Chapter 24

summer jaunt [the Eastern Tour] to look forward to, I am afraid it would be all up with your friend and _Batushka_.”

The Eastern Tour considerably interfered with the writing of _Lavengro_. There was a seven months’ break; but Borrow settled down to work on it again, still determined to take his time and produce a book that should be better than _The Bible in Spain_.

Ford’s _Hand-Book for Travellers in Spain and Readers at Home_ appeared in 1845, a work that had cost its author upwards of sixteen years of labour. In a letter to Borrow he characterised it as “a _rum_ book and has queer stuff in it, although much expurgated for the sake of Spain.” Ford was very anxious that Borrow should keep the promise that he had given two years previously to review the _Hand-Book_ when it appeared. “You will do it _magnificently_. ‘Thou art the man,’” Ford had written with the greatest enthusiasm. On 2nd June an article of thirty-seven folio pages was despatched by Borrow to John Murray for _The Quarterly Review_, with the following from Mrs Borrow:—

“With regard to the article, it must not be received as a specimen of what Mr Borrow would have produced had he been well, but he considered his promise to Mr Ford sacred—and it is only to be wished that it had been written under more favourable circumstances.” Borrow was ill at the time, having been “very unwell for the last month,” as Mrs Borrow explains, “and particularly so lately. Shivering fits have been succeeded by burning fever, till his strength was much reduced; and he at present remains in a low, and weak state, and what is worse, we are by no means sure that the disease is subdued.”

Ford saw in Borrow “a crack reviewer.” “ . . . You have,” he assured him in 1843, “only to write a _long letter_, having read the book carefully and thought over the subject.” Ford also wrote to Borrow (26th Oct. 1843): “I have written several letters to Murray recommending them to _bag_ you forthwith, unless they are demented.” There was no doubt in his, Ford’s, mind as to the acceptance of Borrow’s article.

“If insanity does not rule the _Q. R._ camp, they will embrace the offer with open arms in their present Erebus state of dullness,” he tells Borrow, then, with a burst of confidence continues, “But, barring politics, I confidentially tell you that the _Ed_[_inburgh_] _Rev._ does business in a more liberal and more business-like manner than the _Q_[_uarterly_] _Rev._ I am always dunning this into Murray’s head. More flies are caught with honey than vinegar. Soft sawder, especially if plenty of _gold_ goes into the composition, cements a party and keeps earnest pens together. I grieve, for my heart is entirely with the _Q. R._, its views and objects.”

The article turned out to be, not a review of the _Hand-Book_, but a bitter attack on Spain and her rulers. The second part was to some extent germane to the subject, but it appears to have been more concerned with Borrow’s view of Spain and things Spanish than with Ford’s book. Lockhart saw that it would not do. In a letter to John Murray he explains very clearly and very justly the objections to using the article as it stood.

“I am very sorry,” he writes (13th June), “after Borrow has so kindly exerted himself during illness, that I must return his paper. I read the MS. with much pleasure; but clever and brilliant as he is sure always to be, it was very evident that he had not done such an article as Ford’s merits required; and I therefore intended to adopt Mr Borrow’s lively diatribe, but interweave with his matter and add to it, such observations and extracts as might, I thought, complete the paper in a _review sense_.

“But it appears that Mr B. won’t allow anybody to tamper with his paper; therefore here it is. It will be highly ornamental as it stands to any _Magazine_, and I have no doubt either _Blackwood_ or _Fraser_ or _Colburn_ will be [only] too happy to insert it next month, if applied to now.

“Mr Borrow would not have liked that, when his _Bible in Spain_ came out, we should have printed a brilliant essay by Ford on some point of Spanish interest, but including hardly anything calculated to make the public feel that a new author of high consequence had made his appearance among us—one bearing the name, not of Richard Ford, but of George Borrow.”

