IN SCOTLAND AND IRELAND
BORROW has himself given us—in _Lavengro_—a picturesque record of his
early experiences in Scotland. It is passing strange that he published
no account of his two visits to the North in maturer years. Why did he
not write _Wild Scotland_ as a companion volume to _Wild Wales_? He
preserved in little leather pocket-books or leather-covered
exercise-books copious notes of both tours. Two of his notebooks came
into the possession of the late Dr. Knapp, Borrow’s first biographer, and
are thus described in his Bibliography:
_Note Book of a Tour in Scotland_, _the Orkneys and Shetland in Oct.
and Dec._ 1858. 1 large vol. leather.
_Note Book of Tours around Belfast and the Scottish Borders from
Stranraer to Berwick-upon-Tweed in July and August_ 1866. 1 vol.
leather.
Of these Dr. Knapp made use only to give the routes of Borrow’s journeys
so far as he was able to interpret them. It may be that he was doubtful
as to whether his purchase of the manuscript carried with it the
copyright of its contents, as it assuredly did not; it may be that he
quailed before the minute and almost undecipherable handwriting. But
similar notebooks are in my possession, and there are, happily, in these
days typists—you pay them by the hour, and it means an infinity of time
and patience—who will copy the most minute and the most obscure
documents. There are some of the notebooks of the Scottish tour of 1858
before me, and what is of far more importance—Borrow’s letters to his
wife while on this tour. Borrow lost his mother in August, 1858, and
this event was naturally a great blow to his heart. A week or two later
he suffered a cruel blow to his pride also, nothing less than the return
of the manuscript of his much-prized translation from the Welsh of _The
Sleeping Bard_—and this by his “prince of publishers,” John Murray.
“There is no money in it,” said the publisher, and he was doubtless
right. The two disasters were of different character, but both unhinged
him. He had already written _Wild Wales_, although it was not to be
published for another four years. He had caused to be advertised—in
1857—a book on Cornwall, but it was never written in any definitive form,
and now our author had lost heart, and the Cornish book—_Penquite and
Pentyre_—and the Scots book never saw the light. In these autumn months
of 1858 geniality and humour had parted from Borrow; this his diary makes
clear. He was ill. His wife urged a tour in Scotland, and he prepared
himself for a rough, simple journey, of a kind quite different from the
one in Wales. The north of Scotland in the winter was scarcely to be
thought of for his wife and step-daughter Henrietta. He tells us in one
of these diaries that he walked “several hundred miles in the Highlands.”
His wife and daughter were with him in Wales, as every reader of _Wild
Wales_ will recall, but the Scots tour was meant to be a more formidable
pilgrimage, and they went to Great Yarmouth instead. The first half of
the tour—that of September—is dealt with in letters to his wife, the
latter half is reflected in his diary. The letters show Borrow’s
experiences in the earlier part of his journey, and from his diaries we
learn that he was in Oban on 22nd October, Aberdeen on 5th November,
Inverness on the 9th, and thence he went to Tain, Dornoch, Wick, John o’
Groat’s, and to the island towns, Stromness, Kirkwall, and Lerwick. He
was in Shetland on the 1st of December—altogether a bleak, cheerless
journey, we may believe, even for so hardy a tramp as Borrow, and the
tone of the following extract from one of his rough notebooks in my
possession may perhaps be explained by the circumstance. Borrow is on
the way to Loch Laggan and visits a desolate churchyard, Coll Harrie, to
see the tomb of John Macdonnel or Ian Lom:
I was on a Highland hill in an old Popish burying-ground. I entered
the ruined church, disturbed a rabbit crouching under an old
tombstone—it ran into a hole, then came out running about like
wild—quite frightened—made room for it to run out by the doorway,
telling it I would not hurt it—went out again and examined the tombs.
