Mr Watts-Dunton, with inspiration, has asked whether or not Lavengro and The Romany Rye form a spiritual autobiography; and if they do, whether that autobiography does or does not surpass every other for absolute truth of spiritual representation. Borrow certainly did colour his narrative in places. Who could write the story of his early life with absolute accuracy? without dwelling on and elaborating certain episodes, perhaps even adjusting them somewhat? That would not necessarily prove them untrue.
There are, unquestionably, inconsistencies in Lavengro and The Romany Rye—they are admitted, they have been pointed out. There are many inaccuracies, it must be confessed; but because a man makes a mistake in the date of his birth or even the year, it does not prove that he was not born at all. Borrow was for ever making the most inaccurate statements about his age.
In the main Lavengro would appear to be autobiographical up to the period of Borrow’s coming to London. After this he begins to indulge somewhat in the dramatic. The meeting with the pickpocket as a thimble-rigger at Greenwich might pass muster were it not for the rencontre with the apple-woman’s son near Salisbury. The Dingle episode may be accepted, for Mr John Sampson has verified even the famous thunder-storm by means of the local press. Isopel Berners is not so easy to settle; yet the picture of her is so convincing, and Borrow was unable to do more than colour his narrative, that she too must have existed.
The failure of Lavengro is easily accounted for. Borrow wrote of vagabonds and vagabondage; it did not mitigate his offence in the eyes of the critics or the public that he wrote well about them. His crime lay in his subject. To Borrow, a man must be ready and able to knock another man down if necessity arise. When nearing sixty he lamented his childless state and said very mournfully: “I shall soon not be able to knock a man down, and I have no son to do it for me.” [398] He glorified the bruisers of England, in the face of horrified public opinion. England had become ashamed of its bruisers long before Lavengro was written, and this flaunting in its face of creatures that it considered too low to be mentioned, gave mortal offence. That in Lavengro was the best descriptions of a fight in the language, only made the matter worse. Borrow’s was an age of gentility and refinement, and he outraged it, first by glorifying vagabondage, secondly by decrying and sneering at gentility.
“Qui n’ a pas l’esprit de son âge,
De son âge a tout le malheur.”
And Borrow proved Voltaire’s words.
It is not difficult to understand that an age in which prize-fighting is anathema should not tolerate a book glorifying the ring; but it is strange that Borrow’s simple paganism and nature-worship should not have aroused sympathetic recognition. Poetry is ageless, and such passages as the description of the sunrise over Stonehenge should have found some, at least, to welcome them, even when found in juxtaposition with bruisers and gypsies.
Borrow loved to mystify, but in Lavengro he had overreached himself. “Are you really in existence?” wrote one correspondent who was unknown to Borrow, “for I also have occasionally doubted whether things exist, as you describe your own feelings in former days.”
John Murray wrote (8th Nov. 1851):—
“I was reminded of you the other day by an enquiry after Lavengro and its author, made by the Right Honourable John Wilson Croker. [399a] Knowing how fastidious and severe a critic he is, I was particularly glad to find him expressing a favourable opinion of it; and thinking well of it his curiosity was piqued about you. Like all the rest of the world, he is mystified by it. He knew not whether to regard it as truth or fiction. How can you remedy this defect? I call it a defect, because it really impedes your popularity. People say of a chapter or of a character: ‘This is very wonderful, if true; but if fiction it is pointless.’—Will your new volumes explain this and dissolve the mystery? If so, pray make haste and get on with them. I hope you have employed the summer in giving them the finishing touches.”
“There are,” says a distinguished critic, [399b] “passages in Lavengro which are unsurpassed in the prose literature of England—unsurpassed, I mean, for mere perfection of style—for blending of strength and graphic power with limpidity and music of flow.” Borrow’s own generation would have laughed at such a value being put upon anything in Lavengro.
Another thing against the books success was its style. It lacked what has been described as the poetic ecstacy or sentimental verdure of the age. Trope, imagery, mawkishness, were all absent, for Borrow had gone back to his masters, at whose head stood the glorious Defoe. Borrow’s style was as individual as the man himself. By a curious contradiction, the tendency is to overlook literary lapses in the very man towards whom so little latitude was allowed in other directions. Many Borrovians have groaned in anguish over his misuse of that wretched word “Individual.” A distinguished man of letters [400a] has written:—“I would as lief read a chapter of The Bible in Spain as I would Gil Blas; nay, I positively would give the preference to Señor Giorgio.” Another critic, and a severe one, has written:—
“It is not as philologist, or traveller, or wild missionary, or folk-lorist, or antiquary, that Borrow lives and will live. It is as the master of splendid, strong, simple English, the prose Morland of a vanished road-side life, the realist who, Defoe-like, could make fiction seem truer than fact. To have written the finest fight in the whole world’s literature, the fight with the Flaming Tinman, is surely something of an achievement.” [400b]
It is Borrow’s personality that looms out from his pages. His mastery over the imagination of his reader, his subtle instinct of how to throw his own magnetism over everything he relates, although he may be standing aside as regards the actual events with which he is dealing, is worthy of Defoe himself. It is this magnetism that carries his readers safely over the difficult places, where, but for the author’s grip upon them, they would give up in despair; it is this magnetism that prompts them to pass by only with a slight shudder, such references as the feathered tribe, fast in the arms of Morpheus, and, above all, those terrible puns that crop up from time to time. There is always the strong, masterful man behind the words who, like a great general, can turn a reverse to his own advantage.
In his style perhaps, after all, lay the secret of Borrow’s unsuccess. He was writing for another generation; speaking in a voice too strong to be heard other than as a strange noise by those near to him. It may be urged that The Bible in Spain disproves these conclusions; but The Bible in Spain was a peculiar book. It was a chronicle of Christian enterprise served up with sauce picaresque. It pleased and astonished everyone, especially those who had grown a little weary of godly missioners. It had the advantage of being spontaneous, having been largely written on the spot, whereas Lavengro and The Romany Rye were worked on and laboured at for years. Above all, it had the inestimable virtue of being known to be True. To the imaginative intellectual, Truth or Fiction are matters of small importance, he judges by Art; but to the general public of limited intellectual capacity, Truth is appreciated out of all proportion to its artistic importance. If Borrow had published The Bible in Spain after the failure of Lavengro, it would in all probability have been as successful as it was appearing before.
One of the finest traits in Borrow’s character was his devotion to his mother. He was always thoughtful for her comfort, even when fighting that almost hopeless battle in Russia, and later in the midst of bandits and bloody patriots in Spain. She was now, in 1849, an old woman, too feeble to live alone, and it was decided to transfer her to Oulton. An addition to the Hall was constructed for her accommodation, and she was to be given an attendant-companion in the person of the daughter of a local farmer.