Lockhart was right and Borrow was wrong. There is no room for equivocation. Borrow should have sunk his pride in favour of his friendship for Ford, who had, even if occasionally a little tedious in his epistolary enthusiasm, always been a loyal friend; but Borrow was ill and excuses must be made for him. Lockhart wrote also to Ford describing Borrow’s paper as “just another capital chapter of his _Bible in Spain_,” which he had read with delight, but there was “hardly a word of _review_, and no extract giving the least notion of the peculiar merits and style especially, of the _Hand-Book_.” “He is unwell,” continued Lockhart, “I should be very sorry to bother him more at present; and, moreover, from the little he has said of your _style_, I am forced to infer that a _review_ of your book by him would never be what I could feel authorised to publish in the _Q. R._” The letter concludes with a word of condolence that the _Hand-Book_ will have to be committed to other hands.

Ford realised the difficulty of the situation in which he was placed, and strove to wriggle out of it by telling Borrow that his wife had said all along that

“‘Borrow can’t write anything dull enough for your set; I wonder how I ever married one of them,’—I hope and trust you will not cancel the paper, for we can’t afford to lose a scrap of your queer sparkle and ‘thousand bright daughters circumvolving.’ I have recommended its insertion in _Blackwood_, _Fraser_, or some of those clever Magazines, who will be overjoyed to get such a hand as yours, and I will bet any man £5 that your paper will be the most popular of all they print.”

It is evident that Ford was genuinely distressed, and in his anxiety to be loyal to his friend rather overdid it. His letter has an air of patronage that the writer certainly never intended. The outstanding feature is its absolute selflessness. Ford never seems to think of himself, or that Borrow might have made a concession to their friendship. Happy Ford! The unfortunate episode estranged Borrow from Ford. Letters between them became less and less frequent and finally ceased altogether, although Borrow did not forget to send to his old friend a copy of _Lavengro_ when it appeared.

Worries seemed to rain down upon Borrow’s head about this time. Samuel Morton Peto (afterwards Sir Samuel) had decided to enrich Lowestoft by improving the harbour and building a railway to Reedham, about half-way between Yarmouth and Norwich. He was authorised by Parliament and duly constructed his line, which not even Borrow’s anger could prevent from passing through the Oulton Estate, between the Hall and the Cottage. Borrow could not fight an Act of Parliament, which forced him to cross a railway bridge on his way to church; but he never forgave the man who had contrived it, or his millions. His first thought had been to fly before the invader. All quiet would be gone from the place. “Sell and be off,” advised Ford; “I hope you will make the railway pay dear for its whistle,” quietly observed John Murray. At first Borrow was inclined to take Ford’s advice and settle abroad; but subsequently relinquished the idea.

He was not, however, the man quietly to sit down before what he conceived to be an unjustifiable outrage to his right to be quiet. He never forgave railways, although forced sometimes to make use of them. Samuel Morton Peto became to him the embodiment of evil, and as “Mr Flamson flaming in his coach with a million” he is immortalised in _The Romany Rye_.

It is said that Sir Samuel boasted that he had made more than the price he had paid for Borrow’s land out of the gravel he had taken from off it. On one occasion, after he had bought Somerleyton Hall, happening to meet Borrow, he remarked that he never called upon him, and Borrow remembering the boast replied, “I call on you! Do you think I don’t read my Shakespeare? Do you think I don’t know all about those highwaymen Bardolph and Peto?” {372}

The neighbourhood of Oulton appears to have been infested with thieves, and poachers found admirable “cover” in the surrounding plantations, or small woods. On several occasions Borrow himself had been attacked at night on the highway between Lowestoft and Oulton. Once he had even been shot at and nearly overpowered. John Murray (the Second) on hearing of one of these assaults had written (1841) artfully enquiring, “Were your wood thieves Gypsies, and have the _Calés_ got notice of your publication [_The Zincali_]?”

Borrow had written to John Murray, Junr. (10th May 1842):—

“I have been dreadfully unwell since I last heard from you—a regular nervous attack. At present I have a bad cough, caught by getting up at night in pursuit of poachers and thieves. A horrible neighbourhood this—not a magistrate dares do his duty.” On 18th September 1843 he again wrote to John Murray: “One of the Magistrates in this district is just dead. Present my compliments to Mr Gladstone and tell him that the _The Bible in Spain_ would have no objection to become ‘a great unpaid!’”