. . . Would have examined much more but the wind and rain blew
horribly, and I was afraid that my hat, if not my head, would be
blown into the road over the hill. Quitted the place of old Highland
Popish devotion—descended the hill again with great difficulty—grass
slippery and the ground here and there quaggy, resumed the
road—village—went to the door of house looking down the valley—to ask
its name—knock—people came out, a whole family, looking sullen and
all savage. The stout, tall young man with the grey savage
eyes—civil questions—half-savage answers—village’s name
Achaluarach—the neighbourhood—all Catholic—chiefly Macdonnels; said
the English, _my countrymen_, had taken the whole country—“but not
without paying for it,” I replied—said I was soaking wet with a kind
of sneer, but never asked me in. I said I cared not for wet. A
savage, brutal Papist and a hater of the English—the whole family
with bad countenances—a tall woman in the background probably the
mother of them all. Bade him good-day, he made no answer and I went
away. Learnt that the river’s name was Spean.
He passed through Scotland in a disputative vein, which could not have
made him a popular traveller. He tells a Roman Catholic of the Macdonnel
clan to read his Bible and “trust in Christ, not in the Virgin Mary and
graven images.” He went up to another man who accosted him with the
remark that “It is a soft day,” and said, “You should not say a ‘soft’
day, but a wet day.” Even the Spanish, for whom he had so much contempt
and scorn when he returned from the Peninsula, are “in many things a wise
people”—after his experiences of the Scots. There is abundance of
Borrow’s prejudice, intolerance, and charm in this fragment of a diary;
but the extract I have given is of additional interest as showing how
Borrow wrote all his books. The notebooks that he wrote in Spain and
Wales were made up of similar disjointed jottings. Here is a note of
more human character interspersed with Borrow’s diatribes upon the
surliness of the Scots. He is at Invergarry, on the banks of Loch Oich.
It is the 5th of October:
Dinner of real haggis; meet a conceited schoolmaster. This night, or
rather in the early morning, I saw in the dream of my sleep my dear
departed mother—she appeared to be coming out of her little
sleeping-room at Oulton Hall—overjoyed I gave a cry and fell down at
her knee, but my agitation was so great that it burst the bonds of
sleep, and I awoke.
But the letters to Mrs. Borrow are the essential documents here, and not
the copious diaries which I hope to publish elsewhere. The first letter
to “Carreta” is from Edinburgh, where Borrow arrived on Sunday, 19th
September, 1858:
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN PLACE,
YARMOUTH, NORFOLK
EDINBURGH, _Sunday_ (_Sept._ 19_th_, 1858).
DEAR CARRETA,—I just write a line to inform you that I arrived here
yesterday quite safe. We did not start from Yarmouth till past three
o’clock on Thursday morning; we reached Newcastle about ten on
Friday. As I was walking in the street at Newcastle a sailor-like
man came running up to me, and begged that I would let him speak to
me. He appeared almost wild with joy. I asked him who he was, and
he told me he was a Yarmouth north beach man, and that he knew me
very well. Before I could answer, another sailor-like, short, thick
fellow came running up, who also seemed wild with joy; he was a
comrade of the other. I never saw two people so out of themselves
with pleasure, they literally danced in the street; in fact, they
were two of my old friends. I asked them how they came down there,
and they told me that they had been down fishing. They begged a
thousand pardons for speaking to me, but told me they could not help
it. I set off for Alnwick on Friday afternoon, stayed there all
night, and saw the castle next morning. It is a fine old place, but
at present is undergoing repairs—a Scottish king was killed before
its walls in the old time. At about twelve I started for Edinburgh.
The place is wonderfully altered since I was here, and I don’t think
for the better. There is a Runic stone on the castle brae which I am
going to copy. It was not there in my time. If you write direct to
me at the Post Office, Inverness. I am thinking of going to Glasgow
to-morrow, from which place I shall start for Inverness by one of the
packets which go thither by the North-West and the Caledonian Canal.
I hope that you and Hen. are well and comfortable. Pray eat plenty
of grapes and partridges. We had upon the whole a pleasant passage
from Yarmouth; we lived plainly but well, and I was not at all
ill—the captain seemed a kind, honest creature. Remember me kindly
to Mrs. Turnour and Mrs. Clarke, and God bless you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
In his unpublished diary Borrow records his journey from Glasgow through
beautiful but over-described scenery to Inverness, where he stayed at the
Caledonian Hotel:
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN PLACE,
YARMOUTH
INVERNESS, _Sunday_ (_Sept._ 26th).
