“‘I shall turn back with him. God bless you!’
“‘Go back with him not,’ said Peter, ‘he is one of those whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn observes—turn not with that man.’
“‘Go not back with him,’ said Winifred. ‘If thou goest with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels; come with us.’
“‘I cannot; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divous, Mr. Petulengro.’
“‘Kosko Divvus, Pal,’ said Mr. Petulengro, riding through the water; ‘are you turning back?’
“I turned back with Mr. Petulengro.”
At another time Jasper twists about like a weasel bewitching a bird, and in so doing puts £50 unnoticed into Lavengro’s pocket. Lavengro is indignant at the pleasantry. But Jasper insists; the money is for him to buy a certain horse; if he will not take the money and buy the horse there will be a quarrel. He has made the money by fair fighting in the ring, has nowhere to put it, and seriously thinks that it were best invested in this fine horse, which accordingly Borrow purchases and takes across England, and sells at Horncastle Fair for £150. The next scene shows Tawno Chikno at his best. Borrow has been trotting the horse and racing it against a cob, amid a company that put him “wonderfully in mind of the ancient horse-races of the heathen north,” so that he almost thought himself Gunnar of Lithend. But Tawno was the man to try the horse at a jump, said Jasper. Tawno weighed sixteen stone, and the owner thought him more likely to break the horse’s back. Jasper became very much excited, and offered to forfeit a handful of guineas if harm was done.
“‘Here’s the man. Here’s the horse-leaper of the world. . . .’ Tawno, at a bound, leaped into the saddle, where he really looked like Gunnar of Hlitharend, save and except that the complexion of Gunnar was florid, whereas that of Tawno was of nearly Mulatto darkness; and that all Tawno’s features were cast in the Grecian model, whereas Gunnar had a snub nose. ‘There’s a leaping-bar behind the house,’ said the landlord. ‘Leaping-bar!’ said Mr. Petulengro, scornfully. ‘Do you think my black pal ever rides at a leaping bar? No more than at a windle-straw. Leap over that meadow wall, Tawno.’ Just past the house, in the direction in which I had been trotting, was a wall about four feet high, beyond which was a small meadow. Tawno rode the horse gently up to the wall, permitted him to look over, then backed him for about ten yards, and pressing his calves against the horse’s sides, he loosed the rein, and the horse launching forward, took the leap in gallant style. ‘Well done, man and horse!’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘now come back, Tawno.’ The leap from the side of the meadow was, however, somewhat higher; and the horse, when pushed at it, at first turned away; whereupon Tawno backed him to a greater distance, pushed the horse to a full gallop, giving a wild cry; whereupon the horse again took the wall, slightly grazing one of his legs against it. ‘A near thing,’ said the landlord, ‘but a good leap. Now, no more leaping, so long as I have control over the animal.’”
A very different beautiful scene is where Mrs. Petulengro braids Isopel’s fair hair in Gypsy fashion, half against her will, and Lavengro looks on, showing Isopel at a glance his disapproval of the fashion, while Petulengro admires it. If it is not too much to quote, I will do so, because it is the clearest and most detailed picture of more than one figure in the whole of the autobiography. Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro have come to visit Isopel, and Lavengro has fetched her to his tent, where they are awaiting her:
“So Belle and I advanced towards our guests. As we drew nigh Mr. Petulengro took off his hat and made a profound obeisance to Belle, whilst Mrs. Petulengro rose from her stool and made a profound curtsey. Belle, who had flung her hair back over her shoulders, returned their salutations by bending her head, and after slightly glancing at Mr. Petulengro, fixed her large blue eyes full upon his wife. Both these females were very handsome—but how unlike! Belle fair, with blue eyes and flaxen hair; Mrs. Petulengro with olive complexion, eyes black, and hair dark—as dark could be. Belle, in demeanour calm and proud; the Gypsy graceful, but full of movement and agitation. And then how different were those two in stature! The head of the Romany rawnie scarcely ascended to the breast of Isopel Berners. I could see that Mrs. Petulengro gazed on Belle with unmixed admiration: so did her husband. ‘Well,’ said the latter, ‘one thing I will say, which is, that there is only one on earth worthy to stand up in front of this she, and that is the beauty of the world, as far as man flesh is concerned, Tawno Chikno; what a pity he did not come down! . . .’
“Mrs. Petulengro says: ‘You are very beautiful, madam, though you are not dressed as I could wish to see you, and your hair is hanging down in sad confusion; allow me to assist you in arranging your hair, madam; I will dress it for you in our fashion; I would fain see how your hair would look in our poor Gypsy fashion; pray allow me, madam?’ and she took Belle by the hand.
“‘I really can do no such thing,’ said Belle, withdrawing her hand; ‘I thank you for coming to see me, but . . .’
“‘Do allow me to officiate upon your hair, madam,’ said Mrs. Petulengro; ‘I should esteem your allowing me a great mark of condescension. You are very beautiful, madam, and I think you doubly so, because you are so fair; I have a great esteem for persons with fair complexions and hair; I have a less regard for people with dark hair and complexions, madam.’
“‘Then why did you turn off the lord, and take up with me?’ said Mr. Petulengro; ‘that same lord was fair enough all about him.’
“‘People do when they are young and silly what they sometimes repent of when they are of riper years and understandings. I sometimes think that had I not been something of a simpleton, I might at this time be a great court lady. Now, madam,’ said she, again taking Belle by the hand, ‘do oblige me by allowing me to plait your hair a little?’
“‘I have really a good mind to be angry with you,’ said Belle, giving Mrs. Petulengro a peculiar glance.
“‘Do allow her to arrange your hair,’ said I, ‘she means no harm, and wishes to do you honour; do oblige her and me too, for I should like to see how your hair would look dressed in her fashion.’