Gladstone is said greatly to have admired _The Bible in Spain_, even to the extent of writing to John Murray counselling him to have amended a passage that he considered ill-advised. Gladstone’s letter was sent on to Borrow, and he acknowledges its receipt (6th November 1843) in the following terms:—

“Many thanks for the perusal of Mr Gladstone’s letter. I esteem it a high honour that so distinguished a man should take sufficient interest in a work of mine as to suggest any thing in emendation. I can have no possible objection to modify the passage alluded to. It contains some strong language, particularly the sentence about the scarlet Lady, which it would be perhaps as well to omit.”

The offending passage was that in which Borrow says, when describing the interior of the Mosque at Tangier: “I looked around for the abominable thing, and found it not; no scarlet strumpet with a crown of false gold sat nursing an ugly changeling in a niche.” In later editions the words “no scarlet strumpet,” etc., were changed to “the besetting sin of the pseudo-Christian Church did not stare me in the face in every corner.”

The amendment was little likely to please a Churchman of Gladstone’s calibre, or procure for the writer the magistracy he coveted, even if it had been made less grudgingly. “We must not make any further alterations here,” Borrow wrote to Murray a few days later, “otherwise the whole soliloquy, which is full of vigor and poetry, and moreover of _truth_, would be entirely spoiled. As it is, I cannot help feeling that [it] is considerably damaged.” There seems very little doubt that this passage was referred to in the letter that John Murray encloses in his of 10th July 1843 {374} with this reference: “(The writer of the enclosed note is a worthy canon of St Paul’s, and has evidently seen only the 1st edition).” Borrow replied:—

“Pray present my best respects to the Canon of St Paul’s and tell him from me that he is a _burro_, which meaneth Jackass, and that I wish he would mind his own business, which he might easily do by attending a little more to the accommodation of the public in his ugly Cathedral.”

Borrow appears to have set his mind on becoming a magistrate. He had written to Lockhart (November 1843) enquiring how he had best proceed to obtain such an appointment. Lockhart was not able to give him any very definite information, his knowledge of such things, as he confessed, “being Scotch.” For the time being the matter was allowed to drop, to be revived in 1847 by a direct application from Borrow to Lord Clarendon to support his application with the Lord Chancellor. His claims were based upon (1) his being a large landed-proprietor in the district (Mrs Borrow had become the owner of the Oulton Hall Estate during the previous year); (2) the fact that the neighbourhood was over-run with thieves and undesirable characters; (3) that there was no magistrate residing in the district. Lord Clarendon promised his good offices, but suggested that as all such appointments were made through the Lord-Lieutenant of the County, the Earl of Stradbroke had better be acquainted with what was taking place. This was done through the Hon. Wm. Rufus Rous, Lord Stradbroke’s brother, whose interest was obtained by some of Borrow’s friends.

After a delay of two months, Lord Stradbroke wrote to Lord Clarendon that he was quite satisfied with “the number and efficiency of the Magistrates” and also with the way in which the Petty Sessions were attended. He could hear of no complaint, and when the time came to increase the number of J.P.’s, he would be pleased to add Borrow’s name to the list, provided he were advised to do so by “those gentlemen residing in the neighbourhood, who, living on terms of intimacy with them [the Magistrates], will be able to maintain that union of good feeling which . . . exists in all our benches of Petty Sessions.”

Borrow would have made a good magistrate, provided the offender were not a gypsy. He would have caused the wrong-doer more fear the instrument of the law rather than the law itself, and some of his sentences might possibly have been as summary as those of Judge Lynch.