DEAR CARRETA,—This is the third letter which I have written to you.
Whether you have received the other two, or will receive this, I am
doubtful. I have been several times to the post office, but we found
no letter from you, though I expected to find one awaiting me when I
arrived. I wrote last on Friday. I merely want to know once how you
are, and if all is well I shall move onward. It is of not much use
staying here. After I had written to you on Friday I crossed by the
ferry over the Firth and walked to Beauly, and from thence to
Beaufort or Castle Downie; at Beauly I saw the gate of the pit where
old Fraser used to put the people whom he owed money to—it is in the
old ruined cathedral, and at Beaufort saw the ruins of the house
where he was born. Lord Lovat lives in the house close by. There is
now a claimant to the title, a descendant of Old Fraser’s elder
brother who committed a murder in the year 1690, and on that account
fled to South Wales. The present family are rather uneasy, and so
are their friends, of whom they have a great number, for though they
are flaming Papists they are very free of their money. I have told
several of their cousins that the claimant has not a chance as the
present family have been so long in possession. They almost blessed
me for saying so. There, however, can be very little doubt that the
title and estate, more than a million acres, belong to the claimant
by strict law. Old Fraser’s brother was called Black John of the
Tasser. The man whom he killed was a piper who sang an insulting
song to him at a wedding. I have heard the words and have translated
them; he was dressed very finely, and the piper sang:
“You’re dressed in Highland robes, O John,
But ropes of straw would become ye better;
You’ve silver buckles your shoes upon
But leather thongs for them were fitter.”
Whereupon John drew his dagger and ran it into the piper’s belly; the
descendants of the piper are still living at Beauly. I walked that
day thirty-four miles between noon and ten o’clock at night. My
letter of credit is here. This is a dear place, but not so bad as
Edinburgh. _If you have written_, don’t write any more till you hear
from me again. God bless you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
“Swindled out of a shilling by rascally ferryman,” is Borrow’s note in
his diary of the episode that he relates to his wife of crossing the
Firth. He does not tell her, but his diary tells us, that he changed his
inn on the day he wrote this letter: the following jottings from the
diary cover the period:
_Sept._ 29_th_.—Quit the “Caledonian” for “Union Sun”—poor
accommodation—could scarcely get anything to eat—unpleasant day.
Walked by the river—at night saw the comet again from the bridge.
_Sept._ 30_th_.—Breakfast. The stout gentleman from Caithness, Mr.
John Miller, gave me his card—show him mine—his delight.
_Oct._ 1_st_.—Left Inverness for Fort Augustus by
steamer—passengers—strange man—tall gentleman—half
doctor—breakfast—dreadful hurricane of wind and rain—reach Fort
Augustus—inn—apartments—Edinburgh ale—stroll over the bridge to a
wretched village—wind and rain—return—fall asleep before
fire—dinner—herrings, first-rate—black ale, Highland mutton—pudding
and cream—stroll round the fort—wet grass—stormy-like—wind and
rain—return—kitchen—kind, intelligent woman from Dornoch—no
Gaelic—shows me a Gaelic book of spiritual songs by one
Robertson—talks to me about Alexander Cumming, a fat blacksmith and
great singer of Gaelic songs.
But to return to Borrow’s letters to his wife:
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 38 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
GT. YARMOUTH
INVERNESS, _September_ 29_th_, 1858.
MY DEAR CARRETA,—I have got your letter, and glad enough I was to get
it. The day after to-morrow I shall depart from here for Fort
Augustus at some distance up the lake. After staying a few days
there, I am thinking of going to the Isle of Mull, but I will write
to you if possible from Fort Augustus. I am rather sorry that I came
to Scotland—I was never in such a place in my life for cheating and
imposition, and the farther north you go the worse things seem to be,
and yet I believe it is possible to live very cheap here, that is if
you have a house of your own and a wife to go out and make bargains,
for things are abundant enough, but if you move about you are at the
mercy of innkeepers and suchlike people. The other day I was
swindled out of a shilling by a villain to whom I had given it for
change. I ought, perhaps, to have had him up before a magistrate
provided I could have found one, but I was in a wild place and he had
a clan about him, and if I had had him up I have no doubt I should
have been out-sworn. I, however, have met one fine, noble old
fellow. The other night I lost my way amongst horrible moors and
wandered for miles and miles without seeing a soul. At last I saw a
light which came from the window of a rude hovel. I tapped at the
window and shouted, and at last an old man came out; he asked me what
I wanted, and I told him I had lost my way. He asked me where I came
from and where I wanted to go, and on my telling him he said I had
indeed lost my way, for I had got out of it at least four miles, and
was going away from the place I wanted to get to. He then said he
would show me the way, and went with me several miles over most
horrible places. At last we came to a road where he said he thought
he might leave me, and wished me good-night. I gave him a shilling.