“‘You hear what the young rye says?’ said Mrs. Petulengro. ‘I am sure you will oblige the young rye, if not myself. Many people would be willing to oblige the young rye, if he would but ask them; but he is not in the habit of asking favours. He has a nose of his own, which he keeps tolerably exalted; he does not think small-beer of himself, madam; and all the time I have been with him, I never heard him ask a favour before; therefore, madam, I am sure you will oblige him.’ . . .”
The men talk together, Jasper telling about the passing of the “old-fashioned good-tempered constables,” the advent of railways, and the spoiling of road life.
“. . . ‘Now, madam,’ said Mrs. Petulengro, ‘I have braided your hair in our fashion: you look very beautiful, madam; more beautiful, if possible, than before.’ Belle now rose, and came forward with her tire-woman. Mr. Petulengro was loud in his applause, but I said nothing, for I did not think Belle was improved in appearance by having submitted to the ministry of Mrs. Petulengro’s hand. Nature never intended Belle to appear as a Gypsy; she had made her too proud and serious. A more proper part for her was that of a heroine, a queenly heroine,—that of Theresa of Hungary, for example; or, better still, that of Brynhilda the Valkyrie, the beloved of Sigurd, the serpent-killer, who incurred the curse of Odin, because, in the tumult of spears, she sided with the young king, and doomed the old warrior to die, to whom Odin had promised victory.
“Belle looked at me for a moment in silence; then turning to Mrs. Petulengro, she said, ‘You have had your will with me; are you satisfied?’ ‘Quite so, madam,’ said Mrs. Petulengro, ‘and I hope you will be so too, as soon as you have looked in the glass.’ ‘I have looked in one already,’ said Belle,’ and the glass does not flatter.’ . . .”
Here it is easy to notice how the uncolloquial and even ugly English does not destroy the illusion of the scene, but entirely subserves it and makes these two or three pages fine painter’s work for richness and still drama.
I have not forgotten the Man in Black, though I gladly would. Not that I am any more in sympathy with his theology than Borrow’s, if it is more interesting and venerable. But in this priest, Borrow’s method, always instinctively intense if not exaggerated, falls to caricature. I have no objection to caricature; when it is of a logical or incidental kind I enjoy it, even in “The Romany Rye”; I enjoy, for example, the snoring Wordsworthian, without any prejudice against Wordsworth. “The Catholic Times” as late as 1900 was still angry with Borrow’s “crass anti-Catholic bigotry.” I should have expected them to laugh consumedly at a priest, a parson and a publican who deserve places in the same gallery with wicked earls and noble savages of popular fiction. It may be true that this “creation of Borrow’s most studied hatred” is, as Mr. Seccombe says, {242} “a triumph of complex characterisation.” He is “a joyous liver and an unscrupulous libertine, sceptical as Voltaire, as atheistic as a German professor, as practical as a Jew banker, as subtle as a Jesuit, he has as many ways of converting the folks among whom he is thrown as Panurge had of eating the corn in ear. For the simple and credulous—crosses and beads; for the hard-hearted and venal—material considerations; for the cultured and educated—a fine tissue of epigrams and anthropology; for the ladies—flattery and badinage. A spiritual ancestor of Anatole France’s marvellous full-length figure of Jerôme Coignard, Borrow’s conception takes us back first to Rabelais and secondly to the seventeenth-century conviction of the profound Machiavellism of Jesuitry.”
But in “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye” he is an intruder with a design of turning these books into tracts. He is treated far more elaborately than any other character except the author’s, and with a massive man’s striving after subtlety. Moreover, Borrow has made it impossible to ignore him or to cut him out, by interlacing him with every other character in these two books. With sad persistency and naïve ingenuity he brings it about that every one shall see, or have seen in the past, this terrible priest. Borrow’s natural way of dealing with such a man would be that of the converted pugilist who, on hearing of an atheist in the vicinity, wanted to go and “knock the beggar down for Jesus’ sake”; and a variation upon this would have been delightful and in harmony with the rest of the book. But clever as the priest is, Borrow himself is stronger, honester and cleverer, too. Of course, the priest leads him to some good things. Above all, he leads to the incident of the half-converted publican, who is being ruined by sherry and Popery. Borrow pursuades him to take ale, which gives him the courage to give up thoughts of conversion, and to turn on his enemies and re-establish himself, to make a good business, become a churchwarden, and teach boxing to the brewer’s sons, because it is “a fine manly English art and a great defence against Popery.” It is at least a greater defence than Borrow’s pen, or deserves to be.
The writing of the autobiography differs from that of “The Bible in Spain.” It is less flowing and more laboured. It has less movement and buoyancy, but more delicacy and variety. It is a finer and more intimate style, which over and over again distinguishes Borrow from the Victorian pure and simple. The dialogue is finer; it is used less to disguise or vary narrative, and more to reveal character and make dramatic effect; and it is even lyrical at times. Borrow can be Victorian still. This example is from the old man’s history in “The Romany Rye”:
“My mother had died about three years previously. I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death. The cause of this want of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from him in an affair which deeply concerned me. I had formed an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood, who, though poor, was of highly respectable birth, her father having been a curate of the Established Church.”
This better one is from “Lavengro”:
“And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imaginable, Annette La Noire by name, who had just arrived from her native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of governess in some English family; a position which, on account of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had become acclimated in England, her health would probably suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover—for it appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in the world—succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery.”
But coarse and rigid as this is the same vocabulary, the same ample, oratorical tone, will help Borrow to genial, substantial effects such as the dinner with the landlord and the commercial traveller: “The dinner was good, though plain, consisting of boiled mackerel—rather a rarity in those parts at that time—with fennel sauce, a prime baron of roast beef after the mackerel, then a tart and noble Cheshire cheese; we had prime sherry at dinner, and whilst eating the cheese prime porter, that of Barclay, the only good porter in the world. After the cloth was removed we had a bottle of very good port; and whilst partaking of the port I had an argument with the commercial traveller on the subject of the corn-laws.”
