Instead of travelling over the world Borrow wrote his autobiography and
spent so many years on it that his contempt for the pen had some excuse.
I have already said almost all there is to say about these labours. {212}
Knapp has shown that they were protracted to include matters relating to
Bowring and long posterior to the period covered by the autobiography,
and that the magnitude of these additions compelled him to divide the
book in two. The first part was "Lavengro," published in 1851, with an
ending that is now, and perhaps was then, obviously due to the knife. The
sceptical and hostile criticism of "Lavengro" delayed the appearance of
the remainder of the autobiography, "The Romany Rye."
Borrow had to reply to his critics and explain himself. This he did in
the Appendix, and thus changed, the book was finished in 1853 or 1854.
Something in Murray's attitude while they were discussing publication
mounted Borrow on the high horse, and yet again he fumed because Murray
had expressed a private opinion and had revealed his feeling that the
book was not likely to make money for anyone.
{picture: Cancelled title-page of "Lavengro". (Photographed from the
Author's corrected proof copy, by kind permission of Mr. Kyllmann and Mr.
Thos. Seccombe.) Photo: W. J. Roberts: page212.jpg}
"Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye" describe the author's early adventures
and, at the same time, his later opinions and mature character. In some
places he turns openly aside to express his feeling or opinion at the
time of writing, as, for example, in his praise of the Orangemen, or, on
the very first page, where he claims to spring from a family of
gentlemen, though "not very wealthy," that the reader may see at once he
is "not altogether of low and plebeian origin." But by far more
important is the indirect self-revelation when he is recalling that other
distant self, the child of three or of ten, the youth of twenty.
Ford had asked Borrow for a book of his adventures and travels, something
"thick and slab," to follow "The Bible in Spain." The result shows that
Borrow had almost done with outward adventure. "The Bible in Spain" had
an atmosphere composed at best of as much Spain as Borrow. But the
autobiography is pure inward Borrow: except a few detachable incidents
there is nothing in it which is not Borrow's creation, nothing which
would have any value apart from his own treatment of it. A man might
have used "The Bible in Spain" as a kind of guide to men and places in
1843, and it is possible he would not have been wholly disappointed. The
autobiography does not depend on anything outside itself, but creates its
own atmosphere and dwells in it without admitting that of the outer
world--no: not even by references to events like the campaign of Waterloo
or the funeral of Byron; and, as if conscious that this other atmosphere
must be excluded, Borrow has hardly mentioned a name which could act upon
the reader as a temporary check to the charm. When he does recall
contemporary events, and speaks as a Briton to Britons, the rant is of a
brave degree that is almost as much his own, and it makes more intense
than ever the solitude and inwardness of the individual life going on
side by side with war and with politics.
"Pleasant were those days of my early boyhood; and a melancholy pleasure
steals over me as I recall them. Those were stirring times of which I am
speaking, and there was much passing around me calculated to captivate
the imagination. The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe,
and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest;
we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face;
man, woman and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but,
thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race. 'Love your
country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens,' was the
cry of entire England. Oh those were days of power, gallant days,
bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry, at least; tall
battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was
the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak
of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of
county towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the
soldiery on their arrival or cheered them at their departure. And now
let us leave the upland and descend to the sea-board; there is a sight
for you upon the billows! A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically
out of port, their long buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts,
calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays;
and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the East? A gallant
frigate towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer,
which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose
crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their impudence in an English
hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days
of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood."
"Pleasant were those days," and there is a "melancholy pleasure" in
recalling them. The two combine in this autobiography with strange
effect, for they set the man side by side with the child as an invisible
companion haunting him.
Whatever was the change that came over Borrow in the 'forties, and showed
itself in melancholy and unrest, this long-continued contemplation of his
childhood betrayed him into a profound change of tone. Neither Africa
nor the East could have shown him as much mystery as this wide England of
a child ignorant of geography, and it kept hold of him for twice as long
as Spain. It offered him relief and escape, and gladly did he accept
them, and deeply he indulged in them. He found that he had that within
himself as wild as any mountain or maniac-haunted ruin of Spain. For
example, he recalled his schooldays in Ireland, and how one day he set
out to visit his elder brother, the boy lieutenant:
"The distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening
fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set
out early, and, directing my course towards the north, I had in less than
two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey. The
weather had been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm
to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the
scene, the skies darkened, and a heavy snow-storm came on; the road then
lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both
sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in
the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently
borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at
once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of
a man, and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the
bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the
ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both
clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising
agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and,
bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a
dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or
since; the head was large and round; the ears so tiny as scarcely to be
discernible; the eyes of a fiery red; in size it was rather small than
large; and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling
flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and
bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress. I had an
ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only
served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost
difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs.
