The next event of importance in Borrow's life was his removal to London with Mrs Borrow and Henrietta. Towards the end of the Irish holiday (4th Nov. 1859), Mrs Borrow had written to John Murray: "If all be well in the Spring, I shall wish to look around, and select a pleasant, healthy residence within from three to ten miles of London." Borrow may have felt more at liberty to make the change now that his mother was dead, although whilst she was at Oulton he was as little company for her at Great Yarmouth as he would have been in London. Whatever led them to the decision to take up their residence in London, Borrow and his wife left Great Yarmouth at the end of June, and immediately proceeded to look about them for a suitable house. Their choice eventually fell upon number 22 Hereford Square, Brompton, which had the misfortune to be only a few doors from number 26, where lived Frances Power Cobbe. The rent was 65 pounds per annum. The Borrows entered upon their tenancy at the Michaelmas quarter, and were joined by Henrietta, who had remained behind at Great Yarmouth during the house-hunting.

Miss Cobbe has given in her Autobiography a very unlovely picture of George Borrow during the period of his residence in Hereford Square.

No woman, except his relatives and dependants, will tolerate egoism in a man. Borrow was an egoist. If not permitted to lead the conversation, he frequently wrapped himself in a gloomy silence and waited for an opportunity to discomfit the usurper of the place he seemed to consider his own. Among his papers were found after his death a large number of letters from poor men whom Borrow had a.s.sisted. His friend the Rev. Francis Cunningham once wrote to him a letter protesting against his a.s.sisting Nonconformist schools. He gave to Church and Chapel alike. This disproves misanthropy, and leaves egoism as the only explanation of his occasional lapses into bitterness or rudeness. When in happy vein, however, "his conversation . . . was unlike that of any other man; whether he told a long story or only commented on some ordinary topic, he was always quaint, often humorous." {445a}

Miss Cobbe would not humour an egoist, because const.i.tutionally women, especially clever women, dislike them, unless they wish to marry them. When she heard it said, as it very frequently was said, that Borrow was a gypsy by blood, she caustically remarked that if he were not he "OUGHT to have been." Miss Cobbe had living with her a Miss Lloyd who, "amused by his quaint stories and his (real or sham) enthusiasm for Wales, . . . cultivated his acquaintance. I,"

continued Miss Cobbe frankly, "never liked him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite." {445b}

On one occasion Borrow had accepted an invitation from Miss Cobbe to meet some friends, but subsequently withdrew his acceptance "on finding that Dr Martineau was to be of the party . . . nor did he ever after attend our little a.s.semblies without first ascertaining that Dr Martineau would not be present!" This she explained by the a.s.sertion that Dr Martineau had "horsed" Borrow when he was punished for running away from school at Norwich. It appeared "irresistibly comic" to her mind.

There is an amusing account given by Miss Cobbe of how she worsted Borrow, which is certainly extremely flattering to her accomplishments. Once when talking with him she happened to say

"something about the imperfect education of women, and he said it was RIGHT they should be ignorant, and that no man could endure a clever wife. I laughed at him openly," she continues, "and told him some men knew better. What did he think of the Brownings? 'Oh, he had heard the name; he did not know anything of them. Since Scott, he read no modern writer; Scott WAS GREATER THAN HOMER! What he liked were curious, old, erudite books about mediaeval and northern things.' I said I knew little of such literature, and preferred the writers of our own age, but indeed I was no great student at all.

Thereupon he evidently wanted to astonish me; and, talking of Ireland, said, 'Ah, yes; a most curious, mixed race. First there were the Firbolgs,--the old enchanters, who raised mists.' . . .

'Don't you think, Mr Borrow,' I asked, 'it was the Tuatha-de-Danaan who did that? Keatinge expressly says that they conquered the Firbolgs by that means.' (Mr B. somewhat out of countenance), 'Oh!

Aye! Keatinge is THE authority; a most extraordinary writer.'

'Well, I should call him the Geoffrey of Monmouth of Ireland.' (Mr B. changing the VENUE), 'I delight in Norse-stories; they are far grander than the Greek. There is the story of Olaf the Saint of Norway. Can anything be grander? What a n.o.ble character!' 'But,' I said, 'what do YOU think of his putting all those poor Druids on the Skerry of Shrieks, and leaving them to be drowned by the tide?'