What is more, this is the vocabulary and tone of the whole book, and how far the total effect is from coarseness and rigidity I cannot show now if I have not done so already. Borrow’s gusto triumphs over this style in descriptions of men riding, fighting, talking or drinking. His sense of mystery triumphs over it continually as the prevailing atmosphere must prove. The gusto and the mystery are all the more impressive because the means are entirely concealed, except when the writer draws himself up for an apostrophe, and that is not much too often nor always tedious. The style is capable of essential simplicity, though not of refined simplicity, just as a man with a hard hat, black clothes and a malacca cane may be a good deal simpler and more at home with natural things than a hairy hygienic gentleman. I will quote one example—the old bee-keeper in “The Romany Rye”:
“I was bidding him farewell, when he hemmed once or twice, and said that as he did not live far off, he hoped that I would go with him and taste some of his mead. As I had never tasted mead, of which I had frequently read in the compositions of the Welsh bards, and, moreover, felt rather thirsty from the heat of the day, I told him that I should have great pleasure in attending him. Whereupon, turning off together, we proceeded about half a mile, sometimes between stone walls, and at other times hedges, till we reached a small hamlet, through which we passed, and presently came to a very pretty cottage, delightfully situated within a garden, surrounded by a hedge of woodbines. Opening a gate at one corner of the garden, he led the way to a large shed which stood partly behind the cottage, which he said was his stable; thereupon he dismounted and led his donkey into the shed, which was without stalls, but had a long rack and manger. On one side he tied his donkey, after taking off her caparisons, and I followed his example, tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down. Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats? ‘I have all kinds of grain,’ he replied; and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her master’s face and fairly kissed him. Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly-sanded kitchen, he produced from an old-fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and taking a seat opposite to me, he lifted the other, nodded, and saying to me—‘Health and welcome,’ placed it to his lips and drank.
“‘Health and thanks,’ I replied; and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at a draught; I had scarcely done so, however, when I half repented. The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy. ‘Mead is a strong drink,’ said the old man, as he looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance. ‘This is, at any rate,’ said I, ‘so strong, indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration.’ ‘And I would not ask you,’ said the old man; ‘for, if you did, you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake next morning with a headache. Mead is a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as I suppose you are not.’ ‘Where do you get it?’ said I. ‘I make it myself,’ said the old man, ‘from the honey which my bees make.’ ‘Have you many bees?’ I inquired. ‘A great many,’ said the old man. ‘And do you keep them,’ said I, ‘for the sake of making mead with their honey?’ ‘I keep them,’ he replied, ‘partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with a little I make me some mead to warm my poor heart with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself.’ ‘And do you support yourself entirely by means of your bees?’ ‘No,’ said the old man; ‘I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my principal means of support.’ ‘And do you live alone?’ ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘with the exception of the bees and the donkey, I live quite alone.’ ‘And have you always lived alone?’ The old man emptied his cup, and his heart being warmed with the mead, he told me his history, which was simplicity itself. His father was a small yeoman, who, at his death, had left him, his only child, the cottage, with a small piece of ground behind it, and on this little property he had lived ever since. About the age of twenty-five he had married an industrious young woman, by whom he had one daughter, who died before reaching years of womanhood. His wife, however, had survived her daughter many years, and had been a great comfort to him, assisting him in his rural occupations; but, about four years before the present period, he had lost her, since which time he had lived alone, making himself as comfortable as he could; cultivating his ground, with the help of a lad from the neighbouring village, attending to his bees, and occasionally riding his donkey to market, and hearing the word of God, which he said he was sorry he could not read, twice a week regularly at the parish church. Such was the old man’s tale.
“When he had finished speaking, he led me behind his house, and showed me his little domain. It consisted of about two acres in admirable cultivation; a small portion of it formed a kitchen garden, while the rest was sown with four kinds of grain, wheat, barley, pease, and beans. The air was full of ambrosial sweets, resembling those proceeding from an orange grove; a place, which though I had never seen at that time, I since have. In the garden was the habitation of the bees, a long box, supported upon three oaken stumps. It was full of small round glass windows, and appeared to be divided into a great many compartments, much resembling drawers placed sideways. He told me that, as one compartment was filled, the bees left it for another; so that, whenever he wanted honey, he could procure some without injuring the insects. Through the little round windows I could see several of the bees at work; hundreds were going in and out of the doors; hundreds were buzzing about on the flowers, the woodbines, and beans. As I looked around on the well-cultivated field, the garden, and the bees, I thought I had never before seen so rural and peaceful a scene.”
It may be said of this that it is the style of the time, modified inexplicably at almost every point by the writer’s character. The Bible and the older-fashioned narrative English of Defoe and Smollett have obviously lent it some phrases, and also a nakedness and directness that is half disdainful of the emotions and colours which it cannot hide. Still further to qualify the Victorianism which he was heir to, Borrow took over something from the insinuating Sterne. Mr. Thomas Seccombe {250} has noticed Sterne particularly in Borrow’s picture of his father, one of the most deliberate and artificial portions of the book:
“The ironical humour blent with pathos in his picture of this ill-rewarded old disciplinarian (who combined a tenderness of heart with a fondness for military metaphor that frequently reminds one of ‘My Uncle Toby’), the details of the ailments and the portents that attended his infantile career, and, above all, the glimpses of the wandering military life from barrack to barrack and from garrison to garrison, inevitably remind the reader of the childish reminiscences of Laurence Sterne, a writer to whom it may thus early be said that George Borrow paid no small amount of unconscious homage.”
The same critic has remarked on “the Sterne-like conclusion of a chapter: ‘Italy—what was I going to say about Italy?’” It was perhaps Sterne who taught him the use of the dash when no more words are necessary or ready to meet the case, and also when no more are permissible by contemporary taste. The passage where Ardry and his French mistress talk to Borrow, she using her own language, is like “The Sentimental Journey.” And, as Mr. Seccombe has suggested, Borrow found in Sterne’s a precedent for the rate of progress in his autobiography.