For thirty-three years she had lived in the little house in Willow Lane; yet it was not she, but Borrow, who felt the parting from old associations. “I wish,” she writes to her daughter-in-law on 16th September 1849, “my dear George would not have such fancies about the old house; it is a mercy it has not fallen on my head before this.” The old lady was anxious to get away. It would not be safe, she thought, for her to be shut up alone, as the old woman who had looked after her could, for some reason or other, do so no longer. She urges her daughter-in-law to represent this to Borrow.
“There is a low, noisy set close to me,” she continues. “I shall not die one day sooner, or live one day longer. If I stop here and die on a sudden, half the things might be lost or stolen, therefore it seems as if the Lord would provide me a safer home. I have made up my mind to the change and only pray that I may be able to get through the trouble.”
It would appear that the move, which took place at the end of September, was brought about by the old lady’s appeals and insistence, and that Borrow himself was not anxious for it. He felt a sentimental attachment to the old place, which for so many years had been a home to him.
In 1853 Borrow removed to Great Yarmouth. During the summer of that year, Dr Hake had peremptorily ordered Mrs George Borrow not to spend the ensuing winter and spring at Oulton, and the move was made in August. The change was found to be beneficial to Mrs Borrow and agreeable to all, and for the next seven years (Aug. 1853–June 1860) Borrow’s headquarters were to be at Great Yarmouth, where he and his family occupied various lodgings.
Shortly before leaving Oulton, Borrow had received the following interesting letter from FitzGerald:—
Boulge, Woodbridge, 22nd July 1853.
My dear Sir,—I take the liberty of sending you a book [Six Dramas from Calderon], of which the title-page and advertisement will sufficiently explain the import. I am afraid that I shall in general be set down at once as an impudent fellow in making so free with a Great Man; but, as usual, I shall feel least fear before a man like yourself, who both do fine things in your own language and are deep read in those of others. I mean, that whether you like or not what I send you, you will do so from knowledge and in the candour which knowledge brings.
I had even a mind to ask you to look at these plays before they were printed, relying on our common friend Donne for a mediator; but I know how wearisome all MS. inspection is; and, after all, the whole affair was not worth giving you such a trouble. You must pardon all this, and believe me,—Yours very faithfully,
Edward FitzGerald.
Soon after his arrival by the sea, Borrow performed an act of bravery of which The Bury Post (17th Sept. 1852) gave the following account, most likely written by Dr Hake:—
“Intrepidity.—Yarmouth jetty presented an extra-ordinary and thrilling spectacle on Thursday, the 8th inst., about one o’clock. The sea raged frantically, and a ship’s boat, endeavouring to land for water, was upset, and the men were engulfed in a wave some thirty feet high, and struggling with it in vain. The moment was an awful one, when George Borrow, the well-known author of Lavengro, and The Bible in Spain, dashed into the surf and saved one life, and through his instrumentality the others were saved. We ourselves have known this brave and gifted man for years, and, daring as was this deed we have known him more than once to risk his life for others. We are happy to add that he has sustained no material injury.”
Borrow was a splendid swimmer. [404a] In the course of one of his country walks with Robert Cooke (John Murray’s partner), with whom he was on very friendly terms,
“he suggested a bathe in the river along which they were walking. Mr Cooke told me that Borrow, having stripped, took a header into the water and disappeared. More than a minute had elapsed, and as there were no signs of his whereabouts, Mr Cooke was becoming alarmed, lest he had struck his head or been entangled in the weeds, when Borrow suddenly reappeared a considerable distance off, under the opposite bank of the stream, and called out ‘What do you think of that?’” [404b]
Elizabeth Harvey, in telling the same story, says that on coming up he exclaimed: “There, if that had been written in one of my books, they would have said it was a lie, wouldn’t they?” [404c]
The paragraph about Borrow’s courage was printed in various newspapers throughout the country, amongst others in the Plymouth Mail under the heading of “Gallant Conduct of Mr G. Borrow,” and was read by Borrow’s Cornish kinsmen, who for years had heard nothing of Thomas Borrow. Apparently quite convinced that George was his son, they deputed Robert Taylor, a farmer of Penquite Farm (who had married Anne Borrow, granddaughter of Henry Borrow), to write to Borrow and invite him to visit Trethinnick. The letter was dated 10th October and directed to “George Borrow, Yarmouth.” Borrow replied as follows:—
Yarmouth, 14th Octr., 1853.
My dear Sir,—I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 10th inst. in which you inform me of the kind desire of my Cornish relatives to see me at Trethinnock (sic). Please to inform them that I shall be proud and happy to avail myself of their kindness and to make the acquaintance of “one and all” [405] of them. My engagements will prevent my visiting them at present, but I will appear amongst them on the first opportunity. I am delighted to learn that there are still some living at Trethinnock who remember my honoured father, who had as true a Cornish heart as ever beat.
I am at present at Yarmouth, to which place I have brought my wife for the benefit of her health; but my residence is Oulton Hall, Lowestoft, Suffolk. With kind greetings to my Cornish kindred, in which my wife and my mother join,—I remain, my dear Sir, ever sincerely yours,—
George Borrow.
Borrow was not free to visit his kinsfolk until the following Christmas. First advising Robert Taylor of his intention, and receiving his approval and instructions for the journey, Borrow set out from Great Yarmouth on 23rd December. He spent the night at Plymouth. Next morning on finding the Liskeard coach full, he decided to walk. Leaving his carpet-bag to be sent on by the mail, and throwing over his arm the cloak that had seen many years of service, he set out upon his eighteen-mile tramp. He arrived at Liskeard in the afternoon, and was met by his cousin Henry Borrow and Robert Taylor, as well as by several local celebrities.
After tea Borrow, accompanied by Robert Taylor, rode to Penquite, four miles away. “Ride by night to Penquite, Borrow records in his Journal. House of stone and slate on side of a hill. Mrs Taylor. Hospitable reception. Christmas Eve. Log on fire.” He found alive of his own generation, Henry, William, Thomas, Elizabeth (who lived to be 94 years of age) and Nicholas, the children of Henry Borrow, Captain Borrow’s eldest brother. Also Anne, daughter of Henry, who married Robert Taylor, and their daughter, likewise named Anne, and William Henry, son of Nicholas.
