OULTON BROAD AND YARMOUTH
GEORGE BORROW wandered far and wide, but he always retraced his footsteps
to East Anglia, of which he was so justly proud. From his marriage in
1840 until his death in 1881 he lived twenty-seven years at Oulton or at
Yarmouth. “It is on sand alone that the sea strikes its true music,”
Borrow once remarked, “Norfolk sand”—and it was in the waves and on the
sands of the Norfolk coast that Borrow spent the happiest hours of his
restless life. Oulton Cottage is only about two miles from Lowestoft,
and so, walking or driving, these places were quite near one another.
But both are in Suffolk. Was it because Yarmouth—ten miles distant—is in
Norfolk that it was always selected for seaside residence? I suspect
that the careful Mrs. Borrow found a wider selection of “apartments” at a
moderate price. In any case the sea air of Yarmouth was good for his
wife, and the sea bathing was good for him, and so we find that husband
and wife had seven separate residences at Yarmouth during the years of
Oulton life. {199} But Oulton was ever to be Borrow’s headquarters, even
though between 1860 and 1874 he had a house in London. Borrow was
thirty-seven years of age when he settled down at Oulton. He was, he
tells us in _The Romany Rye_, “in tolerably easy circumstances and
willing to take some rest after a life of labour.” Their home was a
cottage on the Broad, for the Hall, which was also Mrs. Borrow’s
property, was let on lease to a farmer. The cottage, however, was an
extremely pleasant residence with a lawn running down to the river. A
more substantial house has been built on this site since Borrow’s day.
The summer-house is generally assumed to be the same, but has certainly
been re-roofed since the time when Henrietta Clarke drew the picture of
it that is reproduced in this book. Probably the whole summer-house is
new, but at any rate the present structure stands on the site of the old
one. Here Borrow did his work, wrote and wrote and wrote, until he had,
as he said, “mountains of manuscripts.” Here first of all he completed
_The Zincali_ (1841), commenced in Seville; then he wrote or rather
arranged _The Bible in Spain_ (1843), and then at long intervals,
diversified by extensive travel holidays, he wrote _Lavengro_ (1851),
_The Romany Rye_ (1857), and _Wild Wales_ (1860)—these are the five books
and their dates that we most associate with Borrow’s sojourn at Oulton.
When _Wild Wales_ was published he had removed to London.
By far the best glimpses of Borrow during these years of Suffolk life are
those contained in a letter contributed by his friend, Elizabeth Harvey,
to _The Eastern Daily Press_ of Norwich over the initials “E. H.”:
When I knew Mr. Borrow he lived in a lovely cottage whose garden
sloped down to the edge of Oulton Broad. He had a wooden room built
on the very margin of the water, where he had many strange old books
in various languages. I remember he once put one before me, telling
me to read it. “Oh, I can’t,” I replied. He said, “You ought, it’s
your own language.” It was an old Saxon book. He used to spend a
great deal of his time in this room writing, translating, and at
times singing strange words in a stentorian voice, while passers-by
on the lake would stop to listen with astonishment and curiosity to
the singular sounds. He was 6 feet 3 inches, a splendid man, with
handsome hands and feet. He wore neither whiskers, beard, nor
moustache. His features were very handsome, but his eyes were
peculiar, being round and rather small, but very piercing, and now
and then fierce. He would sometimes sing one of his Romany songs,
shake his fist at me and look quite wild. Then he would ask, “Aren’t
you afraid of me?” “No, not at all,” I would say. Then he would
look just as gentle and kind, and say, “God bless you, I would not
hurt a hair of your head.” He was an expert swimmer, and used to go
out bathing, and dive under water an immense time. On one occasion
he was bathing with a friend, and after plunging in nothing was seen
of him for some while. His friend began to be alarmed, when he heard
Borrow’s voice a long way off exclaiming, “There, if that had been
written in one of my books they would have said it was a lie,
wouldn’t they?” He was very fond of animals, and the animals were
fond of him. He would go for a walk with two dogs and a cat
following him. The cat would go a quarter of a mile or so and then
turn back home. He delighted to go for long walks and enter into
conversation with any one he might meet on the road, and lead them
into histories of their lives, belongings, and experiences. When
they used some word peculiar to Norfolk (or Suffolk) countrymen he
would say, “Why, that’s a Danish word.” By and by the man would use
another peculiar expression, “Why, that’s Saxon”; a little later on
another, “Why, that’s French.” And he would add, “Why, what a
wonderful man you are to speak so many languages.” One man got very
angry, but Mr. Borrow was quite unconscious that he had given any
offence. He spoke a great number of languages, and at the Exhibition
of 1851, whither he went with his stepdaughter, he spoke to the
different foreigners in their own language, until his daughter saw
some of them whispering together and looking as if they thought he
was “uncanny,” and she became alarmed and drew him away. He,
however, did not like to hear the English language adulterated with
the introduction of foreign words. If his wife or friends used a
foreign word in conversation, he would say, “What’s that, trying to
come over me with strange languages.”