But innumerable are the possible styles which combine something from the Bible, Defoe, and Sterne, with something else upon a Victorian foundation. Borrow’s something else, which dominates and welds the rest, is the most important. It expresses the man, or rather it allows the man’s qualities to appear, his melancholy, his independence, his curiosity, his love of strong men and horses. Of little felicities there are very few. It has gusto always at command, and mystery also. We feel in it a kind of reality not often associated with professional literature, but rather with the letters of men who are not writers and with the speech of illiterate men of character. The great difference between them and Borrow is that their speech can rarely be represented in print except by another genius, and that their letters only now and then reach the level which Borrow continues at and often rises above. Yet he has something in common with such men—for example, in his feeling for Nature. In Spain, it is true, he gave way to declamatory descriptions of grandeur and desolation: in England, where he saw nothing of the kind, he wrote little description, and the impression of the country through which he is passing is that of an inarticulate outdoor man, strong and sincere but vague. Here, again, he has something in common with the eighteenth-century man, who liked the country, but would probably agree that one green field was like another. He writes like the man who desired a gentle wife, an Arabic book, the haunch of a buck, and Madeira old. He reminds us of an even older or simpler type when he apostrophises the retired pugilist:
“’Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy ‘public’ in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. ’Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long room, surrounded by his friends: glasses are filled, and a song is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo in every heart—fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of the mightly fighting men of yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus:
‘Here’s a health to old honest John Bull,
When he’s gone we shan’t find such another,
And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
We will drink to old England, his mother.’”
There is little doubt of the immortality of this good old style, and it testifies to the full heart and perhaps the full glass also of George Borrow; but it was not this passage in particular that made Whitwell Elwin call his writing “almost affectedly simple.”
“Lavengro” in 1851 and “The Romany Rye” in 1857 failed to impress the critics or the public. Men were disappointed because “Lavengro” was “not an autobiography.” They said that the adventures did not bear “the impress of truth.” They suggested that the anti-Papistry was “added and interpolated to suit the occasion of the recent Papal aggression.” They laughed at its mystery-making. They said that it gave “a false dream in the place of reality.” Ford regretted that Borrow had “told so little about himself.” Two friends praised it and foretold long life for it. Whitwell Elwin in 1857 said that “the truth and vividness of the descriptions both of scenes and persons, coupled with the purity, force and simplicity of the language, should confer immortality upon many of its pages.” “The Saturday Review” found that he had humour and romance, and that his writing left “a general impression of the scenery and persons introduced so strongly vivid and life-like,” that it reminded them of Defoe rather than of any contemporary author; they called the books a “strange cross between a novel and an autobiography.” In 1857 also, Émile Montégut wrote a study of “The Gypsy Gentleman,” which he published in his “Ecrivains Modernes de l’Angleterre.” He said that Borrow had revived a neglected literary form, not artificially, but as being the natural frame for the scenes of his wandering life: he even went so far as to say that the form and manner of the picaresque or rogue novel, like “Gil Blas,” is the inevitable one for pictures of the low and vagabond life. This form, said he, Borrow adopted not deliberately but intuitively, because he had a certain attitude to express: he rediscovered it, as Cervantes and Mendoza invented it, because it was the most appropriate clothing for his conceptions. Borrow had, without any such ambition, become the Quevedo and the Mendoza of modern England.
The autobiography resembles the rogue novel in that it is well peppered with various isolated narratives strung upon the thread of the hero’s experience. It differs chiefly in that the study of the hero is serious and without roguery. The conscious attempt to make it as good as a rogue novel on its own ground caused some of the chief faults of the book, the excess of recognitions and re-appearances, the postillion’s story, and the visits of the Man in Black.
When Borrow came to answer his critics in the Appendix to “The Romany Rye,” he assumed that they thought him vulgar for dealing in Gypsies and the like. He retorted:
“Rank, wealth, fine clothes and dignified employments, are no doubt very fine things, but they are merely externals, they do not make a gentleman, they add external grace and dignity to the gentleman and scholar, but they make neither; and is it not better to be a gentleman without them than not a gentleman with them? Is not Lavengro, when he leaves London on foot with twenty pounds in his pocket, entitled to more respect than Mr. Flamson flaming in his coach with a million? And is not even the honest jockey at Horncastle, who offers a fair price to Lavengro for his horse, entitled to more than the scroundrel lord, who attempts to cheat him of one-fourth of its value. . . .”
He might have said the books were a long tract to prove that many waters cannot quench gentlemanliness, or “once a gentleman always a gentleman.” As a rule, when Borrow gets away from life and begins to think about it, he ceases to be an individual and becomes a tame and entirely convenient member of society, fit for the Commission of the Peace or a berth at the British Museum. After he has made £20 by pen-slavery and saved himself from serious poverty, he exclaims:
“Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however difficult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not liberate you.”
When he comes to discuss his own work he says that “it represents him, however, as never forgetting that he is the son of a brave but poor gentleman, and that if he is a hack author, he is likewise a scholar. It shows him doing no dishonourable jobs, and proves that if he occasionally associates with low characters, he does so chiefly to gratify the curiosity of a scholar. In his conversations with the apple-woman of London Bridge, the scholar is ever apparent, so again in his acquaintance with the man of the table, for the book is no raker up of the uncleanness of London, and if it gives what at first sight appears refuse, it invariably shows that a pearl of some kind, generally a philological one, is contained amongst it; it shows its hero always accompanied by his love of independence, scorning in the greatest poverty to receive favours from anybody, and describes him finally rescuing himself from peculiarly miserable circumstances by writing a book, an original book, within a week, even as Johnson is said to have written his ‘Rasselas,’ and Beckford his ‘Vathek,’ and tells how, leaving London, he betakes himself to the roads and fields.