He was very grateful and said, after considering, that as I had
behaved so handsomely to him he would not leave me yet, as he thought
it possible I might yet lose my way. He then went with me three
miles farther, and I have no doubt that, but for him, I should have
lost my way again, the roads were so tangled. I never saw such an
old fellow, or one whose conversation was so odd and entertaining.
This happened last Monday night, the night of the day in which I had
been swindled of the shilling by the other; I could write a history
about those two shillings.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
GT. YARMOUTH
INVERNESS, 30_th_ _September_ 1858.
DEAR CARRETA,—I write another line to tell you that I have got your
second letter—it came just in time, as I leave to-morrow. In your
next, address to George Borrow, Post Office, Tobermory, Isle of Mull,
Scotland. You had, however, better write without delay, as I don’t
know how long I may be there; and be sure only to write once. I am
glad we have got such a desirable tenant for our Maltings, and should
be happy to hear that the cottage was also let so well. However, let
us be grateful for what has been accomplished. I hope you wrote to
Cooke as I desired you, and likewise said something about how I had
waited for Murray. . . . I met to-day a very fat gentleman from
Caithness, at the very north of Scotland; he said he was descended
from the Norse. I talked to him about them, and he was so pleased
with my conversation that he gave me his card, and begged that I
would visit him if I went there. As I could do no less, I showed him
my card—I had but one—and he no sooner saw the name than he was in a
rapture. I am rather glad that you have got the next door, as the
locality is highly respectable. Tell Hen. that I copied the Runic
stone on the Castle Hill, Edinburgh. It was brought from Denmark in
the old time. The inscription is imperfect, but I can read enough of
it to see that it was erected by a man to his father and mother. I
again write the direction for your next: George Borrow, Esq., Post
Office, Tobermory, Isle of Mull, Scotland. God bless you and Hen.
Ever yours,
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
GT. YARMOUTH
FORT AUGUSTUS, _Sunday_, _October_ 7_th_, 1858.
DEAR CARRETA,—I write a line lest you should be uneasy. Before
leaving the Highlands I thought I would see a little more about me.
So last week I set on a four days’ task, a walk of a hundred miles.
I returned here late last Thursday night. I walked that day
forty-five miles; during the first twenty the rain poured in torrents
and the wind blew in my face. The last seventeen miles were in the
dark. To-morrow I proceed towards Mull. I hope that you got my
letters, and that I shall find something from you awaiting me at the
post office. The first day I passed over Corryarrick, a mountain
3000 feet high. I was nearly up to my middle in snow. As soon as I
had passed it I was in Badenoch. The road on the farther side was
horrible, and I was obliged to wade several rivulets, one of which
was very boisterous and nearly threw me down. I wandered through a
wonderful country, and picked up a great many strange legends from
the people I met, but they were very few, the country being almost a
desert, chiefly inhabited by deer. When amidst the lower mountains I
frequently heard them blaring in the woods above me. The people at
the inn here are by far the nicest I have met; they are kind and
honourable to a degree. God bless you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE,
YARMOUTH
(Fragment? undated.)
On Tuesday I am going through the whole of it to Icolmkill—I should
start to-morrow—but I must get my shoes new soles, for they have been
torn to pieces by the roads, and likewise some of my things mended,
for they are in a sad condition.
I shall return from Thurso to Inverness, as I shall want some more
money to bring me home. So pray do not let the credit be withdrawn.