"'What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?' said a man, who at
this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound.
"He was a very tall man, rather well dressed as it should seem; his
garments, however, were like my own, so covered with snow that I could
scarcely discern their quality.
"'What are ye doing with the dog of peace?'
"'I wish he would show himself one,' said I; 'I said nothing to him, but
he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass.'
"'Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were
going.'
"'He's not much of a fairy,' said I, 'or he would know that without
asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother.'
"'And who is your brother, little Sas?'
"'What my father is, a royal soldier.'
"'Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ---; by my shoul, I have a
good mind to be spoiling your journey.'
"'You are doing that already,' said I, 'keeping me here talking about
dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that
place over your eye; it's catching cold you'll be in so much snow.'
"On one side of the man's forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as
if from a recent and terrible blow.
"'Faith, then, I'll be going, but it's taking you wid me I will be.'
"'And where will you take me?'
"'Why, then, to Ryan's Castle, little Sas.'
"'You do not speak the language very correctly,' said I; 'it is not Sas
you should call me--'tis Sassanach,' and forthwith I accompanied the word
with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric.
"The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head
towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion,
which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently
he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features.
"'By my shoul, it's a thing of peace I'm thinking ye.'
"But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was
nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however,
it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the
dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a
farewell salutation. In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the
snow-flakes."
This is more magical than nine-tenths of the deliberately Celtic prose or
verse. I mean that it is real and credible and yet insubstantial, the
too too solid flesh is melted into something like the mist over the
bogland, and it recalls to us times when an account of our physical self,
height, width, weight, colour, age, etc., would bear no relation whatever
to the true self. In part, this effect may be due to Ireland and to the
fact that Borrow was only there for one short impressionable year of his
boyhood, and had never seen any other country like it. But most of it is
due to Borrow's nature and the conditions under which the autobiography
was composed. While he was writing it he was probably living a more
solitary and sedentary life than ever before, and could hear the voices
of solitude; he was not the busy riding missionary of "The Bible in
Spain," nor the feted author, but the unsocial morbid tinker,
philologist, boxer, and religious doubter. It has been said that "he was
a Celt of Celts. His genius was truly Celtic." {218a} It has been said
that "he inherited nothing from Norfolk save his accent and his love of
'leg of mutton and turnips.'" {218b} Yet his father, the Cornish "Celt,"
appears to have been entirely unlike him, while he draws his mother, the
Norfolk Huguenot, as innately sympathetic with himself. I am content to
leave this mystery for Celts and anti-Celts to grow lean on. I have
known Celts who said that five and five were ten or, at most, eleven; and
Saxons who said twenty-five, and even fifty-five.
Borrow was writing without note books: things had therefore in his memory
the importance which his nature had decreed for them, and among these
things no doubt he exercised a conscious choice. Behind all was the
inexplicable singular force which, Celtic or not, gave the "dream"-like,
illusory quality which pervades the books in spite of more positive and
arresting qualities sometimes apparently hostile to this one. It is true
that his books have in them many rude or simple characters of Gypsies,
jockeys, and others, living chiefly by their hands, and it is part of the
conscious and unconscious object of the books to exalt them. But these
people in Borrow's hands seldom or never give the impression of coarse
solid bodies well endowed with the principal appetites. There is, for
example, a famous page where the young doubting Borrow listens to a
Wesleyan preacher and wishes that his life had been like that man's, and
then comes upon his Gypsy friend after a long absence. He asks the Gypsy
for news and hears of some deaths:
"'What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?' said I, as I sat down
beside him
"'My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song
of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing--
"Canna marel o manus chivios ande puv,
Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi."
When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow
over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother,
I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world, why, then, he is cast
into the earth, and there is an end of the matter.'
"'And do you think that is the end of man?'
"'There's an end of him, brother, more's the pity.'
"'Why do you say so?'
"'Life is sweet, brother.'
"'Do you think so?'
"'Think so!--There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun,
moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on
the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?'
"'I would wish to die--'
"'You talk like a gorgio--which is the same as talking like a fool--were
you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to die, indeed!--A Rommany
Chal would wish to live for ever!"
"'In sickness, Jasper?'
"'There's the sun and stars, brother.'
"'In blindness, Jasper?'
"'There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only feel that, I
would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on
the gloves; and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be
alive, brother!'"