“In the country it shows him leading a life of roving adventure, becoming tinker, Gypsy, postillion, ostler; associating with various kinds of people, chiefly of the lower classes, whose ways and habits are described; but, though leading this erratic life, we gather from the book that his habits are neither vulgar nor vicious, that he still follows to a certain extent his favourite pursuits, hunting after strange characters, or analysing strange words and names. At the conclusion of Chapter XLVII., which terminates the first part of the history, it hints that he is about to quit his native land on a grand philological expedition.
“Those who read this book with attention—and the author begs to observe that it would be of little utility to read it hurriedly—may derive much information with respect to matters of philology and literature; it will be found treating of most of the principal languages from Ireland to China, and of the literature which they contain. . . .”
Away from the dingle and Jasper his view of life is as follows—ale, Tate and Brady, and the gloves:
“But, above all, the care and providence of God are manifested in the case of Lavengro himself, by the manner in which he is enabled to make his way in the world up to a certain period, without falling a prey either to vice or poverty. In his history there is a wonderful illustration of part of the text quoted by his mother, ‘I have been young, and now am old, yet never saw I the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread.’ He is the son of good and honourable parents, but at the critical period of life, that of entering into the world, he finds himself without any earthly friend to help him, yet he manages to make his way; he does not become a Captain in the Life Guards, it is true, nor does he get into Parliament, nor does the last chapter conclude in the most satisfactory and unobjectionable manner, by his marrying a dowager countess, as that wise man Addison did, or by his settling down as a great country gentleman, perfectly happy and contented, like the very moral Roderick Random, or the equally estimable Peregrine Pickle; he is hack author, Gypsy, tinker, and postillion, yet, upon the whole, he seems to be quite as happy as the younger sons of most earls, to have as high feelings of honour; and when the reader loses sight of him, he has money in his pocket honestly acquired, to enable him to commence a journey quite as laudable as those which the younger sons of earls generally undertake. Surely all this is a manifestation of the kindness and providence of God: and yet he is not a religious person; up to the time when the reader loses sight of him, he is decidedly not a religious person; he has glimpses, it is true, of that God who does not forsake him, but he prays very seldom, is not fond of going to church; and, though he admires Tate and Brady’s version of the Psalms, his admiration is rather caused by the beautiful poetry which that version contains than the religion; yet his tale is not finished—like the tale of the gentleman who touched objects, and that of the old man who knew Chinese without knowing what was o’clock; perhaps, like them, he is destined to become religious, and to have, instead of occasional glimpses, frequent and distinct views of his God; yet, though he may become religious, it is hardly to be expected that he will become a very precise and strait-laced person; it is probable that he will retain, with his scholarship, something of his Gypsyism, his predilection for the hammer and tongs, and perhaps some inclination to put on certain gloves, not white kid, with any friend who may be inclined for a little old English diversion, and a readiness to take a glass of ale, with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as may well be—ale at least two years old—with the aforesaid friend, when the diversion is over; for, as it is the belief of the writer that a person may get to heaven very comfortably without knowing what’s o’clock, so it is his belief that he will not be refused admission there because to the last he has been fond of healthy and invigorating exercises, and felt a willingness to partake of any of the good things which it pleases the Almighty to put within the reach of His children during their sojourn upon earth.”
It is quite evident then that Borrow does not advocate the open air, the tinkers’ trade, and a-roving-a-roving, for the sons of gentlemen. It is not apparent that the open air did his health much good. As for tinkering, it was, he declares, a necessity and for lack of anything better to do, and he realised that he was only playing at it. When he was looking for a subject for his pen he rejected Harry Simms and Jemmy Abershaw because both, though bold and extraordinary men, were “merely highwaymen.”
On the other hand, when he has known a “bad man” he cannot content himself with mere disapproval. Take, for example, his friends the murderers, Haggart and Thurtell. He shows Haggart as an ambitious lad too full of life, “with fine materials for a hero.” He calls the fatalist’s question: “Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?”—nonsense, saying: “The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place.” Then he exclaims:
“But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place. Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?—she felt proud of thee, and said, ‘Sure, O’Hanlon is come again.’ What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, ‘I will go there, and become an honest man!’ But thou wast not to go there, David—the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell, and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short; and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thine own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest have been better employed, David!—but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have been better employed!—but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty’s grace and pardon.”
He makes the jockey speak in the same fashion of Thurtell whom he went to see hanged, according to an old agreement:
“I arrived at H--- just in the nick of time. There was the ugly jail—the scaffold—and there upon it stood the only friend I ever had in the world. Driving my Punch, which was all in a foam, into the midst of the crowd, which made way for me as if it knew what I came for, I stood up in my gig, took off my hat, and shouted, ‘God Almighty bless you, Jack!’ The dying man turned his pale grim face towards me—for his face was always somewhat grim, do you see—nodded and said, or I thought I heard him say, ‘All right, old chap.’ The next moment . . . my eyes water. He had a high heart, got into a scrape whilst in the Marines, lost his half-pay, took to the turf, ring, gambling, and at last cut the throat of a villain who had robbed him of nearly all he had. But he had good qualities, and I know for certain that he never did half the bad things laid to his charge; for example, he never bribed Tom Oliver to fight cross, as it was said he did, on the day of the awful thunderstorm. Ned Flatnose fairly beat Tom Oliver, for though Ned was not what’s called a good fighter, he had a particular blow, which if he could put in he was sure to win. His right shoulder, do you see, was two inches farther back than it ought to have been, and consequently his right fist generally fell short; but if he could swing himself round, and put in a blow with that right arm, he could kill or take away the senses of anybody in the world. It was by putting in that blow in his second fight with Spring that he beat noble Tom. Spring beat him like a sack in the first battle, but in the second Ned Painter—for that was his real name—contrived to put in his blow, and took the senses out of Spring; and in like manner he took the senses out of Tom Oliver.
“Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps. I’ll tell you: the lack of a certain quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing that can bring him to the gallows.”