What a blessing it is to have money, but how cautious people ought to
be not to waste it. Pray remember me most kindly to our good friend
Mr. Hills. Send the Harveys the pheasant as usual with my kind
regards. I think you should write to Mr. Dalton of Bury telling him
that I have been unwell, and that I send my kind regards and respects
to him. I send dear Hen a paper in company with this, in which I
have enclosed specimens of the heather, the moss and the fern, or
“raineach,” of Mull.—God bless you both.
GEORGE BORROW.
Do not delay in sending the order. Write at the same time telling me
how you are.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, 39 CAMPERDOWN TERRACE, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK
INVERNESS, _Nov._ 7_th_, 1858.
DEAR CARRETA,—After I wrote to you I walked round Mull and through
it, over Benmore. I likewise went to Icolmkill, and passed
twenty-four hours there. I saw the wonderful ruin and crossed the
island. I suffered a great deal from hunger, but what I saw amply
repaid me; on my return to Tobermory I was rather unwell, but got
better. I was disappointed in a passage to Thurso by sea, so I was
obliged to return to this place by train. On Tuesday, D.V., I shall
set out on foot, and hope to find your letter awaiting me at the post
office at Thurso. On coming hither by train I nearly lost my things.
I was told at Huntly that the train stopped ten minutes, and
meanwhile the train drove off _purposely_; I telegraphed to Keith in
order that my things might be secured, describing where they were,
under the seat. The reply was that there was nothing of the kind
there. I instantly said that I would bring an action against the
company, and walked off to the town, where I stated the facts to a
magistrate, and gave him my name and address. He advised me to bring
my action. I went back and found the people frightened. They
telegraphed again—and the reply was that the things were safe. There
is nothing like setting oneself up sometimes. I was terribly afraid
I should never again find my books and things. I, however, got them,
and my old umbrella, too. I was sent on by the mail train, but lost
four hours, besides undergoing a great deal of misery and excitement.
When I have been to Thurso and Kirkwall I shall return as quick as
possible, and shall be glad to get out of the country. As I am here,
however, I wish to see all I can, for I never wish to return. Whilst
in Mull I lived very cheaply—it is not costing me more than seven
shillings a day. The generality of the inns, however, in the
lowlands are incredibly dear—half-a-crown for breakfast, consisting
of a little tea, a couple of small eggs, and bread and butter—_two_
shillings for attendance. Tell Hen. that I have some moss for her
from Benmore—also some seaweed from the farther shore of Icolmkill.
God bless you.
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK
THURSO, 21_st_ _Nov._ 1858.
MY DEAR CARRETA,—I reached this place on Friday night, and was glad
enough to get your kind letter. I shall be so glad to get home to
you. Since my last letter to you I have walked nearly 160 miles. I
was terribly taken in with respect to distances—however, I managed to
make my way. I have been to Johnny Groat’s House, which is about
twenty-two miles from this place. I had tolerably fine weather all
the way, but within two or three miles of that place a terrible storm
arose; the next day the country was covered with ice and snow. There
is at present here a kind of Greenland winter, colder almost than I
ever knew the winter in Russia. The streets are so covered with ice
that it is dangerous to step out; to-morrow D. and I pass over into
Orkney, and we shall take the first steamer to Aberdeen and
Inverness, from whence I shall make the best of my way to England.
It is well that I have no farther to walk, for walking now is almost
impossible—the last twenty miles were terrible, and the weather is
worse now than it was then. I was terribly deceived with respect to
steamboats. I was told that one passed over to Orkney every day, and
I have now been waiting two days, and there is not yet one. I have
had quite enough of Scotland. When I was at Johnny Groat’s I got a
shell for dear Hen, which I hope I shall be able to bring or send to
her. I am glad to hear that you have got out the money on the
mortgage so satisfactorily. One of the greatest blessings in this
world is to be independent. My spirits of late have been rather bad,
owing principally to my dear mother’s death. I always knew that we
should miss her. I dreamt about her at Fort Augustus. Though I have
walked so much I have suffered very little from fatigue, and have got
over the ground with surprising facility, but I have not enjoyed the
country so much as Wales. I wish that you would order a hat for me
against I come home; the one I am wearing is very shabby, having been
so frequently drenched with rain and storm-beaten. I cannot say the
exact day that I shall be home but you may be expecting me. The
worst is that there is no depending on the steamers, for there is
scarcely any traffic in Scotland in winter. My appetite of late has
been very poorly, chiefly, I believe, owing to badness of food and
want of regular meals. Glad enough, I repeat, shall I be to get home
to you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK
KIRKWALL, ORKNEY, _November_ 27_th_, 1858. _Saturday_.
