spell of Wales
again. The unpublished manuscript of “The Sleeping Bard” could not be
allowed to slumber any longer, and he determined to issue the book at his
own expense. Murray made a graceful compromise; though he would not
undertake the publication, he allowed Borrow to use his valuable imprint,
so that 250 copies were turned out by Denew the printer of Yarmouth, with
the notification on the title-page that the book was published by John
Murray. Apparently Borrow came to the conclusion that if Elis Wyn was to
be reviewed adequately, he must do it himself. In the _Quarterly Review_
for January, 1861, appeared an anonymous article on “The Welsh and their
Literature.” All the sprites which inhabited Borrow’s portfolios knew
that the main part of this article had been there for many years. It
appeared in the _Quarterly_, polished up, and interleaved with references
to the translation of the “Bardd Cwsg.” It was admired by those who were
interested in the subject, and they were at any rate sufficiently
numerous to buy up the whole edition of Elis Wyn in a month. The book
was held in very favourable opinion by Welshmen. This was the last
literary work of any sort he did in East Anglia, to which he was shortly
to bid farewell for fourteen years.
Borrow and his wife departed from Yarmouth at the end of June, 1860, and
took lodgings at No. 21, Montagu Street, Portman Square. The special
reason for their residence in the East of England had vanished with the
death of his mother, and they had been discussing for some time the
project of taking a house in London. There he counted upon closer touch
with the literary world. In a sense, he obtained it, for he was in
constant companionship with a few choice friends; but for the purposes of
a biographer the removal to town was disastrous. After the first year or
two he made no conspicuous figure in literature, his correspondence
almost ceased, and the records of his movements first become scanty and
then vanish altogether. They are to be found in casual references among
the reminiscences of the limited circle of his associates—Frances Power
Cobbe, Charles Godfrey Leland, and Theodore Watts-Dunton. And, with the
last name excepted, it is no very prepossessing picture that we get of
him. Miss Clarke had been left at Oulton during the period of
house-hunting. She joined them after they had taken No. 22, Hereford
Square, Brompton, where they had Miss Cobbe for a near neighbour.
Having installed his household gods there, Borrow began to occupy himself
with the most congenial employments he could discover. There was “Wild
Wales.” The beloved book was on the stocks; it was being worked up with
the affection he bestowed on no other subject. But he did not permit it
to absorb him. There were many things to be done in London by a lover of
common adventures and a student of social byways. There were rambles in
the streets and in the environs of London, where odd characters were far
more numerous than in East Anglia, or Wales, or Cornwall. There were
gypsies—degenerate gypsies who lived in houses, still more degenerate
gypsies who plied petty commerce in caravans, and the remnants of the
real blood who camped in the outskirts of the metropolis, and were not
unwilling to converse with “the London caloro” when he found his way
among them. There was an occasional race; there was an occasional fight.
A foot race at Brompton between “Deerfoot,” the Seneca Indian, and
Jackson, “the American deer,” in October, 1861, was the subject of a
lively description in his notebook.
Borrow tried some of his friends a good deal, even now that he was
mellowing. But he had not lost the art of being jovial, and there are
records of festivities at which he very successfully entertained those
whom he might call his “pals.” Richmond was a favourite resort. One
dinner party at the Star and Garter, when Borrow was host, comprised John
Murray, his partner Cooke, and his brother-in-law, Dr. David Smith, of
Edinburgh. It was a gargantuan feast for that day; it cost Borrow £6
3s., of which £4 1s. 6d. was for wine. His studies in the poetry of many
lands went on concurrently with his entertainments and his work on Wales.
The habit of translation was ingrained, and could not be conquered. He
continued turning poems and legends into English from the Celtic tongues,
from Danish, Turkish, and Russian. But no book came of all this
industry. The public were still callously indifferent to Borrow’s
poetical versions, as they had been in other years. They had put up with
some of Bowring’s anthologies, but had now tired even of his Magyars and
Serbs. The prevailing sentiment about this kind of literary ware was
represented by a ludicrous parody which appeared in _Fraser’s Magazine_:
TE PIKKE MEGGE. THE PIOUS MAIDEN.
Hogy, wogy, Pogy! Holy little Polly!
Xupumai trtzaaa bnikttm Love sought me, but I tricked
Pogy, wogy, hogy! him.
Bsduro plgvbz cttnsttm Polly little holy!