I have gone for many a walk with him at Oulton. He used to go on,
singing to himself or quite silent, quite forgetting me until he came
to a high hill, when he would turn round, seize my hand, and drag me
up. Then he would sit down and enjoy the prospect. He was a great
lover of nature, and very fond of his trees. He quite fretted if, by
some mischance, he lost one. He did not shoot or hunt. He rode his
Arab at times, but walking was his favourite exercise. He was
subject to fits of nervous depression. At times also he suffered
from sleeplessness, when he would get up and walk to Norwich (25
miles), and return the next night recovered. His fondness for the
gypsies has been noticed. At Oulton he used to allow them to encamp
in his grounds, and he would visit them, with a friend or alone, talk
to them in Romany, and sing Romany songs. He was very fond of ghost
stories and believed in the supernatural. He was keenly sympathetic
with any one who was in trouble or suffering. He was no man of
business and very guileless, and led a very harmless, quiet life at
Oulton, spending his evenings at home with his wife and
step-daughter, generally reading all the evening. He was very
hospitable in his own home, and detested meanness. He was moderate
in eating and drinking, took very little breakfast, but ate a very
great quantity at dinner, and then had only a draught of cold water
before going to bed. He wrote much in praise of “strong ale,” and
was very fond of good ale, of whose virtue he had a great idea. Once
I was speaking of a lady who was attached to a gentleman, and he
asked, “Well, did he make her an offer?” “No,” I said. “Ah,” he
exclaimed, “if she had given him some good ale he would.” But
although he talked so much about ale I never saw him take much. He
was very temperate, and would eat what was set before him, often not
thinking of what he was doing, and he never refused what was offered
him. He took much pleasure in music, especially of a light and
lively character. My sister would sing to him, and I played. One
piece he seemed never to tire of hearing. It was a polka, “The
Redowa,” I think, and when I had finished he used to say, “Play that
again, E—.” He was very polite and gentlemanly in ladies’ society,
and we all liked him.
It is refreshing to read this tribute, from which I have omitted nothing
salient, because a very disagreeable Borrow has somehow grown up into a
tradition. I note in reading some of the reviews of Dr. Knapp’s _Life_
that he is charged, or half-charged, with suppressing facts, “because
they do not reflect credit upon the subject of his biography.” Now,
there were really no facts to suppress. Borrow was at times a very
irritable man, he was a very self-centred one. His egotism might even be
pronounced amazing by those who had never met an author. But those of us
who have, recognise that with very few exceptions they are all egotists,
although some conceal it from the unobservant more deftly than others.
Many authors of power have died young and unrecognised; but recognition
has usually come to those men of genius who have lived into middle age.
It did not come to Borrow. He had therefore a right to be soured. This
sourness found expression in many ways. Borrow, most sound of churchmen,
actually quarrelled with his vicar over the tempers of their respective
dogs. Both the vicar, the Rev. Edwin Proctor Denniss, and his
parishioner wrote one another acrid letters. Here is Borrow’s parting
shot:
Circumstances over which Mr. Borrow has at present no control will
occasionally bring him and his family under the same roof with Mr.
Denniss; that roof, however, is the roof of the House of God, and the
prayers of the Church of England are wholesome from whatever mouth
they may proceed.
Surely that is a kind of quarrel we have all had in our day, and we think
ourselves none the less virtuous in consequence. Then there was Borrow’s
very natural ambition to be made a magistrate of Suffolk. He tells Mr.