In the Cornish Note Books there appears under the date of 3rd January the following entry: “Rain and snow. Rode with Mr Taylor to dine at Trethinnick. House dilapidated. A family party. Hospitable people.” On first entering his father’s old home tears had sprung to Borrow’s eyes, and he was much affected. There was present at the dinner the vicar of St Cleer, the Rev. J. R. P. Berkeley, a pleasant Irish clergyman who, years later, was able to give to Dr Knapp an account of what took place. He noticed the “vast difference in appearance and manners between the simple yet shrewd Cornish farmers and the betravelled gentleman their kinsman;” yet for all this there were shades of resemblance—in a look, some turn of thought or tone of voice. George Borrow was not at his best that evening, Mr Berkeley relates of the dinner at Trethinnick:
“his feelings were too much excited. He was thinking of the time when his father’s footsteps and his father’s voice re-echoed in the room in which we were sitting. His eyes wandered from point to point, and at times, if I was not mistaken, a tear could be seen trembling in them. At length he could no longer control his feelings. He left the hall suddenly, and in a few moments, but for God’s providential care, the career of George Borrow would have been ended. There was within a few feet of the house a low wall with a drop of some feet into a paved yard. He walked rapidly out, and, it being nearly dark, he stepped one side of the gate and fell over the wall. He did not mention the accident, although he bruised himself a good deal, and it was some days before I heard of it. His words to me that evening, when bidding me good-bye, were: ‘Well, we have shared the old-fashioned hospitality of old-fashioned people in an old-fashioned house.’” [407a]
Borrow created something of a sensation in the neighbourhood. As a celebrity his autograph was much sought after; but he would gratify nobody. His hosts experienced many little surprises from their guest’s strange ways. He would plunge into a moorland pool to fetch a bird that had fallen to his gun, or, round the family fireside, he would shout his ballads of the North, at one time alarming his audience by seizing a carving-knife and brandishing it about in the air to emphasize the passionate nature of his song. When a card-party proved too dull he slipped off and found his way into some slums, picking up all the disreputable characters he could find, working off his knowledge of cant on them, and getting out of them what he could. [407b]
On one occasion when dining at the house of a local celebrity he was suddenly missed from table during dessert.
“A search revealed him in a remote room surrounded by the children of the house, whom he was amusing by his stories and catechising in the subject of their studies and pursuits. He excused his absence by saying that he had been fascinated by the intelligence of the children, and had forgotten about the dinner.” [407c]
His hatred of gentility led him into some actions that can only be characterised as childish. Even in Cornwall he was on the lookout for his fetish. On one occasion when dining with the ex-Mayor of Liskeard, he pulled out of his pocket and used instead of a handkerchief, a dirty old grease-stained rag with which he was wont to clean his gun. [408] This was done as a protest against something or other that seemed to him to suggest mock refinement.
When at Wolsdon as the guest of the Pollards there arrived a lady and gentleman of the name of Hambly, according to the Note Books. In spite of this brief reference, Borrow immediately recognised a hated name. Never was one of the name good, he informed Mr Berkeley. He may even have been informed that they were descendants of the Headborough whom his father had knocked down. He showed his detestation for the name by being as rude as he could to those who bore it.
Borrow was as incapable of dissimulating his dislikes as he was of controlling his moods. Even during his short stay at Penquite he was on one occasion, at least, plunged into a deep melancholy, sitting before a huge fire entirely oblivious to the presence of others in the room. Mrs Berkeley, who, with the vicar himself, was a caller, thinking to produce some good effect upon the gloomy man, sat down at the piano and played some old Irish and Scottish airs. After a time Borrow began to listen, then he raised his head, and finally “he suddenly sprang to his feet, clapped his hands several times, danced about the room, and struck up some joyous melody. From that moment he was a different man.” He told them “tales and side-splitting anecdotes,” he joined the party at supper, and when the vicar and his wife rose to take their leave he pressed Mrs Berkeley’s hands, and told her that her music had been as David’s harp to his soul.
To the young man he met during this visit who informed him that he had left the Army as it was no place for a gentleman, Borrow replied that it was no place for a man who was not a gentleman, and that he was quite right in leaving it. To speak against the Army to Borrow was to speak against his honoured father.
How Borrow struck his Cornish kinsfolk is shown in a letter written by his hostess to a friend. “I must tell you,” she writes, “a bit about our distinguished visitor.” She gives one of the most valuable portraits of Borrow that exists. He was to her:
“A fine tall man of about six feet three, well-proportioned and not stout; able to walk five miles an hour successively; rather florid face without any hirsute appendages; hair white and soft; eyes and eyebrows dark; good nose and very nice mouth; well-shaped hands—altogether a person you would notice in a crowd. His character is not so easy to portray. The more I see of him the less I know of him. He is very enthusiastic and eccentric, very proud and unyielding. He says very little of himself, and one cannot ask him if inclined to . . . He is a marvel in himself. There is no one here to draw him out. He has an astonishing memory as to dates when great events have taken place, no matter in what part of the world. He seems to know everything.” [409]
Borrow was gratified at the welcome he received, and was much pleased with the neighbourhood and its people. “My relations are most excellent people,” he wrote to his wife, “but I could not understand more than half they said.” He was puzzled to know why the head of a family, which was reputed to be worth seventy thousand pounds, should live in a house which could not boast of a single grate—“nothing but open chimneys.”
He remained at Penquite for upwards of a fortnight, at one time galloping over snowy hills and dales with Anne Taylor, Junr., “as gallant a girl as ever rode,” at another, alert as ever for fragments of folk-lore or philology, jotting down the story of a pisky-child from the dictation of his cousin Elizabeth.
On 9th January Borrow left Penquite on a tour to Truro, Penzance, Mousehole, and Land’s End, armed with the inevitable umbrella, grasped in the centre by the right hand, green, manifold and bulging, that so puzzled Mr Watts-Dunton and caused him on one occasion to ask Dr Hake, “Is he a genuine Child of the Open Air?” It was one of the first things to which Borrow’s pedestrian friends had to accustom themselves. With this “damning thing . . . gigantic and green,” Borrow set out upon his excursion, now examining some Celtic barrow, now enquiring his way or the name of a landmark, occasionally singing in that tremendous voice of his, “Look out, look out, Swayne Vonved!”
At Mousehole he called upon a relative, H. D. Burney (who was, it would seem, in charge of the Coast Guard Station), to whom he had a letter of introduction from Robert Taylor. Mr Burney entertained him with stories, showed him places and things of interest in the neighbourhood, and accompanied him on his visit to St Michael’s Mount. Borrow returned to Penquite on the 25th with a considerable store of Cornish legends and Cornish words, and the knowledge that you can only see Cornwall or know anything about it by walking through it.
The next excursion was to the North Coast, Pentire Point, Tintagel, King Arthur’s Castle, etc. On the 1st of February he left Penquite, and slept the night at Trethinnick. The next morning he set out on horseback accompanied by Nicholas Borrow.