Wogy, hogy, Pogy! You thought of me, “I’ve
Mlèsrz vbquògp fvikttm. nicked him.”
Little holy Polly!
I’m not to be your victim.
The utmost Borrow could do was to induce the editor of _Once a
Week_—which had just entertained a very different kind of angel unawares
in the person of George Meredith—to publish a series of ballads and
stories from the Manx, Russian, Danish, and old Norse.
But in 1862 occurred a literary event whose importance was very slowly
realised. “Wild Wales” appeared. Its reception by the critics was
exceedingly curious. Most of the newspapers ignored it altogether;
others were unjust to the point of savagery. For concentrated malice,
the _Cornhill_ notice would be difficult to surpass. “Really,” wrote the
reviewer (obviously as closely in touch with Borrow and his subject as a
cat with the differential calculus), “it is too much to demand that we
should read the record of every glass of ale which Mr. Borrow
drank—usually with his criticism of its quality—or be patient under the
fatiguing triviality of, ‘I paid my bill and departed,’ which occurs
incessantly.” But, lest it should be imagined that Borrow was either
drinking beer or paying hotel bills all the time he was in Wales, the
reviewer went on grudgingly to admit that “snatches of commonplace
conversation and intensely prosaic translations of Welsh-poems swell out
this book and render it rather tiresome reading.” At least one notice
was both fair and complimentary, and foreshadowed the very high opinion
in which the book is held at the present day by Welshmen. That was the
article in the _Spectator_, which described it as “the first really
clever book we remember to have seen in which an honest attempt is made
to do justice to the Welsh literature. . . . In the course of his
wanderings Mr. Borrow caught very happily the salient points in the Welsh
character, and he has depicted them with those light, free touches which
none but George Borrow can hit off to such perfection.” True, the
_Spectator_ discovered “the fine Roman hand” of Mr. Borrow in some of the
speeches of his friends, but felt sure that the conversations were in
substance faithfully recorded.
Borrow was in his sixtieth year when “Wild Wales” was published. In
spite of the extraordinary extent and variety of his activities, he was
by no means an old man. He retained his physical vigour; his mental
force was unimpaired. He was to have twenty years more of life in which
to accumulate new experiences and contract a rare friendship or two. Yet
he had certainly outgrown his vogue. The older public that had hailed
some of his writing with demonstrative joy had gone; he had not found—nor
was to find while he lived—the newer public that could enter into the
spirit in which he did his work. It is a little disconcerting, but not
really a matter for surprise, that after the publication of “Wild Wales”
Borrow gradually sank out of view. He buried himself still deeper in his
philological studies. At intervals he vanished from London to make tours
in various parts of the British Islands. Rough notes of these may be
consulted in Knapp; they were never polished into anything like literary
form. In 1865 came another severance: Miss Clarke, his step-daughter,
married Dr. William MacOubrey, and went to live at Belfast. The “old
Hen” of Borrow’s letters, the “Henrietta” of “Wild Wales,” had been a
member of his household ever since the golden days of sunny Seville, and
he had a very deep and sincere affection for her. He did not, of course,
feel the separation so acutely as did his wife, who had never parted from
her for more than a few weeks at a time during the forty-seven years
since she was born; and it was Mrs. Borrow who planned a visit to the
Orange capital in the following year. She was escorted to Belfast by her
husband, who left her there with Mrs. MacOubrey, while he went off to
Scotland. Crossing to Stranraer, he set out upon a lonely tramp in the
Lowlands and the Border Country. He visited Abbotsford, but, his rage
against Sir Walter Scott having subsided, his notes are as mild as a
guidebook. Pushing on to Edinburgh, he returned to Glasgow by rail, and
took the steamer to Belfast, spending the remaining weeks of the holiday
in Ulster, with pedestrian trips to Lisburn and Antrim.
The journey through the Border was not without some literary fruit, as
will be seen. For some years Borrow had been absorbed in Welsh and
Danish poetry; but just now his attention was returning to the gypsy
friends of his youth. At Kirk Yetholm, a few miles south-east of Kelso,
dwelt Esther Blyth, the descendant of a famous gypsy king, herself
endowed with a royal title, “the Queen of the Nokkums.” Her majesty was
sought out and “interviewed,” and the notes of this encounter were worked
into a chapter of the last book Borrow ever wrote.