Isopel Berners, with Moses and David in her mind, expresses Borrow’s private opinion more soberly when she says:
“Fear God, and take your own part. There’s Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him—so fear God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young man, say ‘Lord, have mercy upon me!’ and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over.”
The Green, Long Melford, Suffolk. Photo: C. F. Emeny, Sudbury
He had probably a natural inclination towards a liberal or eccentric morality, but he was no thinker, and he gave way to a middle-class phraseology—with exceptions, as when he gives it as the opinion of his old master, the Norwich solicitor, that “all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain.” Sometimes Borrow allows these two sides of him, his private and his social sides, to appear together dramatically. For example, he more than half seriously advises Jasper to read the Scriptures and learn his duty to his fellow-creatures and his duty to his own soul, lest he should be ranked with those who are “outcast, despised and miserable.” Whereupon Jasper questions him and gets him to admit that the Gypsies are very much like the cuckoos, roguish, chaffing birds that everybody is glad to see again:
“‘You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn’t you?’
“‘Can’t say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.’
“‘And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?’
“‘Can’t say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which Gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent Gypsies, have been the principal figures! I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you.’
“‘Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn-door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.’
“‘Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!’
“‘And why not cuckoos, brother?’
“‘You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?’
“‘And how should a man?’
“‘Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.’
“‘How do you know it?’
“‘We know very well.’
“‘Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?’
“‘Why, I think I might, Jasper!’”
There is no doubt that Borrow liked a strong or an extraordinary man none the less for being a scoundrel. There is equally little doubt that he never demeaned himself with the lower orders. He never pretended, and was seldom taken, to be one of themselves. His attitude differed in degree, but not in kind, from that of a frank, free squire or parson towards keepers, fishermen or labourers. And if he did not drink and swear on an equality with them, neither did he crankily worship them as Fitzgerald did “Posh,” the fisherman. They respected him—at least so he tells us—and he never gives himself away to any other effect—because he was honest, courageous and fair. Thus he never gave cause for suspicion as a man does who throws off the cloak of class, and he was probably as interesting to them as they to him. Nor did his refusal to adopt their ways and manners out and out prevent a very genuine kind of equality from existing between him and some of them. A man or woman of equal character and force became his equal, as Jasper did, as Isopel and David Haggart did, and he accepted this equality without a trace of snobbishness.
He says himself that he has “no abstract love for what is low, or what the world calls low.” Certainly there is nothing low in his familiars, as he presents them, at least nothing sordid. It may be the result of unconscious idealisation, but his Gypsies have nothing more sordid about them than wild birds have. Mrs. Herne is diabolical, but in a manner that would not be unbecoming to a duchess. Leonora is treacherous, but as an elf is permitted to be. As for Jasper and Mrs. Petulengro, they are as radiant as Mercutio and Rosalind. They have all the sweetness of unimprisoned air: they would prefer, like Borrow, “the sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters” to the parson and the church; and the smell of the stable, which is strong in “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” to the smell of the congregation and the tombs.
When Borrow had almost finished “The Romany Rye” he went on a visit to his cousins in Cornwall. The story of his saving a man’s life in a stormy sea had reached them, and they sent him an invitation, which he accepted at Christmas time in 1853. He stayed for a fortnight with a cousin’s married daughter, Mrs. Anne Taylor, at Penquite Farm, near Liskeard, and then several days again after a fortnight spent on a walk to Land’s End and back. In his last week he walked to Tintagel and Pentire. He was welcomed with hospitality and admiration. He in turn seems to have been pleased and at his ease, though he only understood half of what was said. Those who remember his visit speak of his tears in the house where his father was born, of his sitting in the centre of a group telling stories of his travels and singing a Gypsy song, of his singing foreign songs all day out of doors, of his fit of melancholy cured by Scotch and Irish airs played on the piano, of his violent opinions on sherry and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” of his protesting against some sign of gentility by using a filthy rag as a pocket handkerchief, and that in a conspicuous manner, of his being vain and not proud, of his telling the children stories, of one child crying out at sight of him: “That is a man!” He made his mark by unusual ways and by intellectual superiority to his rustic cousins. He rode about with one of his cousin’s grandchildren. He walked hither and thither alone, doing as much as twenty-five miles a day with the help of “Look out, look out, Svend Vonved,” which he sang in the last dark stretches of road. Mr. Walling was “told that he roamed the Caradons in all weathers without a hat, in search of sport and specimens, antiquities and dialects,” but I should think the “specimens” were for the table. He talked to the men by the wayside or dived into the slums of Liskeard for disreputable characters. He visited remarkable and famous places, and was delighted with “Druidic” remains and tales of fairies.
Thus Borrow made “fifty quarto pages” of notes, says Knapp, about people, places, dialect, and folk lore. Some of the notes are mere shorthand; some are rapid gossipy jottings; and they include; a verse translation of a Cornish tale.
A book on Cornwall, to have grown out of these notes, was advertised; but it was never written. Perhaps he found it hard to vivify or integrate his notes. In any case there could hardly have been any backbone to the book, and it would have been tourist’s work, however good. He was not a man who wrote about everything; the impulse was lacking and he went on with the furious Appendix to “The Romany Rye.”
In 1854 he paid a much longer visit to Wales. He took his wife and daughter as far as Llangollen, which he used as a centre during August. Then he had ten days walking through Corwen, Cerrig-y-Drudion, Capel Curig, Bangor, Anglesey, Snowdon, Beth Gelert, Festiniog, and Bala. After three weeks more at Llangollen, he had his boots soled and his umbrella mended, bought a leather satchel with a lock and key, and put in it a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor, and a prayer book, and with twenty pounds in his pocket and his umbrella grasped in the middle, set out on a tour of three weeks. He travelled through the whole length of Wales, by Llangarmon, Sycharth, Bala, Machynlleth, Devil’s Bridge, Plinlimmon, Pont Rhyd Fendigaid, Strata Florida, Tregaron, Lampeter, Pumpsaint, Llandovery, Llangadog, Gwynfe, Gutter Fawr (Brynamman), Swansea, Neath, Merthyr, Caerphilly, Newport, and Chepstow. He had loved the Welsh bards and Wales from his boyhood up, and these three months kept him occupied and happy. When at Llangollen he walked during the day, and in the evening showed his wife and stepdaughter a view, if he had found one. His wife reported to his mother that she had reason to praise God for his condition.