But how delicate it is, the two lads talking amidst the furze of
Mousehold Heath at sunset. And so with the rest. As he grows older the
atmosphere thins but never quite fades away; even Thurtell, the
bull-necked friend of bruisers, is as much a spirit as a man.
Mr. Watts-Dunton has complained {220} that Borrow makes Isopel taller
than Borrow, and therefore too tall for beauty. But Borrow was not
writing for readers who knew, or for those who, if they knew, always
remembered, that he was six-feet-two. We know that Lavengro is tall, but
we are not told so just before hearing that Isopel is taller; and the
effect is that we think, not too distinctly, of a girl who somehow
succeeds in being very tall and beautiful. If Borrow had said: "Whereas
I was six feet two inches, the girl was six feet two and three-quarter
inches," it would have been different, and it would not have been Borrow,
who, as I say, was not writing of ponderable, measurable bodies, but of
possible immortal souls curiously dressed in flesh that can be almost as
invisible. So again, Mr. Watts-Dunton says:
"With regard to Isopel Berners, neither Lavengro, nor the man she
thrashed when he stole one of her flaxen hairs to conjure with, gives the
reader the faintest idea of Isopel's method of attack or defence, and we
have to take her prowess on trust. In a word Borrow was content to give
us the wonderful, without taking that trouble to find for it a logical
basis which a literary master would have taken. And instances might
easily be multiplied of this exaggeration of Borrow's, which is apt to
lend a sense of unreality to some of the most picturesque pages of
'Lavengro.'"
But would Mr. Watts-Dunton seriously like to have these scenes touched up
by Driscoll or Sullivan. Borrow did not write for real or imaginary
connoisseurs.
I do not mean that a man need sacrifice his effect upon the ordinary man
by satisfying the connoisseur. No one, for example, will deny that a
ship by Mr. Joseph Conrad is as beautiful and intelligible as one by
Stevenson; but neither would it be safe to foretell that Mr. Conrad's,
the more accurate, will seem the more like life in fifty years' time.
Borrow is never technical. If he quotes Gypsy it is not for the sake of
the colour effect on those who read Gypsy as they run. His effects are
for a certain distance and in a certain atmosphere where technicality
would be impertinent.
Mr. Hindes Groome {221a} was more justified in saying:
"Mr. Borrow, no doubt, knows the Gypsies well, and could describe them
perfectly. But his love of effect leads him away. In his wish to
impress his reader with a certain mysterious notion of himself, he
colours his Gypsy pictures (the _form_ of which is quite accurate) in a
fantastic style, which robs them altogether of the value they would have
as studies from life."
For Groome wrote simply as a Gypsy student. He collected data which can
be verified, but do not often give an impression of life, except the life
of a young Cambridge man who is devoted to Gypsies. The "Athenaeum"
reviewer {221b} begs the question by calling the Gypsy dialogues of
Hindes Groome, photographic; and is plainly inaccurate in saying that if
they are compared with those in "Lavengro" "the illusion in Borrow's
narrative is disturbed by the uncolloquial vocabulary of the speakers."
For Borrow's dialogues do produce an effect of some kind of life; those
of Hindes Groome instruct us or pique our curiosity, but unless we know
Gypsies, they produce no life-like effect.
Who else but Borrow could make the old viper-catcher thus describe the
King of the Vipers?--
"It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down yonder to
the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hundred miles from
here, following my business. It was a very sultry day, I remember, and I
had been out several hours catching creatures. It might be about three
o'clock in the afternoon, when I found myself on some heathy land near
the sea, on the ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as
the sea, was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had
been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered--oats or
barley, I know not which--but I remember that the ground was covered with
stubble. Well, about three o'clock, as I told you before, what with the
heat of the day and from having walked about for hours in a lazy way, I
felt very tired; so I determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down,
my head just on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body
over the side down amongst the heath; my bag, which was nearly filled
with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face; the creatures were
struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how much more
comfortably off I was than they; I was taking my ease on the nice open
hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in the nasty close bag,
coiling about one another, and breaking their very hearts all to no
purpose; and I felt quite comfortable and happy in the thought, and
little by little closed my eyes, and fell into the sweetest snooze that
ever I was in in all my life; and there I lay over the hill's side, with
my head half in the field, I don't know how long, all dead asleep. At
last it seemed to me that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a
thing moving, very faint, however, far away; then it died, and then it
came again upon my ear, as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I
heard crackle, crackle; then it died again, or I became yet more dead
asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some time
without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and there was I, on
the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground towards the stubble,
with a noise in my ear like that of something moving towards me, among
the stubble of the field; well, I lay a moment or two listening to the
noise, and then I became frightened, for I did not like the noise at all,
it sounded so odd; so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the
stubble. Mercy upon us! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful
viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing its
head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling
beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five yards off when I
first saw it, making straight towards me, child, as if it would devour
me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied with horror, whilst the
creature came still nearer; and now it was nearly upon me, when it
suddenly drew back a little, and then--what do you think?--it lifted its
head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up,
flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child,
what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient
punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I
looking up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering
at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that saved me:
all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, for a fowler was
shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the stubble. Whereupon
the viper sunk its head and immediately made off over the ridge of the
hill, down in the direction of the sea. As it passed by me, however--and
it passed close by me--it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful
whether it should not seize me; it did not, however, but made off down
the hill. It has often struck me that he was angry with me, and came
upon me unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have
always been in the habit of doing."