To the vicar of St Cleer and his family, Borrow was a very welcome visitor. Mr Berkeley’s eldest son, a boy of ten years of age, on being introduced to the distinguished caller, gazed at him for some moments and then without a word left the room and, going straight to his mother in another apartment cried, “Well, mother, that is a man.” Borrow was delighted when he heard of the child’s enthusiasm. Mr Berkeley give a picture of his distinguished visitor far more prepossessing than many that exist. He was particularly struck, as was everybody, by the beauty of Borrow’s hands, and their owner’s vanity over them as the legacy of his Huguenot ancestors. Mr Berkeley found Borrow’s countenance pleasing, betokening calm firmness, self-confidence and a mind under control, though capable of passion. He could on occasion prove a delightful talker, and he gave to the vicar’s family a new maxim to implant upon their Christianity, the old prize-fighters receipt for a quiet life: “Learn to box, and keep a civil tongue in your head.” He would often drop in at the vicarage in the evening, when he would
“sit in the centre of a group before the fire with his hands on his knees—his favourite position—pouring forth tales of the scenes he had witnessed in his wanderings. . . . Then he would suddenly spring from his seat and walk to and fro the room in silence; anon he would clap his hands and sing a Gypsy song, or perchance would chant forth a translation of some Viking poem; after which he would sit down again and chat about his father, whose memory he revered as he did his mother’s; [411] and finally he would recount some tale of suffering or sorrow with deep pathos—his voice being capable of expressing triumphant joy or the profoundest sadness.”
It was Borrow’s intention to write a book about his visit to Cornwall, and he even announced it at the end of The Romany Rye. He was delighted with the Duchy, and evidently gave his relatives to understand that it was his intention to use the contents of his Note Books as the nucleus of a book. “He will undoubtedly write a description of his visit,” Mrs Taylor wrote to her friend. “I walked through the whole of Cornwall and saw everything,” Borrow wrote to his wife after his return to London. “I kept a Journal of every day I was there, and it fills two pocket books.”
Borrow left Cornwall the second week in February and was in London on the 10th, where he was to break his journey home in order to obtain some data at the British Museum for the Appendix of The Romany Rye. [412a] On 13th February he writes to his wife:—
“For three days I have been working hard at the Museum, I am at present at Mr Webster’s, but not in the three guinea lodgings. I am in rooms above, for which I pay thirty shillings a week. I live as economically as I can; but when I am in London I am obliged to be at certain expense. I must be civil to certain friends who invite me out and show me every kindness. Please send me a five pound note by return of post.”
His wife appears to have been anxious for his return home, and on the 17th he writes to her:—
“It is hardly worth while making me more melancholy than I am. Come home, come home! is the cry. And what are my prospects when I get home? though it is true that they are not much brighter here. I have nothing to look forward to. Honourable employments are being given to this and that trumpery fellow; while I, who am an honourable man, must be excluded from everything.”
Of literature he expressed himself as tired, there was little or nothing to be got out of it, save by writing humbug, which he refused to do. “My spirits are very low,” he continues, “and your letters make them worse. I shall probably return by the end of next week; but I shall want more money. I am sorry to spend money for it is our only friend, and God knows I use as little as possible, but I can’t travel without it.” [412b] A few days later there is another letter with farther reference to money, and protests that he is spending as little as possible. “Perhaps you had better send another note,” he writes, “and I will bring it home unchanged, if I do not want any part of it. I have lived very economically as far as I am concerned personally; I have bought nothing, and have been working hard at the Museum.” [413]
These constant references to money seem to suggest either some difference between Borrow and his wife, or that he felt he was spending too much upon himself and was anticipating her thoughts by assuring her of how economically he was living. He had an unquestioned right to spend, for he had added considerable sums to the exchequer from the profits of his first two books.
Borrow returned to Yarmouth on 25th February. The Romany Rye was now rapidly nearing completion; but there was no encouragement to publish a new book. He worked at The Romany Rye, not because he saw profit in it, not because he was anxious to give another book to an uneager public; but because of the sting in its tail, because of the thunderbolt Appendix in which he paid off old scores against the critics and his personal enemies. The Romany Rye was to him a work of hate; it was a bomb disguised as a book, which he intended to throw into the camp of his foes. He was tired of literature, by which he meant that he was tired of producing his best for a public that neither wanted nor understood it. He forgot that the works of a great writer are sometimes printed in his own that they may be read in another generation.
During the months that followed Borrow’s return to Great Yarmouth, the question of the coming summer holiday was discussed. From the first Borrow himself had been for Wales. He was eager to pursue his Celtic researches further north. “I should not wonder if he went into Wales before he returns,” Mrs Robert Taylor had written to her friend during Borrow’s stay in Cornwall. His wife and Henrietta had “a hankering after what is fashionable,” and suggested Harrogate or Leamington. To which Borrow replied that there was nothing he “so much hated as fashionable life.” He, however, gave way, the two women followed suit, as he had intended they should, and Wales was decided upon. For Borrow the literature of Wales had always exercised a great attraction. Her bards were as no other bards. Ab Gwilym was to him the superior of Chaucer, and Huw Morris “the greatest songster of the seventeenth century.” It was, he confessed, a desire to put to practical use his knowledge of the Welsh tongue, “such as it was,” that first gave him the idea of going to Wales.
The party left Great Yarmouth on 27th July 1854, spending one night at Peterborough and three at Chester. They reached Llangollen, which was to be their head-quarters, on 1st August. On 9th August Mrs George Borrow wrote to the old lady at Oulton, “We all much enjoy this wonderful and beautiful country. We are in a lovely quiet spot. Dear George goes out exploring the mountains, and when he finds remarkable views takes us of an evening to see them.”
Borrow wanted to see Wales and get to know the people, and, above all, to speak with them in their own language, and on 27th August he started upon a walking tour to Bangor, where he was to meet his wife and Henrietta, who were to proceed thither by rail. It was during this excursion that he encountered the delightful Papist-Orange fiddler, whose fortunes and fingers fluctuated between “Croppies Get Up” and “Croppies Lie Down.”
From Bangor Borrow explored the surrounding places of interest. He ascended Snowdon arm-in-arm with Henrietta, singing “at the stretch of my voice a celebrated Welsh stanza,” the boy-guide following wonderingly behind. In spite of the fatigues of the climb, “the gallant girl” reached the summit and heard her stepfather declaim two stanzas of poetry in Welsh, to the grinning astonishment of a small group of English tourists and the great interest of a Welshman, who asked Borrow if he were a Breton.
There is no question that Borrow was genuinely attached to Henrietta. “I generally call her daughter,” he writes, “and with good reason, seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to me—that she has all kinds of good qualities, and several accomplishments, knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the Dutch style,” [415a] not to speak of her ability to play on the Spanish guitar. She was “the dear girl,” or “the gallant girl,” between whom and her stepfather existed a true spirit of comradeship. In 1844 she wrote to him, “And then that funny look [415b] would come into your eyes and you would call me ‘poor old Hen.’” He seemed incapable of laughing, and one intimate friend states that she “never saw him even smiling, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which told you that he was enjoying himself just the same.” [416]
About this time Mrs George Borrow wrote to old Mrs Borrow at Oulton Hall, saying that all was well with her son.