“It was a fine thing,” writes a contemporary, “to see the great man tackle a tramp. Then he scented the battle from afar, bearing down on the enemy with a quivering nostril. If the nomad happened to be a gypsy he was courteously addressed. But were he a mere native tatterdemalion, inclined to be truculent, Borrow’s coat was off in a moment, and the challenge to decide there and then who was the better man flung forth. I have never seen such challenges accepted, for Borrow was robust and towering.” {375}

It is not strange that Borrow’s application failed; for he never refused leave to the gypsies to camp upon his land, and would sometimes join them beside their campfires. Once he took a guest with him after dinner to where the gypsies were encamped. They received Borrow with every mark of respect. Presently he “began to intone to them a song, written by him in Romany, which recounted all their tricks and evil deeds. The gypsies soon became excited; then they began to kick their property about, such as barrels and tin cans; then the men began to fight and the women to part them; an uproar of shouts and recriminations set in, and the quarrel became so serious that it was thought prudent to quit the scene.” {376a} “In nothing can the character of a people be read with greater certainty and exactness than in its songs,” {376b} Borrow had written. {376c}

These disappointments tended to embitter Borrow, who saw in them only a conspiracy against him. There is little doubt that Lord Stradbroke’s enquiries had revealed some curious gossip concerning the Master of Oulton Hall, possibly the dispute with his rector over the inability of their respective dogs to live in harmony; perhaps even the would-be magistrate’s predilection for the society of gypsies, and his profound admiration for “the Fancy” had reached the Lord-Lieutenant’s ears.

The unfortunate and somewhat mysterious dispute with Dr Bowring was another anxiety that Borrow had to face. He had once remarked, “It’s very odd, Bowring, that you and I have never had a quarrel.” {376d} In the summer of 1842 he and Bowring seem to have been on excellent terms. Borrow wrote asking for the return of the papers and manuscripts that had remained in Bowring’s hands since 1829, when the _Songs of Scandinavia_ was projected, as Borrow hoped to bring out during the ensuing year a volume entitled _Songs of Denmark_. The cordiality of the letter may best be judged by the fact that in it he announces his intention of having a copy of the forthcoming _Bible in Spain_ sent “to my oldest, I may say my _only_ friend.”

In 1847 Bowring wrote to Borrow enquiring as to the Russian route through Kiakhta, and asking if he could put him in the way of obtaining the information for the use of a Parliamentary Committee then enquiring into England’s commercial relations with China. Borrow’s reply is apparently no longer in existence; but it drew from Bowring another letter raising a question as to whether “‘two hundred merchants are allowed to visit Pekin every three years.’ Are you certain this is in practice now? Have you ever been to Kiakhta?” It would appear from Bowring’s “if summoned, your expenses must be paid by the public,” that Borrow had suggested giving evidence before the Committee, hence Bowring’s question as to whether Borrow could speak from personal knowledge of Kiakhta.

Borrow’s claim against Bowring is that after promising to use all his influence to get him appointed Consul at Canton, he obtained the post for himself, passing off as his own the Manchu-Tartar New Testament that Borrow had edited in St Petersburg. There is absolutely no other evidence than that contained in Borrow’s Appendix to _The Romany Rye_. There is very little doubt that Bowring was a man who had no hesitation in seizing everything that presented itself and turning it, as far as possible, to his own uses. In this he was doing what most successful men have done and will continue to do. He had been kind to Borrow, and had helped him as far as lay in his power. He no doubt obtained all the information he could from Borrow, as he would have done from anyone else; but he never withheld his help. It has been suggested that he really did mention Borrow as a candidate for the Consulship and later, when in financial straits and finding that Borrow had no chance of obtaining it, accepted Lord Palmerston’s offer of the post for himself. It is, however, idle to speculate what actually happened. What resulted was that Bowring as the “Old Radical” took premier place in the Appendix-inferno that closed _The Romany Rye_. {378a}

Fate seemed to conspire to cause Borrow chagrin. Early in 1847 it came to his knowledge that there were in existence some valuable Codices in certain churches and convents in the Levant. In particular there was said to be an original of the Greek New Testament, supposed to date from the fourth century, which had been presented to the convent on Mount Sinai by the Emperor Justinian. Borrow received information of the existence of the treasure, and also a hint that with a little address, some of these priceless manuscripts might be secured to the British Nation. It was even suggested that application might be made to the Government by the Trustees of the British Museum. {378b} Borrow’s reply to this was an intimation that if requested to do so he would willingly undertake the mission. Nothing, however, came of the project, and the remainder of the manuscript of the Greek Testament (part of it had been acquired in 1843 by Tischendorf) was presented by the monks to Alexander II. and it is now in the Imperial Library at St Petersburg.