The passages quoted from "Lavengro" are representative only of the
_spirit_ of the book, which, as I have suggested, diminishes with
Borrow's increasing years, but pervades the physical activity, the "low
life" and open air, and prevails over them. I will give one other
example of his by no means everyday magic--the incident of the poisoned
cake. The Gypsy girl Leonora discovers him and betrays him to his enemy,
old hairy Mrs. Herne:
"Leaning my back against the tree I was not long in falling into a
slumber; I quite clearly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash
tree, for it was about the sweetest slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long
I continued in it I don't know; I could almost have wished that it had
lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to me that a
voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger! danger!' Nothing seemingly could
be more distinct than the words which I heard; then an uneasy sensation
came over me, which I strove to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I
awoke. The Gypsy girl was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes
fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind of little dog stood beside
her.
"'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?'
"'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I
called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name
is not danger, but stranger; what danger should there be, brother.'
"'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have
got in your hand?'
"'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie
a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home
to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor
person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, "Hir mi
devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I
will bake a cake for the young harko mescro."'
"'But there are two cakes.'
"'Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both
for you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I
know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--which
shall I have, brother?'
"In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly
compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a
pound.
"'Which shall I have, brother?' said the Gypsy girl.
"'Whichever you please.'
"'No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you to say.'
"'Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.'
"'Yes, brother, yes,' said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them
into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing
the while. 'Pretty brother, grey-haired brother--here, brother,' said
she, 'here is your cake, this other is mine. . . .'"
I cannot afford to quote the whole passage, but it is at once as real and
as phantasmal as the witch scene in "Macbeth." He eats the poisoned cake
and lies deadly sick. Mrs. Herne and Leonora came to see the effect of
the poison:
"'Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.'
"'You have taken drows, sir,' said Mrs. Herne; 'do you hear, sir? drows;
tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.'
"And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang--
"The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl
To-morrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer's steed."
"'Do you hear that, sir?' said Mrs. Herne; 'the child has tipped you a
stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though
perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what
was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.'"
It is not much use to remark on "the uncolloquial vocabulary of the
speakers." Iago's vocabulary is not colloquial when he says:
"Not poppy nor mandragora
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
That thou ow'dst yesterday."
Borrow is not describing Gypsy life but the "dream" of his own early
life. I should say that he succeeds, because his words work upon the
indifferent reader in something like the same way as memory worked upon
himself. The physical activity, the "low life," and the open air of the
books are powerful. These and the England of his youth gave Borrow his
refuge from middle age and Victorian England of the middle class.
"Youth," he says in "The Romany Rye," "is the only season for enjoyment,
and the first twenty-five years of one's life are worth all the rest of
the longest life of man, even though these five and twenty be spent in
penury and contempt, and the rest in the possession of wealth, honour,
respectability, ay, and many of them in strength and health. . . ." Still
more emphatically did he think the same when he was looking on his past
life in the dingle, feeling his arms and thighs and teeth, which were
strong and sound; "so now was the time to labour, to marry, to eat strong
flesh, and beget strong children--the power of doing all this would pass
away with youth, which was terribly transitory."
{picture: View on Mousehold Heath, near Norwich. (From the painting by
"Old Crome" in The National Gallery.) Photo: W. J. Roberts: page227.jpg}
Youth and strength or their extreme opposites alone attracted him, and
therefore he is best in writing of men, if we except the tall Brynhild,
Isopel, and the old witch, Mrs. Herne, than whom "no she bear of Lapland
ever looked more fierce and hairy." In the same breath as he praises
youth he praises England, pouring scorn on those who traverse Spain and
Portugal in quest of adventures, "whereas there are ten times more
adventures to be met with in England than in Spain, Portugal, or stupid
Germany to boot." It was the old England before railways, though Mr.