John Murray in 1842 that he has caught a bad cold by getting up at night
in pursuit of poachers and thieves. “A terrible neighbourhood this,” he
adds, “not a magistrate dare do his duty.” And so in the next year he
wrote again to the same correspondent:
Present my compliments to Mr. Gladstone, and tell him that the _Bible
in Spain_ will have no objection to becoming one of the “Great
Unpaid.”
Mr. Gladstone, although he had admired _The Bible in Spain_, and indeed
had even suggested the modification of one of its sentences, did nothing.
Lockhart, Lord Clarendon, and others who were applied to were equally
powerless or indifferent. Borrow never got his magistracy. To-day no
man of equal eminence in literature could possibly have failed of so
slight an ambition. Moreover, Borrow wanted to be a J.P., not from mere
snobbery as many might, but for a definite, practical object. I am
afraid he would not have made a very good magistrate, and perhaps inquiry
had made that clear to the authorities. Lastly, there was Borrow’s
quarrel with the railway which came through his estate. He had thoughts
of removing to Bury, where Dr. Hake lived, or to Troston Hall, once the
home of the interesting Capell Lofft. But he was not to leave Oulton.
In intervals of holidays, journeys, and of sojourn in Yarmouth it was to
remain his home to the end. In 1849 his mother joined him at Oulton.
She had resided for thirty-three years at the Willow Lane Cottage. She
was now seventy-seven years of age. She lived on near her son as a
tenant of his tenant at Oulton Hall until her death nine years later,
dying in 1858 in her eighty-seventh year. She lies buried in Oulton
Churchyard, with a tomb thus inscribed:
Sacred to the memory of Ann Borrow, widow of Captain Thomas Borrow.
She died on the 16th of August 1858, aged eighty-six years and seven
months. She was a good wife and a good mother.
During these years at Oulton we have many glimpses of Borrow. Dr.
Jessopp, for example, has recorded in _The Athenæum_ newspaper his own
hero-worship for the author of _Lavengro_, whom he was never to meet.
This enthusiasm for _Lavengro_ was shared by certain of his Norfolk
friends of those days:
Among those friends were two who, I believe, are still alive, and who
about the year 1846 set out, without telling me of their intention,
on a pilgrimage to Oulton to see George Borrow in the flesh. In
those days the journey was not an inconsiderable one; and though my
friends must have known that I would have given my ears to be of the
party, I suppose they kept their project to themselves for reasons of
their own. Two, they say, are company and three are none; two men
could ride in a gig for sixty miles without much difficulty, and an
odd man often spoils sport. At any rate, they left me out, and one
day they came back full of malignant pride and joy and exultation,
and they flourished their information before me with boastings and
laughter at my ferocious jealousy; for they had seen, and talked
with, and eaten and drunk with, and sat at the feet of the veritable
George Borrow, and had grasped his mighty hand. To me it was too
provoking. But what had they to tell?
They found him at Oulton, living, as they affirmed, in a house which
belonged to Mrs. Borrow and which her first husband had left her.
The household consisted of himself, his wife, and his wife’s
daughter; and among his other amusements he employed himself in
training some young horses to follow him about like dogs and come at
the call of his whistle. As my two friends were talking with him
Borrow sounded his whistle in a paddock near the house, which, if I
remember rightly, was surrounded by a low wall. Immediately two
beautiful horses came bounding over the fence and trotted up to their
master. One put his nose into Borrow’s outstretched hand and the
other kept snuffing at his pockets in expectation of the usual bribe
for confidence and good behaviour. Borrow could not but be flattered
by the young Cambridge men paying him the frank homage they offered,
and he treated them with the robust and cordial hospitality
characteristic of the man. One or two things they learnt which I do
not feel at liberty to repeat.