DEAR CARRETA,—I am, as you see, in Orkney, and I expect every minute
the steamer which will take me to Shetland and Aberdeen, from which
last place I go by train to Inverness, where my things are, and
thence home. I had a stormy passage to Stromness, from whence I took
a boat to the Isle of Hoy, where I saw the wonderful Dwarf’s House
hollowed out of the stone. From Stromness I walked here. I have
seen the old Norwegian Cathedral; it is of red sandstone, and looks
as if cut out of rock. It is different from almost everything of the
kind I ever saw. It is stern and grand to a degree. I have also
seen the ruins of the old Norwegian Bishop’s palace in which King
Hacon died; also the ruins of the palace of Patrick, Earl of Orkney.
I have been treated here with every kindness and civility. As soon
as the people knew who I was they could scarcely make enough of me.
The Sheriff, Mr. Robertson, a great Gaelic scholar, said he was proud
to see me in his house; and a young gentleman of the name of Petrie,
Clerk of Supply, has done nothing but go about with me to show me the
wonders of the place. Mr. Robertson wished to give me letters to
some gentleman at Edinburgh. I, however, begged leave to be excused,
saying that I wished to get home, as, indeed, I do, for my mind is
wearied by seeing so many strange places. On my way to Kirkwall I
saw the stones of Stennis—immense blocks of stone standing up like
those of Salisbury Plain. All the country is full of Druidical and
Pictish remains. It is, however, very barren, and scarcely a tree is
to be seen, only a few dwarf ones. Orkney consists of a multitude of
small islands, the principal of which is Pomona, in which Kirkwall
is. The currents between them are terrible. I hope to be home a few
days after you receive these lines, either by rail or steamer. This
is a fine day, but there has been dreadful weather here. I hope we
shall have a prosperous passage. I have purchased a little Kirkwall
newspaper, which I send you with this letter. I shall perhaps post
both at Lerwick or Aberdeen. I sent you a Johnny Groat’s newspaper,
which I hope you got. Don’t tear either up, for they are curious.
God bless you and Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
* * * * *
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW, YARMOUTH, NORFOLK
STIRLING,_ Dec._ 14_th_, 1858.
DEAR CARRETA,—I write a line to tell you that I am well and that I am
on my way to England, but I am stopped here for a day, for there is
no conveyance. Wherever I can walk I get on very well—but if you
depend on coaches or any means of conveyance in this country you are
sure to be disappointed. This place is but thirty-five miles from
Edinburgh, yet I am detained for a day—there is no train. The waste
of that day will prevent me getting to Yarmouth from Hull by the
steamer. Were it not for my baggage I would walk to Edinburgh. I
got to Aberdeen, where I posted a letter for you. I was then obliged
to return to Inverness for my luggage—125 miles. Rather than return
again to Aberdeen, I sent on my things to Dunkeld and walked the 102
miles through the Highlands. When I got here I walked to Loch Lomond
and Loch Katrine, thirty-eight miles over horrible roads. I then got
back here. I have now seen the whole of Scotland that is worth
seeing, and walked 600 miles. I shall be glad to be out of the
country; a person here must depend entirely upon himself and his own
legs. I have not spent much money—my expenses during my wanderings
averaged a shilling a day. As I was walking through Strathspey,
singularly enough I met two or three of the Phillips. I did not know
them, but a child came running after me to ask me my name. It was
Miss P. and two of the children. I hope to get to you in two or
three days after you get this. God bless you and dear Hen.
GEORGE BORROW.