(Thereupon Mr B. looked at me askant out of his gipsy eyes, as if he thought me an example of the evils of female education!) 'Well!

Well! I forgot about the Skerry of Shrieks. Then there is the story of Beowulf the Saxon going out to sea in his burning ship to die.'

'Oh, Mr Borrow! that isn't a Saxon story at all. It is in the Heimskringla! It is told of Hakon of Norway.' Then, I asked him about the gipsies and their language, and if they were certainly Aryans? He didn't know (or pretended not to know) what Aryans were; and altogether displayed a miraculous mixture of odd knowledge and more odd ignorance. Whether the latter were real or a.s.sumed I know not!" {446a}

These were some of the neighbourly little pleasantries indulged in by Miss Cobbe, regarding a man who was a frequent guest at her house.

"His has indeed been a fantastic fate!" writes Mr Theodore Watts- Dunton. "When the shortcomings of any ill.u.s.trious man save Borrow are under discussion, 'les defauts de ses qualites' is the criticism- -wise as charitable--which they evoke. Yes, each one is allowed to have his angularities save Borrow. Each one is allowed to show his own pet unpleasant facets of character now and then--allowed to show them as inevitable foils to the pleasant ones--save Borrow. HIS weaknesses no one ever condones. During his lifetime his faults were for ever chafing and irritating his acquaintances, and now that he and they are dead, these faults of his seem to be chafing and irritating people of another generation. A fantastic fate, I say, for him who was so interesting to some of us!" {447a}

On occasion Borrow could be inexcusably rude, as he was to a member of the Russian Emba.s.sy who one day called at Hereford Square for a copy of Targum for the Czar, when he told him that his Imperial master could fetch it himself. Again, no one can defend him for affronting the "very distinguished scholar" with whom he happened to disagree, by thundering out, "Sir, you're a fool!" Such lapses are deplorable; but why should we view them in a different light from those of Dr Johnson?

What would have been regarded in another distinguished man as a pleasant vein of humour was in Borrow's case looked upon as evidence of his unveracity. A contemporary tells how, on one occasion, he went with him into "a tavern" for a pint of ale, when Borrow pointed out

"a yokel at the far end of the apartment. The foolish b.u.mpkin was slumbering. Borrow in a stage whisper, gravely a.s.sured me that the man was a murderer, and confided to me with all the emphasis of honest conviction the scene and details of his crime. Subsequently I ascertained that the elaborate incidents and fine touches of local colour were but the coruscations of a too vivid imagination, and that the villain of the ale-house on the common was as innocent as the author of The Romany Rye." {447b}

If Borrow had been called upon to explain this little pleasantry he would in all probability have replied in the words of Mr Petulengro, that he had told his acquaintance "things . . . which are not exactly true, simply to make a fool of you, brother."

It is strange how those among his contemporaries who disliked him, denied Borrow the indulgence that is almost invariably accorded to genius. Those who were not for him were bitterly against him. In their eyes he was either outrageously uncivil or insultingly rude.

Dr Hake, although a close friend, saw Borrow's dominant weakness, his love of the outward evidences of fame. Dr Hake's impartiality gives greater weight to his testimony when he tells of Borrow's first meeting with Dr Robert Latham, the ethnologist, philologist and grammarian. Latham much wanted to meet Borrow, and promised Dr Hake to be on his best behaviour. He was accordingly invited to dinner with Borrow. Latham as usual began to show off his knowledge. He became aggressive, and finally very excited; but throughout the meal Borrow showed the utmost patience and courtesy, much to his host's relief. When he subsequently encountered Latham in the street he always stopped "to say a kind word, seeing his forlorn condition."

Dr Hake had settled at Coombe End, Roehampton, and now that the Borrows were in London, the two families renewed their old friendship. Borrow would walk over to Coombe End, and on arriving at the gate would call out, "Are you alone?" If there were other callers he would pa.s.s by, if not he would enter and frequently persuade Dr Hake, and perhaps his sons, to accompany him for a walk.

"There was something not easily forgotten," writes Mr A. Egmont Hake, "in the manner in which he would unexpectedly come to our gates, singing some gypsy song, and as suddenly depart." {448a} They had many pleasant tramps together, mostly in Richmond Park, where Borrow appeared to know every tree and showed himself very learned in deer.