Borrow was happy at seeing the places mentioned by the bards and the houses where some of them were born. “Oh, the wild hills of Wales,” he exclaimed, “the land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin!” These were the very tones of his Spanish enthusiasm nearly twenty years ago. He travelled probably without maps, and with no general knowledge of the country or of what had been written of it, so that he did not know how to spell Manorbier or recognise it as the birthplace of Gerald of Wales. He remembered his youth, when he translated the bards, with complacent melancholy. He sunned himself in the admiration of his inferiors, talking at great length on subjects with which he was acquainted and repeating his own execrable verse translations. “Nice man”—“civil man”—“clever man . . . has been everywhere,” the people said. In the South, too, he had the supreme good fortune to meet Captain Bosvile for the first time for thirty years, and not being recognised, said, “I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye.” Bejiggered if the Captain had not been thinking it was he, and goes on to ask after that “fine young woman and a vartuous” that he used to keep company with, and Borrow in his turn asked after Jasper—“Lord!” was the answer, “you can’t think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late years, and all along of a trumpery lil which somebody has written about them.” He also met an Italian whose friends he had last seen at Norwich, one whom he had found at Corunna. It is no wonder that it seemed to him he had always had “the health of an elephant,” and could walk thirty-four miles a day, and the last mile in ten minutes. He took his chance for a night’s lodging, content to have someone else’s bed, but going to the best inn where he had a choice, as at Haverfordwest.
He was very much moved by the adventure. “I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have been everywhere,” he said to the old man at Gutter Fawr. He gave the shepherd advice about his sheep. “I am in the habit,” he said to the landlord at Pont Erwyd, “of talking about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing.” Even in the company of his stepdaughter—as they were not in Hyde Park—he sang in Welsh at the top of his voice. The miller’s hospitality in Mona brought tears to his eyes; so did his own verse translation of the “Ode to Sycharth,” because it made him think “how much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood when I translated Iolo’s ode than I am at the present time.” He kissed the silver cup at Llanddewi Brefi and the tombstone of Huw Morus at Llan Silin. When the chair of Huw Morus was wiped and he was about to sit down in it, he uncovered and said in his best Welsh:
“‘Shade of Huw Morus, supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when alive—a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.’
“I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw Morus. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the short, buxom, and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones, the Calvinistic weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.”
Unless we count the inn at Cemmaes, where he took vengeance on the suspicious people by using his note-book in an obvious manner, “now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual,” he was only once thoroughly put out, and that was at Beth Gelert by a Scotchman: which suggests a great deal of amiability, on one side, considering that Borrow’s Welsh was book-Welsh, execrably pronounced.
He filled four books with notes, says Knapp, who has printed from them some parts which Borrow did not use, including the Orange words of “Croppies lie down,” and Borrow’s translation of “the best ghost story in the world,” by Lope de Vega. The book founded on these Welsh notes was advertised in 1857, but not published until 1862.
In the September after his Welsh holiday, 1855, Borrow took his wife and daughter to the Isle of Man, deposited them at Douglas, and travelled over the island for seven weeks, with intervals at Douglas. He took notes that make ninety-six quarto pages in Knapp’s copy. He was to have founded a book on them, entitled, “Wanderings in Quest of Manx Literature.” Knapp quotes an introduction which was written. This and the notes show him collecting in manuscript or viva voce the carvals or carols then in circulation among the Manx; and he had the good fortune to receive two volumes of them as gifts. Some he translated during his visit. He went about questioning people concerning the carvals and a Manx poet, named George Killey. He read a Manx prayer-book to the poet’s daughter at Kirk Onchan, and asked her a score of questions. He convinced one woman that he was “of the old Manx.” Finding a Manxman who spoke French and thought it the better language, he made the statement that “Manx or something like it was spoken in France more than a thousand years before French.” He copied Runic inscriptions, and took down several fairy tales and a Manx version of the story of “Finn McCoyle” and the Scotch giant. He went to visit a descendant of the ballad hero, Mollie Charane. When he wished to know the size of some old skeletons he inquired if the bones were as large as those of modern ones. As he met people to compliment him on his Manx, so he did on his walking. Knapp speaks of a “terrible journey” over the mountain from Ramsay to Braddan and Douglas in October, but does not make any quotation relating to it. In his opinion the notes “seldom present any matter of general interest save to the islanders of Man and the student of Runic inscriptions.” Enough, however, is quoted to show that Borrow was delighted with the country and the people, finding plenty to satisfy his curiosity in languages and customs. But he was irritable, and committed to paper some sarcastic remarks about Sir John Bowring and Lord Raglan, “the secret friend” of Russia; while the advancement of an enemy and the death of a cousin caused him to reflect: “William Borrow, the wonderful inventor, dead, and Leicester Curzon . . . a colonel. Pretty justice!” In 1862, in the pages of “Once a Week,” he published two of his Manx translations, the ballads—“Brown William” and “Mollie Charane.” In August and September, 1857, Borrow was walking again in Wales, covering four hundred miles, as he told John Murray, and once, at least, between Builth and Mortimer’s Cross, making twenty-eight miles in a day. His route was through Laugharne, Saundersfoot, Tenby, Pembroke, Milford and Milford Haven, Stainton, Johnston, Haverfordwest, St. Davids, Fishguard, Newport, Cardigan, Llechryd, Cilgerran, Cenarth, Newcastle Emlyn, Lampeter, Llanddewi Brefi, Builth, Presteign, Mortimer’s Cross, and so to Shrewsbury, and to Uppington, where Goronwy Owen was curate in the middle of the eighteenth century. Knapp transcribed part of Borrow’s journal for Messrs. T. C. Cantrill and J. Pringle, remarking that the rubbed pencil writing took him eight days to decipher. With the annotations of Messrs. Cantrill and Pringle it was printed in “Y Cymmrodor,” {270a} the journal of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion. I will quote one day’s entries, with the annotations, which are the fruit of the most patient devotion:
“Haverfordwest—little river—bridge; {270b} steep ascent {270c}—sounds of music—young fellows playing—steep descent—strange town—Castle Inn. H.W. in Welsh Hool-fordd.