“He is very regular in his morning and evening devotions, so that we all have abundant cause for thankfulness . . . As regards your dear son and his peace and comfort, you have reason to praise and bless God on his account . . . He is fully occupied. He keeps a daily Journal of all that goes on, so that he can make a most amusing book in a month, whenever he wishes to do so.”
The first sentence is very puzzling, and would seem to suggest that Borrow’s moods were somehow or other associated with outbursts against religion. “Be sure you burn this, or do not leave it about,” the old lady is admonished.
On the day following the ascent of Snowdon, Mrs Borrow and Henrietta returned to Llangollen by train, leaving Borrow free to pursue his wanderings. He eventually arrived at Llangollen on 6th September, by way of Carnarvon, Festiniog and Bala. After remaining another twenty days at Llangollen, he despatched his wife and stepdaughter home by rail. He then bought a small leather satchel, with a strap to sling it over his shoulder, packed in it a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor and a prayer-book. Having had his boots resoled and his umbrella repaired, he left Llangollen for South Wales, upon an excursion which was to occupy three weeks. During the course of this expedition he was taken for many things, from a pork-jobber to Father Toban himself, as whom he pronounced “the best Latin blessing I could remember” over two or three dozen Irish reapers to their entire satisfaction. Eventually he arrived at Chepstow, having learned a great deal about wild Wales.
One of the excursions that Borrow made from Bangor was to Llanfair in search of Gronwy, the birthplace of Gronwy Owen. He found in the long, low house an old woman and five children, descendants of the poet, who stared at him wonderingly. To each he gave a trifle. Asking whether they could read, he was told that the eldest could read anything, whether Welsh or English. In Wild Wales he gives an account of the interview.
“‘Can you write?’ said I to the child [the eldest], a little stubby girl of about eight, with a broad flat red face and grey eyes, dressed in a chintz gown, a little bonnet on her head, and looking the image of notableness.
“The little maiden, who had never taken her eyes off of me for a moment during the whole time I had been in the room, at first made no answer; being, however, bid by her grandmother to speak, she at length answered in a soft voice, ‘Medraf, I can.’
“‘Then write your name in this book,’ said I, taking out a pocket-book and a pencil, ‘and write likewise that you are related to Gronwy Owen—and be sure you write in Welsh.’
“The little maiden very demurely took the book and pencil, and placing the former on the table wrote as follows:—
“‘Ellen Jones yn perthyn o bell i gronow owen.’ [417a]
“That is, ‘Ellen Jones belonging, from afar off to Gronwy Owen.’” [417b]
Ellen Jones is now Ellen Thomas, and she well remembers Borrow coming along the lane, where she was playing with some other children, and asking for the house of Gronwy Owen. Later, when she entered the house, she found him talking to her grandmother, who was a little deaf as described in Wild Wales. Mrs Thomas’ recollection of Borrow is that he had the appearance of possessing great strength. He had “bright eyes and shabby dress, more like a merchant than a gentleman, or like a man come to buy cattle [others made the same mistake]. But, dear me! he did speak funny Welsh,” she remarked to a student of Borrow who sought her out, “he could not pronounce the ‘ll’ [pronouncing the word “pell” as if it rhymed with tell, whereas it should be pronounced something like “pelth”], and his voice was very high; but perhaps that was because my grandmother was deaf.” He had plenty of words, but bad pronunciation. William Thomas [418a] laughed many a time at him coming talking his funny Welsh to him, and said he was glad he knew a few words of Spanish to answer him with. Borrow was, apparently, unconscious of any imperfection in his pronunciation of the “ll”. He has written: “‘Had you much difficulty in acquiring the sound of the “ll”?’ I think I hear the reader inquire. None whatever: the double l of the Welsh is by no means the terrible guttural which English people generally suppose it to be.” [418b]
Mrs Thomas is now sixty-seven years of age (she was eleven and not eight at the time of Borrow’s visit) and still preserves carefully wrapped up the book from which she read to the white-haired stranger. The episode was not thought much of at the time, except by the child, whom it much excited. [418c]
It was in all probability during this, his first tour in Wales, that Borrow was lost on Cader Idris, and spent the whole of one night in wandering over the mountain vainly seeking a path. The next morning he arrived at the inn utterly exhausted. It was quite in keeping with Borrow’s nature to suppress from his book all mention of this unpleasant adventure. [419a]
The Welsh holiday was unquestionably a success. Borrow’s mind had been diverted from critics and his lost popularity. He had forgotten that in official quarters he had been overlooked. He was in the land of Ab Gwilym and Gronwy Owen. “There never was such a place for poets,” he wrote; “you meet a poet, or the birthplace of a poet, everywhere.” [419b] He was delighted with the simplicity of the people, and in no way offended by their persistent suspicion of all things Saxon. At least they knew their own poets; and he could not help comparing the Welsh labouring man who knew Huw Morris, with his Suffolk brother who had never heard of Beowulf or Chaucer. He discoursed with many people about their bards, surprising them by his intimate knowledge of the poets and the poetry of Wales. He found enthusiasm “never scoffed at by the noble simple-minded genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon.” [419c] Sometimes he was reminded “of the substantial yoemen of Cornwall, particularly . . . of my friends at Penquite.” [419d] Wherever he went he experienced nothing but kindness and hospitality, and it delighted him to be taken for a Cumro, as was frequently the case.
What Borrow writes about his Welsh is rather contradictory. Sometimes he represents himself as taken for a Welshman, at others as a foreigner speaking Welsh. “Oh, what a blessing it is to be able to speak Welsh!” [420a] he exclaims. He acknowledged that he could read Welsh with far more ease than he could speak it. There is absolutely no posing or endeavour to depict himself a perfect Welsh scholar, whose accent could not be distinguished from that of a native. The literary results of the Welsh holiday were four Note Books written in pencil, from which Wild Wales was subsequently written. Borrow was in Wales for nearly sixteen weeks (1st Aug.—16th November), of which about a third was devoted to expeditions on foot.
In the annual consultations about holidays, Borrow’s was always the dominating voice. For the year 1855 the Isle of Man was chosen, because it attracted him as a land of legend and quaint customs and speech. Accordingly during the early days of September Mrs Borrow and Henrietta were comfortably settled at Douglas, and Borrow began to make excursions to various parts of the island. He explored every corner of it, conversing with the people in Manx, collecting ballads and old, smoke-stained carvel [420b] (or carol) books, of which he was successful in securing two examples. He discovered that the island possessed a veritable literature in these carvels, which were circulated in manuscript form among the neighbours of the writers.
The old runic inscriptions that he found on the tombstones exercised a great fascination over Borrow. He would spend hours, or even days (on one occasion as much as a week), in deciphering one of them. Thirty years later he was remembered as an accurate, painstaking man. His evenings were frequently occupied in translating into English the Manx poem Illiam Dhoo, or Brown William. He discovered among the Manx traditions much about Finn Ma Coul, or M‘Coyle, who appears in The Romany Rye as a notability of Ireland. He ascended Snaefell, sought out the daughter of George Killey, the Manx poet, and had much talk with her, she taking him for a Manxman. The people of the island he liked.