The information as to the existence of the manuscripts, it is alleged, was given to the Museum Trustees by the Hon. Robert Curzon, who had travelled much in Egypt and the Holy Land. It was certainly no fault of his that the mission was not sent out, and Borrow’s subsequent antagonism to him and his family is difficult to understand and impossible to explain.

Borrow had achieved literary success: before the year 1847 _The Zincali_ was in its Fourth Edition (nearly 10,000 copies having been printed) and _The Bible in Spain_ had reached its Eighth Edition (nearly 20,000 copies having been printed). He was an unqualified success; yet he had been far happier when distributing Testaments in Spain. The greyness and inaction of domestic life, even when relieved by occasional excursions with Sidi Habismilk and the Son of the Miracle, were irksome to his temperament, ever eager for occupation and change of scene. He was like a war-horse champing his bit during times of peace.

“Why did you send me down six copies [of _The Zincali_]?” he bursts out in a letter to John Murray (29th Jan. 1846). “Whom should I send them to? Do you think I have six friends in the world? Two I have presented to my wife and daughter (in law). I shall return three to you by the first opportunity.”

In 1847, through the Harveys, he became acquainted with Dr Thomas Gordon Hake, who was in practice at Brighton 1832–37 and at Bury St Edmunds 1839–53, and who was also a poet. The two families visited each other, and Dr Hake has left behind him some interesting stories about, and valuable impressions of, Borrow. Dr Hake shows clearly that he did not allow his friendship to influence his judgment when in his _Memoirs_ he described Borrow as

“one of those whose mental powers are strong, and whose bodily frame is yet stronger—a conjunction of forces often detrimental to a literary career, in an age of intellectual predominance. His temper was good and bad; his pride was humility; his humility was pride; his vanity in being negative, was one of the most positive kind. He was reticent and candid, measured in speech, with an emphasis that made trifles significant.” {379}

This rather laboured series of paradoxes quite fails to give a convincing impression of the man. A much better idea of Borrow is to be found in a letter (1847) by a fellow-guest at a breakfast given by the Prussian Ambassador. He writes that there was present

“the amusing author of _The Bible in Spain_, a man who is remarkable for his extraordinary powers as a linguist, and for the originality of his character, not to speak of the wonderful adventures he narrates, and the ease and facility with which he tells them. He kept us laughing a good part of breakfast time by the oddity of his remarks, as well as the positiveness of his assertions, often rather startling, and like his books partaking of the marvellous.” {380a}

Abandoning paradox, Dr Hake is more successful in his description of Borrow’s person.

“His figure was tall,” he tells us, “and his bearing very noble; he had a finely moulded head, and thick white hair—white from his youth; his brown eyes were soft, yet piercing; his nose somewhat of the ‘semitic’ type, which gave his face the cast of the young Memnon. His mouth had a generous curve; and his features, for beauty and true power, were such as can have no parallel in our portrait gallery.” {380b}

When not occupied in writing, Borrow would walk about the estate with his animals, between whom and their master a perfect understanding existed. Sidi Habismilk would come to a whistle and would follow him about, and his two dogs and cat would do the same. When he went for a walk the dogs and cat would set out with him; but the cat would turn back after accompanying him for about a quarter of a mile. {381a}

The two young undergraduates who drove in a gig from Cambridge to Oulton to pay their respects to Borrow (_circa_ 1846) described him as employed

“in training some young horses to follow him about like dogs and come at the call of his whistle. As my two friends {381b} were talking with him, Borrow sounded his whistle in a paddock near the house, which, if I remember rightly, was surrounded by a low wall. Immediately two beautiful horses came bounding over the fence and trotted up to their master. One put his nose into Borrow’s outstretched hand and the other kept snuffing at his pockets in expectation of the usual bribe for confidence and good behaviour.”

Borrow’s love of animals was almost feminine. The screams of a hare pursued by greyhounds would spoil his appetite for dinner, and he confessed himself as “silly enough to feel disgust and horror at the squeals of a rat in the fangs of a terrier.” {381c} When a favourite cat was so ill that it crawled away to die in solitude, Borrow went in search of it and, discovering the poor creature in the garden-hedge, carried it back into the house, laid it in a comfortable place and watched over it until it died. His care of the much persecuted “Church of England cat” at Llangollen {381d} is another instance of his tender-heartedness with regard to animals.