In spite of Borrow’s vow never to visit Scotland again, he was there
eight years later—in 1866—but only in the Lowlands. His stepdaughter,
Hen., or Henrietta Clarke, had married Dr. MacOubrey, of Belfast, and
Borrow and his wife went on a visit to the pair. But the incorrigible
vagabond in Borrow was forced to declare itself, and leaving his wife and
daughter in Belfast he crossed to Stranraer by steamer on 17th July,
1866, and tramped through the lowlands, visiting Ecclefechan and Gretna
Green. We have no record of his experiences at these places. The only
literary impression of the Scots tour of 1866, apart from a brief
reference in Dr. Knapp’s _Life_, is an essay on Kirk Yetholm in _Romano
Lavo-Lil_. We would gladly have exchanged it for an account of his
visits to Abbotsford and Melrose, two places which he saw in August of
this year.
In his letter of 27th November from Kirkwall it will be seen that Borrow
records the kindness received from “a young gentleman of the name of
Petrie.” It is pleasant to find that when he returned to England he did
not forget that kindness, as the next letter demonstrates:
TO GEORGE PETRIE, ESQ., KIRKWALL
39 CAMPERDOWN PLACE, YARMOUTH,_ Jany._ 14, 1859.
MY DEAR SIR,—Some weeks ago I wrote to Mr. Murray [and] requested him
to transmit to you two works of mine. Should you not have received
them by the time this note reaches you, pray inform me and I will
write to him again. They may have come already, but whenever they
may come to hand, keep them in remembrance of one who will never
forget your kind attention to him in Orkney.
On reaching Aberdeen I went to Inverness by rail. From there I sent
off my luggage to Dunkeld, and walked thither by the Highland road.
I never enjoyed a walk more—the weather was tolerably fine, and I was
amidst some of the finest scenery in the world. I was particularly
struck with that of Glen Truim. Near the top of the valley in sight
of the Craig of Badenoch on the left hand side of the way, I saw an
immense cairn, probably the memorial of some bloody clan battle. On
my journey I picked up from the mouth of an old Highland woman a most
remarkable tale concerning the death of Fian or Fingal. It differs
entirely from the Irish legends which I have heard on the subject—and
is of a truly mythic character. Since visiting Shetland I have
thought a great deal about the Picts, but cannot come to any
satisfactory conclusion. Were they Celts? were they Laps? Macbeth
could hardly have been a Lap, but then the tradition of the country
that they were a diminutive race, and their name was Pight or Pict,
which I almost think is the same as petit—pixolo—puj—pigmy. It is a
truly perplexing subject—quite as much so as that of Fingal, and
whether he was a Scotsman or an Irishman I have never been able to
decide, as there has been so much to be said on both sides of the
question. Please present my kind remembrances to Mrs. Petrie and all
friends, particularly Mr. Sheriff Robertson, who first did me the
favour of making me acquainted with you.—And believe me to remain,
dear Sir, ever sincerely yours,
GEORGE BORROW.
Thank you for the newspaper—the notice was very kind, but rather too
flattering.
On the same day that Borrow wrote, Mr. Petrie sent his acknowledgment of
the books, and so the letters crossed:
I was very agreeably surprised on opening a packet, which came to me
per steamer ten days ago, to find that it contained a present from
you of your highly interesting and valuable works _Lavengro_ and
_Romany Rye_. Coming from any person such books would have been
highly prized by me, and it is therefore specially gratifying to have
them presented to me by their author. Please to accept of my sincere
and heartfelt thanks for your kind remembrance of me and your
valuable gift. May I request you to confer an additional favour on
me by sending me a slip of paper to be pasted on each of the five
volumes, stating that they were presented to me by you. I would like
to hand them down as an heirloom to my family. I am afraid you will
think that I am a very troublesome acquaintance.
I would have written sooner, but I expected to have had some
information to give you about some of the existing superstitions of
Orkney which might perhaps have some interest for you. I have,
however, been much engrossed with county business during the last
fortnight, and must therefore reserve my account of these matters
till another opportunity.