He was

"always saying something in his loud, self-a.s.serting voice; sometimes stopping suddenly, drawing his huge stature erect, and changing the keen and haughty expression of his face into the rapt and half fatuous look of the oracle, he would without preface recite some long fragment from Welsh or Scandinavian bards, his hands hanging from his chest and flapping in symphony. Then he would push on again, and as suddenly stop, arrested by the beautiful scenery, and exclaim, 'Ah!

this is England, as the Pretender said when he again looked on his fatherland.' Then on reaching any town, he would be sure to spy out some lurking gypsy, whom no one but himself would have known from a common horse-dealer. A conversation in Romany would ensue, a shilling would change hands, two fingers would be pointed at the gypsy, and the interview would be at an end." {449a}

One day he asked Dr Hake's youngest boy if he knew how to fight a man bigger than himself, and on being told that he didn't, advised him to "accept his challenge, and tell him to take off his coat, and while he was doing it knock him down and then run for your life." {449b}

Once Borrow arrived at Dr Hake's house to find another caller in the person of Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton, and they "went through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle . . .

Borrow made himself agreeable to Watts [-Dunton], recited a fairy tale in the best style to him, and liked him." Borrow did not recognise in Mr Watts-Dunton the young man whom he had seen bathing on the beach at Great Yarmouth, pleased to be near his hero, but too much afraid to venture to address him. Writing of this meeting at Coombe End, Mr Watts-Dunton says: "There is however no doubt that Borrow would have run away from me had I been a.s.sociated in his mind with the literary calling. But at that time I had written nothing at all save poems, and a prose story or two of a romantic kind." Borrow hated the literary man, he was at war with the whole genus.

Mr Watts-Dunton confesses that he made great efforts to enlist Borrow's interest. He touched on Bamfylde Moore Carew, beer, bruisers, philology, "gentility nonsense," the "trumpery great"; but without success. Borrow was obviously suspicious of him. Then with inspiration he happened to mention what proved to be a magic name.

"I tried other subjects in the same direction," Mr Watts-Dunton continues, "but with small success, till in a lucky moment I bethought myself of Ambrose Gwinett, . . . the man who, after having been hanged and gibbeted for murdering a traveller with whom he had shared a double-bedded room at a seaside inn, revived in the night, escaped from the gibbet-irons, went to sea as a common sailor, and afterwards met on a British man-of-war the very man he had been hanged for murdering. The truth was that Gwinett's supposed victim, having been attacked on the night in question by a violent bleeding of the nose, had risen and left the house for a few minutes' walk in the sea-breeze, when the press-gang captured him and bore him off to sea, where he had been in service ever since. The story is true, and the pamphlet, Borrow afterwards told me (I know not on what authority), was written by Goldsmith from Gwinett's dictation for a platter of cow-heel.

"To the bewilderment of Dr Hake, I introduced the subject of Ambrose Gwinett in the same manner as I might have introduced the story of 'Achilles' wrath,' and appealed to Dr Hake (who, of course, had never heard of the book or the man) as to whether a certain incident in the pamphlet had gained or lost by the dramatist who, at one of the minor theatres, had many years ago dramatized the story. Borrow was caught at last. 'What?' said he, 'you know that pamphlet about Ambrose Gwinett?' 'Know it?' said I, in a hurt tone, as though he had asked me if I knew 'Macbeth'; 'of course I know Ambrose Gwinett, Mr Borrow, don't you?' 'And you know the play?' said he. 'Of course I do, Mr Borrow,' I said, in a tone that was now a little angry at such an insinuation of cra.s.s ignorance. 'Why,' said he, 'it's years and years since it was acted; I never was much of a theatre man, but I did go to see THAT.' 'Well I should rather think you DID, Mr Borrow,' said I. 'But,' said he, staring hard at me, 'you--you were not born!' 'And I was not born,' said I, 'when the "Agamemnon" was produced, and yet one reads the "Agamemnon," Mr Borrow. I have read the drama of "Ambrose Gwinett." I have it bound in morocco, with some more of Douglas Jerrold's early transpontine plays, and some AEschylean dramas by Mr Fitzball. I will lend it to you, Mr Borrow, if you like.' He was completely conquered, 'Hake!' he cried, in a loud voice, regardless of my presence, 'Hake! your friend knows everything.' Then he murmured to himself. 'Wonderful man! Knows Ambrose Gwinett!'