Petulengro heard a man speaking of a wonderful invention that "would set
aside all the old roads, which in a little time would be ploughed up, and
sowed with corn, and cause all England to be laid down with iron roads,
on which people would go thundering along in vehicles, pushed forward by
fire and smoke." Borrow makes another of his characters also foretell
the triumph of railways, and I insist on quoting part of the sentence as
another example of Borrow's mysterious way: the speaker has had his
information from the projector of the scheme: "which he has told me many
of the wisest heads of England have been dreaming of during a period of
six hundred years, and which it seems was alluded to by a certain Brazen
Head in the story-book of Friar Bacon, who is generally supposed to have
been a wizard, but in reality was a great philosopher. Young man, in
less than twenty years, by which time I shall be dead and gone, England
will be surrounded with roads of metal, on which armies may travel with
mighty velocity, and of which the walls of brass and iron by which the
friar proposed to defend his native land are types." And yet he makes
little of the practical difference between the England of railways and
the England of coaches; in fact he hated the bullying coachmen so that he
expressed nothing but gladness when they had disappeared from the road.
No: it was first as the England of the successful wars with Napoleon, and
second as the England of his youth that he idealised it--the country of
Byron and Farmer George, not that of Tennyson, Victoria and Albert; for
as Byron was one of the new age and yet looked back to Pope and down on
Wordsworth, so did Borrow look back.
His English geography is far vaguer than his Spanish. He creeps--walking
or riding--over this land with more mystery. The variety and
difficulties of the roads were less, and actual movement fills very few
pages. He advances not so much step by step as adventure by adventure.
Well might he say, a little impudently, "there is not a chapter in the
present book which is not full of adventures, with the exception of the
present one, and this is not yet terminated"--it ends with a fall from
his horse which stuns him. There is an air of somnambulism about some of
the travel, especially when he is escaping alone from London and hack-
writing. He shows great art in his transitions from day to day, from
scene to scene, making it natural that one hour of one day should have
the importance of the whole of another year, and one house more than the
importance of several day's journeys. It matters not that he crammed
more than was possible between Greenwich and Horncastle fairs, probably
by transplanting earlier or later events. Time and space submit to him:
his old schoolfellows were vainly astonished that he gave no chapters to
them and his years at Norwich Grammar School. Thus England seems a great
and a strange land on Borrow's page, though he does not touch the sea or
the mountains, or any celebrated places except Stonehenge. His England
is strange, I think, because it is presented according to a purely
spiritual geography in which the childish drawling of "Witney on the
Windrush manufactures blankets," etc., is utterly forgot. Few men have
the courage or the power to be honestly impressionistic and to say what
they feel instead of compromising between that and what they believe to
be "the facts."
It is also strange on account of the many adventures which it provides,
and these will always attract attention, because England in 1911 is not
what it was in 1825, but still more because few men, especially writing
men, ever take their chance upon the roads of England for a few months
together. At the same time it must be granted that Borrow had a morbid
fear of being dull or at least of being ordinary. He was a partly
conscious provider of entertainment when he made the book so thick with
incidents, scenes and portraits, and each incident, scene and portrait so
perfect after its kind. Where he overdoes his emphasis or refinement,
can only be decided by differing tastes. Some, for example, cannot abide
his description of the sleepless man who had at last discovered a perfect
opiate in Wordsworth's poetry. I find myself stopping short at the
effect of sherry and Popish leanings on the publican and his trade, and
still more the effect of his return to ale and commonsense religion: how
everyone bought his liquids and paid for them and wanted to treat him,
while the folk of his parish had already made him a churchwarden. This
might have been writ sarcastic by a witty Papist.
Probably Borrow used the device of recognition and reappearances to
satisfy a rather primitive taste in fiction, and to add to the mystery,
though I will again suggest that a man who travelled and went about among
men as he did would take less offence at these things. The
re-appearances of Jasper are natural enough, except at the ford when
Borrow is about to pass into Wales: those of Ardry less so. But when
Borrow contrives to hear more of the old china collector and of Isopel
also from the jockey, and shuffles about the postillion, Murtagh, the Man
in Black, and Platitude, and introduces Sir John Bowring for punishment,
he makes "The Romany Rye" much inferior to "Lavengro."
These devices never succeed, except where their extravagance makes us
laugh heartily--as when on Salisbury Plain he meets returning from Botany
Bay the long lost son of his old London Bridge apple-woman. The devices
are unnecessary and remain as stiffening stains upon a book that is
otherwise full of nature and human nature.