Mr. Balfour, our principal landowner in Orkney, is just now writing
an article on the ancient laws and customs of the county to be
prefixed to a miscellaneous collection of documents, chiefly of the
sixteenth century. He is taking the opportunity to give an account
of the nature of the tenures by which the ancient Jarls held the
Jarldom, and the manner in which the odalret became gradually
supplanted. I have furnished him with several of the documents, and
am just now going over it with him. It is for the Bannatyne Club in
Edinburgh that he is preparing it, but I have suggested to him to
have it printed for general sale, as it is very interesting, and
contains a great mass of curious information condensed into a
comparatively small space. Mr. Balfour is very sorry that he had not
the pleasure of meeting you when you were here.
My last glimpse of George Borrow in Scotland during his memorable trip of
the winter of 1858 is contained in a letter that I received some time ago
from the Rev. J. Wilcock of St. Ringan’s Manse, Lerwick, which runs as
follows:
_Nov._ 18th, 1903.
DEAR SIR,—As I see that you are interested in George Borrow, would
you allow me to supply you with a little notice of him which has not
appeared in print? A friend here—need I explain that this is written
from the capital of the Shetlands?—a friend, I say, now dead, told me
that one day early in the forenoon, during the winter, he had walked
out from the town for a stroll into the country. About a mile out
from the town is a piece of water called the Loch of Clickimin, on a
peninsula, in which is an ancient (so-called) “Pictish Castle.” His
attention was attracted by a tall, burly stranger, who was surveying
this ancient relic with deep interest. As the water of the loch was
well up about the castle, converting the plot of ground on which it
stood almost altogether into an island, the stranger took off shoes
and stockings and trousers, and waded all round the building in order
to get a thorough view of it. This procedure was all the more
remarkable from the fact, as above mentioned, that the season was
winter. I believe that there was snow on the ground at the time. My
friend noticed on meeting him again in the course of the same walk
that he was very lightly clothed. He had on a cotton shirt, a loose
open jacket, and on the whole was evidently indifferent to the rigour
of our northern climate at that time of the year.
In addition to the visit to Belfast in 1866, Borrow was in Ireland the
year following his Scots tour of 1858, that is to say from July to
November, 1859. He went, accompanied by his wife and daughter, by
Holyhead to Dublin, where, as Dr. Knapp has discovered, they resided at
75 St. Stephen’s Green, South. Borrow, as was his custom, left his
family while he was on a walking tour which included Connemara and on
northward to the Giant’s Causeway. He was keenly interested in the two
Societies in Dublin engaged upon the study of ancient Irish literature,
and he became a member of the Ossianic Society in July of this year. I
have a number of Borrow’s translations from the Irish in my possession,
but no notebooks of his tour on this occasion.
All Irishmen who wish their country to preserve its individuality should
have a kindly feeling for George Borrow. Opposed as he was to the
majority of the people in religion and in politics, he was about the only
Englishman of his time who took an interest in their national literature,
language and folk-lore. Had he written such another travel book about
Ireland as he wrote about Wales he would certainly have added to the sum
of human pleasure.
I find only one letter to his wife during this Irish journey:
TO MRS. GEORGE BORROW
BALLINA, COUNTY MAYO, _Thursday Morning_.
MY DEAR CARRETA,—I write to you a few lines. I have now walked 270
miles, and have passed through Leinster and Connaught. I have
suffered a good deal of hardship, for this is a very different
country to walk in from England. The food is bad and does not agree
with me. I shall be glad to get back, but first of all I wish to
walk to the Causeway. As soon as I have done that I shall get on
railroad and return, as I find there is a railroad from Londonderry
to Dublin. Pray direct to me at Post Office, Londonderry. I have at
present about seven pounds remaining, perhaps it would bring me back
to Dublin; however, to prevent accidents, have the kindness to
enclose me an order on the Post Office, Londonderry, for five pounds.
I expect to be there next Monday, and to be home by the end of the
week. Glad enough I shall be to get back to you and Hen. I got your
letter at Galway. What you said about poor Flora was comforting—pray
take care of her. Don’t forget the order. I hope to write in a day
or two a kind of duplicate of this. I send Hen. heath from
Connemara, and also seaweed from a bay of the Atlantic. I have
walked across Ireland; the country people are civil; but I believe
all classes are disposed to join the French. The idolatry and popery
are beyond conception. God bless you, dearest.
GEORGE BORROW.
Love to Hen. and poor Flora. (Keep this.)