“In the whole world,” he wrote in his ‘Note Books,’ “there is not a more honest, kindly race than the genuine Manx. Towards strangers they exert unbounded hospitality without the slightest idea of receiving any compensation, and they are, whether men or women, at any time willing to go two or three miles over mountain and bog to put strangers into the right road.”
During his stay in the Isle of Man, news reached Borrow of the death of a kinsman, William, son of Samuel Borrow, his cousin, a cooper at Devonport. William Borrow had gone to America, where he had won a prize for a new and wonderful application of steam. His death is said to have occurred as the result of mental fatigue. In this Borrow saw cause for grave complaint against the wretched English Aristocracy that forced talent out of the country by denying it employment or honour, which were all for their “connections and lick-spittles.”
The holiday in the Isle of Man had resulted in two quarto note books, aggregating ninety-six pages, closely written in pencil. Again Borrow planned to write a book, just as he had done on the occasion of the Cornish visit. Nothing, however, came of it. Among his papers was found the following draft of a suggested title-page:—
BAYR JAIRGEY
AND
GLION DOOTHE RED PATH AND THE BLACK VALLEY
WANDERINGS IN QUEST OF MANX LITERATURE
A curious feature of Mrs Borrow’s correspondence is her friendly conspiracies, sometimes with John Murray, sometimes with Woodfall, the printer, asking them to send encouraging letters that shall hearten Borrow to greater efforts. On 26th November 1850 John Murray wrote to her: “I have determined on engraving [by W. Holl] Phillips’ portrait [422] . . . as a frontispiece to it [Lavengro]. I trust that this will not be disagreeable to you and the author—in fact I do it in confident expectation that it will meet with your assent; I do not ask Mr Borrow’s leave, remember.”
It must be borne in mind that Mrs Borrow had been in London a few days previously, in order to deliver to John Murray the manuscript of Lavengro. Mrs Borrow’s reply to this letter is significant. With regard to the engraving, she writes (28th November), “I like the idea of it, and when Mr Borrow remarked that he did not wish it (as we expected he would) I reminded him that his leave was not asked.”
Again, on 30th October 1852, Mrs Borrow wrote to Robert Cooke asking that either he or John Murray would write to Borrow enquiring as to his health, and progress with The Romany Rye, and how long it would be before the manuscript were ready for the printer. “Of course,” she adds, “all this is in perfect confidence to Mr Murray and yourself as you both of you know my truly excellent Husband well enough to be aware how much he every now and then requires an impetus to cause the large wheel to move round at a quicker pace . . . Oblige me by committing this to the flames, and write to him just as you would have done, without hearing a word from me.” On yet another occasion when she and Borrow were both in London, she writes to Cooke asking that either he “or Mr Murray will give my Husband a look, if it be only for a few minutes . . . He seems rather low. Do, not let this note remain on your table,” she concludes, “or mention it.”
If Borrow were a problem to his wife and to his publisher, he presented equal difficulties to the country folk about Oulton. To one he was “a missionary out of work,” to another “a man who kep’ ’isself to ’isself”; but to none was he the tired lion weary of the chase. “His great delight . . . was to plunge into the darkening mere at eventide, his great head and heavy shoulders ruddy in the rays of the sun. Here he hissed and roared and spluttered, sometimes frightening the eel-catcher sailing home in the half-light, and remembering suddenly school legends of river-sprites and monsters of the deep.” [423a]
In the spring following his return from the Isle of Man, Borrow made numerous excursions on foot through East Anglia. He seemed too restless to remain long in one place. During a tramp from Yarmouth to Ely by way of Cromer, Holt, Lynn and Wisbech, he called upon Anna Gurney. [423b] His reason for doing so was that she was one of the three celebrities of the world he desired to see. The other two were Daniel O’Connell [423c] and Lamplighter (the sire of Phosphorus), Lord Berners winner of the Derby. Two of the world’s notabilities had slipped through his fingers by reason of their deaths, but he was determined that Anna Gurney, who lived at North Repps, should not evade him. He gave her notice of his intention to call, and found her ready to receive him.
“When, according to his account, [424] he had been but a very short time in her presence, she wheeled her chair round and reached her hand to one of her bookshelves and took down an Arabic grammar, and put it into his hand, asking for explanation of some difficult point, which he tried to decipher; but meanwhile she talked to him continuously; when, said he, ‘I could not study the Arabic grammar and listen to her at the same time, so I threw down the book and ran out of the room.’”
It is said that Borrow ran until he reached Old Tucker’s Inn at Cromer, where he ate “five excellent sausages” and found calm. He then went on to Sheringham and related the incident to the Upchers.
These lonely walking tours soothed Borrow’s restless mind. He had constant change of scene, and his thoughts were diverted by the adventures of the roadside. He encountered many and interesting people, on one occasion an old man who remembered the fight between Painter and Oliver; at another time he saw a carter beating his horse which had fallen down. “Give him a pint of ale, and I will pay for it,” counselled Borrow. After the second pint the beast got up and proceeded, “pulling merrily . . . with the other horses.”
Ale was Borrow’s sovereign remedy for the world’s ills and wrongs. It was by ale that he had been cured when the “Horrors” were upon him in the dingle. “Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen,” he exclaims after having heartened Jack Slingsby and his family. “He is not deserving of the name of Englishman,” he continues, “who speaketh against ale, that is good ale.” [425a] To John Murray (the Third) he wrote in his letter of sympathy on the death of his father: “Pray keep up your spirits, and that you may be able to do so, take long walks and drink plenty of Scotch ale with your dinner . . . God bless you.”
He liked ale “with plenty of malt in it, and as little hop as well may be—ale at least two years old.” [425b] The period of its maturity changed with his mood. In another place he gives nine or ten months as the ideal age. [425c] He was all for an Act of Parliament to force people to brew good ale. He not only drank good ale himself; but prescribed it as a universal elixir for man and beast. Hearing from Elizabeth Harvey “of a lady who was attached to a gentleman,” Borrow demanded bluntly, “Well, did he make her an offer?” “No,” was the response. “Ah,” Borrow replied with conviction, “if she had given him some good ale he would.” [425d]
He loved best old Burton, which, with ’37 port, were his favourites; yet he would drink whatever ale the roadside-inn provided, as if to discipline his stomach. It has been said that he habitually drank “swipes,” a thin cheap ale, because that was the drink of his gypsy friends; but Borrow’s friendship certainly did not often involve him in anything so distasteful.
