The Life of George Borrow Part 34

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 G.o.d'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 n.o.body. 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 pa.s.sionate 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. {408a} 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." {409a}

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 "d.a.m.ning 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 pa.s.sion. 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; {411a} 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.

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 G.o.d 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." {413a}

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 antic.i.p.ating her thoughts by a.s.suring 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.

CHAPTER XXVI: MARCH 1854-MAY 1856

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." {416a}

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 G.o.d 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."