Borrow had ample evidence that he was still a celebrity. “He was much courted . . . by his neighbours and by visitors to the sea-side,” Dr Hake relates; but unfortunately he allowed himself to become a prey to moods at rather inappropriate moments. As a lion, Borrow accompanied Dr Hake to some in the great houses of the neighbourhood. On one occasion they went to dine at Hardwick Hall, the residence of Sir Thomas and Lady Cullum. The last-named subsequently became a firm friend of Borrow’s during many years.

“The party consisted of Lord Bristol; Lady Augusta Seymour, his daughter; Lord and Lady Arthur Hervey; Sir Fitzroy Kelly; Mr Thackeray, and ourselves. At that date, Thackeray had made money by lectures on _The Satirists_, and was in good swing; but he never could realise the independent feelings of those who happen to be born to fortune—a thing which a man of genius should be able to do with ease. He told Lady Cullum, which she repeated to me, that no one could conceive how it mortified him to be making a provision for his daughters by delivering lectures; and I thought she rather sympathised with him in this degradation. He approached Borrow, who, however, received him very dryly. As a last attempt to get up a conversation with him, he said, ‘Have you read my Snob Papers in _Punch_?’”

“‘In _Punch_?’ asked Borrow. ‘It is a periodical I never look at!’

“It was a very fine dinner. The plates at dessert were of gold; they once belonged to the Emperor of the French, and were marked with his “N” and his Eagle.

“Thackeray, as if under the impression that the party was invited to look at him, thought it necessary to make a figure, and absorb attention during the dessert, by telling stories and more than half acting them; the aristocratic party listening, but appearing little amused. Borrow knew better how to behave in good company, and kept quiet; though, doubtless he felt his mane.” {382}

There were other moments when Borrow caused acute embarrassment by his rudeness. Once his hostess, a simple unpretending woman desirous only of pleasing her distinguished guest, said, “Oh, Mr Borrow, I have read your books with so much pleasure!” “Pray, what books do you mean, madam? Do you mean my account books?” was the ungracious retort. He then rose from the table, fretting and fuming and walked up and down the dining-room among the servants “during the whole of the dinner, and afterwards wandered about the rooms and passage, till the carriage could be ordered for our return home.” {383a} The reason for this unpardonable behaviour appears to have been ill-judged loyalty to a friend. His host was a well-known Suffolk banker who, having advanced a large sum of money to a friend of Borrow’s, the heir to a considerable estate, who was in temporary difficulties, then “struck the docket” in order to secure payment. Borrow confided to another friend that he yearned “to cane the banker.” His loyalty to his friend excuses his wrath; it was his judgment that was at fault. He should undoubtedly have caned the banker, in preference to going to his house as a guest and revenging his friend upon the gentle and amiable woman who could not be held responsible for her husband’s business transgressions.

Unfortunate remarks seemed to have a habit of bursting from Borrow’s lips. When Dr Bowring introduced to him his son, Mr F. J. Bowring, and with pardonable pride added that he had just become a Fellow of Trinity, Borrow remarked, “Ah! Fellows of Trinity always marry their bed-makers.” Agnes Strickland was another victim. Being desirous of meeting him and, in spite of Borrow’s unwillingness, achieving her object, she expressed in rapturous terms her admiration of his works, and concluded by asking permission to send him a copy of _The Queens of England_, to which he ungraciously replied, “For God’s sake, don’t, madam; I should not know where to put them or what to do with them.” “What a damned fool that woman is!” he remarked to W. B. Donne, who was standing by. {383b}

There is a world of meaning in a paragraph from one of John Murray’s (the Second) letters (21st June 1843) to Borrow in which he enquires, “Did you receive a note from Mme. Simpkinson which I forwarded ten days ago? I have not seen her since your abrupt departure from her house.”