Borrow was not a great correspondent, and he left behind him very few letters from distinguished men of his time. Among those few were several from Edward FitzGerald, whose character contrasted so strangely with that of the tempestuous Borrow. In 1856 FitzGerald wrote:—
31 Great Portland Street,
London, 27th October 1856.My Dear Sir,—It is I who send you the new Turkish Dictionary [Redhouse’s Turkish & English Dictionary] which ought to go by this Post; my reasons being that I bought it really only for the purpose of doing that little good to the spirited Publisher of the book (who thought when he began it that the [Crimean] War was to last), and I send it to you because I should be glad of your opinion, if you can give it. I am afraid that you will hardly condescend to use it, for you abide in the old Meninsky; but if you will use it, I shall be very glad. I don’t think I ever shall; and so what is to be done with it now it is bought?
I don’t know what Kerrich told you of my being too lazy to go over to Yarmouth to see you a year ago. No such thing as that. I simply had doubts as to whether you would not rather remain unlookt for. I know I enjoyed my evening with you a month ago. I wanted to ask you to read some of the Northern Ballads too; but you shut the book.
I must tell you. I am come up here on my way to Chichester to be married! to Miss Barton (of Quaker memory) and our united ages amount to 96!—a dangerous experiment on both sides. She at least brings a fine head and heart to the bargain—worthy of a better market. But it is to be, and I dare say you will honestly wish we may do well.
Keep the book as long as you will. It is useless to me. I shall be to be heard of through Geldeston Hall, Beccles. With compliments to Mrs Borrow, believe me,
Yours truly,
Edward FitzGerald.
P.S.—Donne is well, and wants to know about you.
A few months later FitzGerald wrote again:
Albert House, Gorleston,
6th July 1857.Dear Borrow,—Will you send me [The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam] by bearer. I only want to look at him, for that Frenchman [427] has been misquoting him in a way that will make [Professor] E. Cowell [of Cambridge] answerable for another’s blunder, which must not be. You shall have ’Omar back directly, or whenever you want him, and I should really like to make you a copy (taking my time) of the best Quatrains. I am now looking over the Calcutta MS. which has 500!—very many quite as good as those in the MS. you have; but very many in both MSS. are well omitted.
I have been for a fortnight to Geldeston where Kerrich is not very well. I shall look for you one day in my Yarmouth rounds, and you know how entirely disengaged and glad to see you I am here. I have two fresh Nieces with me—and I find I gave you the worst wine of two samples Diver sent me. I wish you would send word by bearer you are better—this one word written will be enough you see.
My old Parson Crabbe is bowing down under epileptic fits, or something like, and I believe his brave old white head will soon sink into the village Churchsward. Why, our time seems coming. Make way, Gentlemen!—Yours very truly,
Edward FitzGerald.
What effect the sweet gentleness of FitzGerald’s nature had upon that of Borrow is not known, for the replies have not been preserved. FitzGerald was a man capable of soothing the angriest and most discontented mind, and it is a misfortune that he saw so little of Borrow. In the early part of the following year (24th Jan. 1857) FitzGerald wrote to Professor E. B. Cowell of Cambridge:—
“I was with Borrow a week ago at Donne’s, and also at Yarmouth three months ago: he is well, but not yet agreed with Murray. He read me a long Translation he had made from the Turkish: which I could not admire, and his Taste becomes stranger than ever.” [428a]
From Wales Mrs George Borrow had written (Sept. 1854) to old Mrs Borrow: “He [Borrow] will, I expect at Christmas, publish his other work [The Romany Rye] together with his poetry in all the European languages.” [428b] In November (1854) the manuscript of The Romany Rye was delivered to John Murray, who appears to have taken his time in reading it; for it was not until 23rd December that he expressed his views in the following letter. Even when the letter was written it was allowed to remain in John Murray’s desk for five weeks, not being sent until 27th January:—
My dear Borrow,—I have read with care the MS. of The Romany Rye and have pondered anxiously over it; and in what I am about to write I think I may fairly claim the privilege of a friend deeply interested in you personally, as well as in your reputation as author, and by no means insensible to the abilities displayed in your various works. It is my firm conviction then, that you will incur the certainty of failure and run the risque of injuring your literary fame by publishing the MS. as it stands. Very large omissions seem to me—and in this, Elwin, [429] no mean judge, concurs—absolutely indispensable. That Lavengro would have profited by curtailment, I stated before its publication. The result has verified my anticipations, and in the present instance I feel compelled to make it the condition of publication. You can well imagine that it is not my interest to shorten a book from two volumes to one unless there were really good cause.
Lavengro clearly has not been successful. Let us not then risque the chance of another failure, but try to avoid the rock upon which we then split. You have so great store of interesting matter in your mind and in your notes, that I cannot but feel it to be a pity that you should harp always upon one string, as it were. It seems to me that you have dwelt too long on English ground in this new work, and have resuscitated some characters of the former book (such as F. Ardry) whom your readers would have been better pleased to have left behind. Why should you not introduce us rather to those novel scenes of Moscovite and Hungarian life respecting which I have heard you drop so many stimulating allusions. Do not, I pray, take offence at what I have written. It is difficult and even painful for me to assume the office of critic, and this is one of the reasons why this note has lingered so long in my desk. Fortunately, in the advice I am tendering I am supported by others of better literary judgment than myself, and who have also deep regard for you. I will specify below some of the passages which I would point out for omission.—With best remembrances, I remain, my dear Borrow, Your faithful publisher and sincere friend,
John Murray.
Suggestions for Omission.
The Hungarian in No. 6.
The Jockey Story, terribly spun out, No. 7.
Visit to the Church, too long.
Interview with the Irishman, Do.
Learning Chinese, too much repetition in this part of a very interesting chapter.
The Postilion and Highwayman.
Throughout the MS. condensation is indispensable. Many of the narratives are carried to a tedious length by details and repetition.
The dialogue with Ursula, the song, etc., border on the indelicate. I like much Horncastle Fair, the Chinese scholar, except objection noted above.
Grooming of the horse.
January 27, 1855.
On 29th January, Mrs Borrow wrote to John Murray a letter that was inspired by Borrow himself. Dr Knapp discovered the original draft, some of which was in Borrow’s own hand. It runs:—
Dear Mr Murray,—We have received your letters. In the first place I beg leave to say something on a very principal point. You talk about conditions of publishing. Mr Borrow has not the slightest wish to publish the book. The MS. was left with you because you wished to see it, and when left, you were particularly requested not to let it pass out of your own hands. But it seems you have shown it to various individuals whose opinions you repeat. What those opinions are worth may be gathered from the following fact.
The book is one of the most learned works ever written; yet in the summary of the opinions which you give, not one single allusion is made to the learning which pervades the book, no more than if it contained none at all. It is treated just as if all the philological and historical facts were mere inventions, and the book a common novel . . .