Mr. Arthur W. Upcher of Sheringham Hall, Cromer, also provided in _The
Athenæum_ a quaint reminiscence of Borrow in which he recalled that
Lavengro had called upon Miss Anna Gurney. This lady had, assuredly with
less guile, treated him much as Frances Cobbe would have done. She had
taken down an Arabic grammar, and put it into his hand, asking for
explanation of some difficult point which he tried to decipher; but
meanwhile she talked to him continuously. “I could not,” said Borrow,
“study the Arabic grammar and listen to her at the same time, so I threw
down the book and ran out of the room.” He soon after met Mr. Upcher, to
whom he made an interesting revelation:
He told us there were three personages in the world whom he had
always a desire to see; two of these had slipped through his fingers,
so he was determined to see the third. “Pray, Mr. Borrow, who were
they?” He held up three fingers of his left hand and pointed them
off with the forefinger of the right: the first Daniel O’Connell, the
second Lamplighter (the sire of Phosphorus, Lord Berners’s winner of
the Derby), the third, Anna Gurney. The first two were dead and he
had not seen them; now he had come to see Anna Gurney, and this was
the end of his visit.
At one moment of the correspondence we obtain an interesting glimpse of a
great man of science. Mr. Darwin sent the following inquiry through Dr.
Hooker, afterwards Sir Joseph Hooker, and it reached Borrow through his
friend Thomas Brightwell:
Is there any Dog in Spain closely like our English Pointer, in
_shape_ and size, and _habits_,—namely in pointing, backing, and not
giving tongue. Might I be permitted to quote Mr. Borrow’s answer to
the query? Has the improved English pointer been introduced into
Spain?
C. DARWIN.
Borrow took constant holidays during these Oulton days. We have
elsewhere noted his holidays in Eastern Europe, in the Isle of Man, in
Wales, and in Cornwall. Letters from other parts of England would be
welcome, but I can only find two, and these are but scraps. Both are
addressed to his wife, each without date:
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW
OXFORD, _Feb._ 2_nd._
DEAR CARRETA,—I reached this place yesterday and hope to be home
to-night (Monday). I walked the whole way by Kingston, Hampton,
Sunbury (Miss Oriel’s place), Windsor, Wallingford, etc., a good part
of the way was by the Thames. There has been much wet weather.
Oxford is a wonderful place.
Kiss Hen., and God bless you!
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW
TUNBRIDGE WELLS, _Tuesday evening_.
DEAR CARRETA,—I have arrived here safe—it is a wonderful place, a
small city of palaces amidst hills, rocks, and woods, and is full of
fine people. Please to carry up stairs and lock in the drawer the
little paper sack of letters in the parlour; lock it up with the bank
book and put this along with it—also be sure to keep the window of my
room fastened and the door locked, and keep the key in your pocket.
God bless you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
One of the very last letters of Borrow that I possess is to an unknown
correspondent. It is from a rough “draft” in his handwriting:
OULTON, LOWESTOFT, _May_ 1875.
SIR,—Your letter of the eighth of March I only lately received,
otherwise I should have answered it sooner. In it you mention
Chamberlayne’s work, containing versions of the Lord’s Prayer
translated into a hundred languages, and ask whether I can explain
why the one which purports to be a rendering into Waldensian is
evidently made in some dialect of the Gaelic. To such explanation as
I can afford you are welcome, though perhaps you will not deem it
very satisfactory. I have been acquainted with Chamberlayne’s work
for upwards of forty years. I first saw it at St. Petersburg in
1834, and the translation in question very soon caught my attention.
I at first thought that it was an attempt at imposition, but I soon
relinquished that idea. I remembered that Helvetia was a great place
for Gaelic. I do not mean in the old time when the Gael possessed
the greater part of Europe, but at a long subsequent period:
Switzerland was converted to Christianity by Irish monks, the most
active and efficient of whom was Gall. These people founded schools
in which together with Christianity the Irish or Gaelic language was
taught. In process of time, though the religion flourished, the
Helveto Gaelic died away, but many pieces in that tongue survived,
some of which might still probably be found in the recesses of St.
Gall. The noble abbey is named after the venerable apostle of
Christianity in Helvetia; so I deemed it very possible that the
version in question might be one of the surviving fruits of Irish
missionary labour in Helvetia, not but that I had my doubts, and
still have, principally from observing that the language though
certainly not modern does not exhibit any decided marks of high
antiquity. It is much to be regretted that Chamberlayne should have
given the version to the world under a title so calculated to perplex
and mislead as that which it bears, and without even stating how or
where he obtained it. This, sir, is all I have to say on the very
obscure subject about which you have done me the honour to consult
me.—Yours truly,
GEORGE BORROW.