“[August] 27th, Thursday.—Burning day as usual. Breakfasted on tea, eggs, and soup. Went up to the Castle. St. Mary’s Church—river—bridge—toll—The two bridge keepers—River Dun Cledi {270d}—runs into Milford Haven—exceedingly deep in some parts—would swallow up the largest ship ever built {270e}—people in general dislike and despise the Welsh.
“Started for St. David’s. Course S.W. {270f}After walking about 2 m. crossed Pelkham Bridge {271a}—it separates St. Martin’s from Camrwyn {271b} parish, as a woman told me who was carrying a pipkin in which were some potatoes in water but not boiled. In her other hand she had a dried herring. She said she had lived in the parish all her life and could speak no Welsh, but that there were some people within it who could speak it. Rested against a shady bank, {271c} very thirsty and my hurt foot very sore. She told me that the mountains to the N. were called by various names. One the [Clo---?] mountain. {271d}
“The old inn {271e}—the blind woman. {271f} Arrival of the odd-looking man and the two women I had passed on the road. The collier [on] {271g} the ass gives me the real history of Bosvile. Written in Roche Castle, a kind of oblong tower built on the rock—there is a rock within it, a huge crag standing towards the East in what was perhaps once a door. It turned out to be a chapel. {271h}
“The castle is call’d in Welsh Castel y Garn, a translation of Roche. The girl and water—B---? (Nanny) Dallas. {272a} Dialogue with the Baptist {272b} who was mending the roads.
“Splendid view of sea—isolated rocks to the South. Sir las {272c} headlands stretching S. Descent to the shore. New Gall Bridge. {272d} The collier’s wife. Jemmy Remaunt {272e} was the name of man on the ass. Her own husband goes to work by the shore. The ascent round the hill. Distant view of Roche Castle. The Welshers, the little village {272f}—all looking down on the valley appropriately called Y Cwm. Dialogue with tall man Merddyn? {272g}—The Dim o Clywed.”
Not much of this second tour can be shown to have been used in “Wild Wales,” where he alludes to it in the ninety-third chapter, saying that he “long subsequently” found some of the wildest solitudes and most romantic scenery among the mountains about Tregaron; but the collier may have given him the suggestion for the encounter with Bosvile in the ninety-eighth chapter. The spelling points to Borrow’s ignorance of the relation of pronunciation and orthography.
In 1858 Borrow’s mother died at Oulton and was buried in Oulton churchyard. During October and November in that year, partly to take his mind from his bereavement, he was walking in the Scottish Highlands and Islands. His note-book contains “nothing of general interest,” says Knapp, except an imperfect outline of the journey, showing that he was at Oban, Tobermory, the Mull of Cantire, Glasgow, Perth, Aberdeen, Inverness, Dingwall, Tain, Dornoch, Helmsdale, Wick, John o’Groats, Thurso, Stromness, Kirkwall, and Lerwick.
In 1860, after taking a house at 20, Hereford Square, West Brompton, he and his wife and stepdaughter went to Dublin, and himself walked to Connemara and the Giant’s Causeway. His wife thought this journey “full of adventure and interest,” but he left no record of it. They were again in Ireland in 1866, Miss Clarke having lately married a Dr. MacOubrey, of Belfast. Borrow himself crossed over to Stranraer and had a month’s walking in Scotland, to Glen Luce, Castle Douglas, Dumfries, Ecclefechan, Carlisle, Gilnochie, Hawick, Jedburgh, Yetholm, Kelso, Melrose, Coldstream, Berwick, and Edinburgh. He talked to the people, admired the scenery, bathed, and enjoyed his meals. He left the briefest of journals, but afterwards, in “Romano Lavo-Lil,” published an account of the “Gypsy toon” of Kirk Yetholm and how he was introduced to the Gypsy Queen. He dropped his umbrella and flung his arms three times up into the air and asked her in Romany what her name was, and if she was a mumper or a true Gypsy. She asked him what was the meaning of this “gibberish,” but he describes how gradually he made her declare herself, and how she examined him in Gypsy and at last offered him a chair, and entered into “deep discourse” about Gypsy matters. He talked as he did to such people, saying “Whoy, I calls that a juggal,” etc. He found fault with her Romany, which was thin and mixed with Gaelic and cant words. She told him that he reminded her of her grandfather, Will Faa, “being a tall, lusty man like himself, and having a skellying look with the left eye, just like him.” He displayed his knowledge of the affairs of the tribe, both in her country and in England. She told him that she had never heard so much Romany before. She promised to receive him next day, but was out when he called. He found her at St. George’s Fair, near Roxburgh Castle, and she pointed him out several other Gypsies, but as she assured him they knew not a word of Romany and would only be uncivil to him, he left them to “pay his respects at the tomb of Walter Scott, a man with whose principles he had no sympathy, but for whose genius he had always entertained the most intense admiration.”
In 1868 he took an autumn walk through Sussex and Hampshire while his wife was at Bognor. In the next year his wife died, after being afflicted for some time by troubles connected with her property, by dropsy, valvular disease of the heart, and “hysteria.” Borrow was melancholy and irritable, but apparently did not go for another walk in Scotland as was suggested for a cure; nor ever again did he get far afield on foot.