With regard to Lavengro it is necessary to observe that if ever a book experienced infamous and undeserved treatment it was that book. It was attacked in every form that envy and malice could suggest, on account of Mr Borrow’s acquirements and the success of The Bible in Spain, and it was deserted by those whose duty it was, in some degree to have protected it. No attempt was ever made to refute the vile calumny that it was a book got up against the Popish agitation of ’51. It was written years previous to that period—a fact of which none is better aware than the Publisher. Is that calumny to be still permitted to go unanswered?
If these suggestions are attended to, well and good; if not, Mr Borrow can bide his time. He is independent of the public and of everybody. Say no more on that Russian Subject. Mr Borrow has had quite enough of the press. If he wrote a book on Russia, it would be said to be like The Bible in Spain, or it would be said to be unlike The Bible in Spain, and would be blamed in either case. He has written a book in connection with England such as no other body could have written, and he now rests from his labours. He has found England an ungrateful country. It owes much to him, and he owes nothing to it. If he had been a low ignorant impostor, like a person he could name, he would have been employed and honoured.—I remain, Yours sincerely,
Mary Borrow.
On 5th April 1856 Mrs Borrow wrote again, requesting Murray to return the manuscript, but for what purpose she does not state. Two days later it was despatched by rail from Albemarle Street.
Some years before, Borrow had met Rev. Whitwell Elwin, Rector of Booton, somewhere about the time he (Elwin) came up to London to edit The Quarterly Review, viz., 1853. [431] The first interview between the two men has been described as characteristic of both.
“Borrow was just then very sore with his slashing critics, and on someone mentioning that Elwin was a ‘Quartering reviewer,’ he said, ‘Sir, I wish you a better employment.’ Then hastily changing the subject, he called out, ‘What party are you in the Church—Tractarian, Moderate, or Evangelical? I am happy to say, I am the old High.’ ‘I am happy to say I am not,’ was Elwin’s emphatic reply. Borrow boasted of his proficiency in the Norfolk dialect, which he endeavoured to speak as broadly as possible. ‘I told him,’ said Elwin, ‘that he had not cultivated it with his usual success.’ As the conversation proceeded it became less disputatious, and the two ended by becoming so cordial that they promised to visit each other. Borrow fulfilled his promise in the following October, when he went to Booton, and was ‘full of anecdote and reminiscence,’ and delighted the rectory children by singing them songs in the gypsy tongue. Elwin during this visit urged him to try his hand at an article for the Review. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘I have made a resolution never to have anything to do with such a blackguard trade.’” [432a]
Elwin became greatly interested in The Romany Rye. He endeavoured to influence its composition, and even wrote to Borrow begging him “to give his sequel to Lavengro more of an historical, and less of a romancing air.” He was not happy about the book. He wrote to John Murray in March:—
“‘It is not the statements themselves which provoke incredulity, but the melodramatic effect which he tries to impart to all his adventures.’ Instead of ‘roaring like a lion,’ in reply, as Elwin had expected, he returned quite a ‘lamb-like’ note, which gave promise of a greater success for his new work than its precursor.” [432b]
Borrow appears to have become tired of biding his time with regard to The Romany Rye, and on 27th Feb. 1857 he wrote to John Murray to say that “the work must go to press, and that unless the printing is forthwith commenced, I must come up to London and make arrangements myself. Time is passing away. It ought to have appeared many years ago. I can submit to no more delays.” The work was accordingly proceeded with, and Elwin wrote a criticism of the work for The Quarterly Review from the proof-sheets:—
“When the review was almost finished, it was on the point of being altogether withdrawn, owing to a passage in Romany Rye which Elwin said was clearly meant to be a reflection on his friend Ford, ‘to avenge the presumed refusal of the latter to praise Lavengro in The Quarterly Review.’ ‘I am very anxious,’ he said, ‘to get Borrow justice for rare merits which have been entirely overlooked, but if he persists in publishing an attack of this kind I shall, I fear, not be able to serve him.’ The objectionable paragraphs had been written by Borrow under a misapprehension, and he cancelled them as soon as he was convinced of his error.” [433]
John Murray determined not to publish the book unless the offending passage were removed. He wrote to Borrow the following letter:—
8th April 1857.
My dear Borrow,—When I have done anything towards you deserving of apology I will not hesitate to offer one. As it is, I have acted loyally towards you, and with a view to maintain your interests.
I agreed to publish your present work solely with the object of obliging you, and in a great degree at the strong recommendation of Cooke. I meant (as was my duty) to do my very best to promote its success. You on your side promised to listen to me in regard to any necessary omissions; and on the faith of this, I pointed out one omission, which I make the indispensable condition of my proceeding further with the book. I have asked nothing unfair nor unreasonable—nay, a compliance with the request is essential for your own character as an author and a man.
You are the last man that I should ever expect to “frighten or bully”; and if a mild but firm remonstrance against an offensive passage in your book is interpreted by you into such an application, I submit that the grounds for the notion must exist nowhere but in your own imagination. The alternative offered to you is to omit or publish elsewhere. Nothing shall compel me to publish what you have written. Think calmly and dispassionately over this, and when you have decided let me know.
Yours very faithfully,
John Murray.
The reference that had so offended Murray and Elwin had, in all probability been interpolated in proof form, otherwise it would have been discovered either when Murray read the manuscript or Elwin the proofs. By return of post came the following reply from Borrow, then at Great Yarmouth:—
Dear Sir,—Yesterday I received your letter. You had better ask your cousin [Robert Cooke] to come down and talk about matters. After Monday I shall be disengaged and shall be most happy to see him. And now I must tell you that you are exceedingly injudicious. You call a chapter heavy, and I, not wishing to appear unaccommodating, remove or alter two or three passages for which I do not particularly care, whereupon you make most unnecessary comments, obtruding your private judgment upon matters with which you have no business, and of which it is impossible that you should have a competent knowledge. If you disliked the passages you might have said so, but you had no right to say anything more. I believe that you not only meant no harm, but that your intentions were good; unfortunately, however, people with the best of intentions occasionally do a great deal of harm. In your language you are frequently in the highest degree injudicious; for example, in your last letter you talk of obliging me by publishing my work. Now is not that speaking very injudiciously? Surely you forget that I could return a most cutting answer were I disposed to do so.
I believe, however, that your intentions are good, and that you are disposed to be friendly.—Yours truly,
George Borrow.
The tone of this letter is strangely reminiscent of some of the Rev Andrew Brandram’s admonitions to Borrow himself, during his association with the Bible Society. Borrow bowed to the wind, and the offending passage was deleted, and The Romany Rye eventually appeared on 30th April 1857, in an edition of a thousand copies. The public, or such part of it as had not forgotten Borrow, had been kept waiting six years to know what had happened on the morning after the storm. Lavengro had ended by the postilion concluding his story with “Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket—young lady, good-night,” and presumably the three, Borrow, Isopel Berners and their guest had lain down to sleep, and a great quiet fell upon the dingle, and the moon and the stars shone down upon it, and the red glow from the charcoal in the brazier paled and died away.