It is rather regrettable that the one side of Borrow’s character has to be so emphasised. He could be just and gracious, even to the point of sternly rebuking one who represented his own religious convictions and supporting a dissenter. After a Bible Society’s meeting at Mutford Bridge (the nearest village to Oulton Hall), the speakers repaired to the Hall to supper. One of the guests, an independent minister, became involved in a heated argument with a Church of England clergyman, who reproached him for holding Calvinistic views. The nonconformist replied that the clergy of the Established Church were equally liable to attack on the same ground, because the Articles of their Church were Calvinistic, and to these they had all sworn assent. The reply was that the words were not necessarily to be taken in their literal sense. At this Borrow interposed, attacking the clergyman in a most vigorous fashion for his sophistry, and finally reducing him to silence. The Independent minister afterwards confessed that he had never heard “one man give another such a dressing down as on that occasion.” {384a}

Borrow was capable of very deep feeling, which is nowhere better shown than in his retort to Richard Latham whom he met at Dr Hake’s table. Well warmed by the generous wine, Latham stated that he should never do anything so low as dine with his publisher. “You do not dine with John Murray, I presume?” he added. “Indeed I do,” Borrow responded with deep emotion. “He is a most kind friend. When I have had sickness in the house he has been unfailing in his goodness towards me. There is no man I more value.” {384b}

Borrow was a frequent visitor to the Hakes at Bury St Edmunds. W. B. Donne gives a glimpse to him in a letter to Bernard Barton (12th Sept. 1848).

“We have had a great man here—and I have been walking with him and aiding him to eat salmon and mutton and drink port—George Borrow—and what is more we fell in with some gypsies and I heard his speech of Egypt, which sounded wondrously like a medley of broken Spanish and dog Latin. Borrow’s face lighted by the red turf fire of the tent was worth looking at. He is ashy-white now—but twenty years ago, when his hair was like a raven’s wing, he must have been hard to discriminate from a born Bohemian. Borrow is best on the tramp: if you can walk 4.5 miles per hour, as I can with ease and do by choice, and can walk 15 of them at a stretch—which I can compass also—then he will talk Iliads of adventures even better than his printed ones. He cannot abide those Amateur Pedestrians who saunter, and in his chair he is given to groan and be contradictory. But on Newmarket-heath, in Rougham Woods he is at home, and specially when he meets with a thorough vagabond like your present correspondent.” {385a}

The present Mr John Murray recollects Borrow very clearly as

“tall, broad, muscular, with very heavy shoulders” and of course the white hair. “He was,” continues Mr Murray, “a figure which no one who has seen it is likely to forget. I never remember to have seen him dressed in anything but black broad cloth, and white cotton socks were generally distinctly visible above his low shoes. I think that with Borrow the desire to attract attention to himself, to inspire a feeling of awe and mystery, must have been a ruling passion.”

Borrow was frequently the guest of his publisher at Albemarle Street, in times well within the memory of Mr Murray, who relates how on one occasion

“Borrow was at a dinner-party in company with Whewell {385b} [who by the way it has been said was the original of the Flaming Tinman, although there is very little to support the statement except the fact that Dr Whewell was a proper man with his hands] both of them powerful men, and both of them, if report be true, having more than a superficial knowledge of the art of self-defence. A controversy began, and waxed so warm that Mrs Whewell, believing a personal encounter to be imminent, fainted, and had to be carried out of the room. Once when Borrow was dining with my father he disappeared into a small back room after dinner, and could not be found. At last he was discovered by a lady member of the family, stretched on a sofa and groaning. On being spoken to and asked to join the other guests, he suddenly said: Go away! go away! I am not fit company for respectable people. There was no apparent cause for this strange conduct, unless it were due to one of those unaccountable fits to which men of genius (and this description will be allowed him by many) are often subject.

“On another occasion, when dining with my father at Wimbledon, he was regaled with a ‘haggis,’ a dish which was new to him, and of which he partook to an extent which would have astonished many a hardy Scotsman. One summers day, several years later, he again came to dinner, and having come on foot, entered the house by a garden door, his first words—without any previous greetings—were: ‘Is there a haggis to-day?’” {386}