"It is such delightful reminiscences as these that will cause me to have as long as I live a very warm place in my heart for the memory of George Borrow." {451a}

After this, intercourse proved easy. At Borrow's suggestion they walked to the Bald-Faced Stag, in Kingston Vale, to inspect Jerry Abershaw's sword. This famous old hostelry was a favourite haunt of Borrow's, where he would often rest during his walk and drink "a cup of ale" (which he would call "swipes," and make a wry face as he swallowed) and talk of the daring deeds of Jerry the highwayman.

Many people have testified to the pleasure of being in the company of the whimsical, eccentric, humbug-hating Borrow.

"He was a choice companion on a walk," writes Mr A. Egmont Hake, "whether across country or in the slums of Houndsditch. His enthusiasm for nature was peculiar; he could draw more poetry from a wide-spreading marsh with its straggling rushes than from the most beautiful scenery, and would stand and look at it with rapture."

{451b}

Since the tour in Wales in 1854, from which he returned with the four "Note Books," Borrow had been working steadily at Wild Wales. In 1857 the book had been announced as "ready for the press"; but this was obviously an antic.i.p.ation. The ma.n.u.script was submitted to John Murray early in November 1861. On the 20th of that month he wrote the following letter, addressing it, not to Borrow, but to his wife:-

Dear Mrs Borrow,--The MS. of Wild Wales has occupied my thoughts almost ever since Friday last.

I approached this MS. with some diffidence, recollecting the unsatisfactory results, on the whole, of our last publication--Romany Rye. I have read a large part of this new work with care and attention, and although it is beautifully written and in a style of English undefiled, which few writers can surpa.s.s, there is yet a want of stirring incident in it which makes me fearful as to the result of its publication.

In my hands at least I cannot think it would succeed even as well as Romany Rye--and I am fearful of not doing justice to it. I do not like to undertake a work with the chance of reproach that it may have failed through my want of power to promote its circulation, and I do wish, for Borrow's own sake, that in this instance he would try some other publisher and perhaps some other form of publication.

In my hands I am convinced the work will not answer the author's expectations, and I am not prepared to take on me this amount of responsibility.

I will give the best advice I can if called upon, and shall be only too glad if I can be useful to Mr Borrow. I regret to have to write in this sense, but believe me always, Dear Mrs Borrow,

Your faithful friend, JOHN MURRAY.

The reply to this letter has not been preserved. It would appear that some "stirring incidents" were added, among others most probably the account of Borrow blessing the Irish reapers, who mistook him for Father Toban. This anecdote was one of John Murray's favourite pa.s.sages. It is evident that some concession was made to induce Murray to change his mind. In any case Wild Wales appeared towards the close of 1862 in an edition of 1000 copies. The publisher's misgivings were not justified, as the first edition produced a profit, up to 30th June 1863, of 531 pounds, 14s., which was equally divided between author and publisher. The second, and cheap, edition of 3000 copies lasted for thirteen years, and the deficiency on this absorbed the greater part of the publisher's profit.

In a way it is the most remarkable of Borrow's books; for it shows that he was making a serious effort to regain his public. It is an older, wiser and chastened Borrow that appears in its pages, striding through the land of the bards at six miles an hour, his satchel slung over his shoulder, his green umbrella grasped in his right hand, shouting the songs of Wales, about which he knew more than any man he met. There are no gypsies (except towards the end of the book a reference to his meeting with Captain Bosvile), no bruisers, the pope is scarcely mentioned, and "gentility-nonsense" is veiled almost to the point of elimination. It seems scarcely conceivable that the hand that had written the appendix to The Romany Rye could have so restrained itself as to write Wild Wales. Borrow had evidently read and carefully digested Whitwell Elwin's friendly strictures upon The Romany Rye. Instead of the pope, the gypsies and the bruisers of England, there were the vicarage cat, the bards and the thousand and one trivial incidents of the wayside. There were occasional gleams of the old fighting spirit, notably when he characterises sherry, {453a} as "a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters,--in fact, into what Englishmen are at the present day." He has created the atmosphere of Wales as he did that of the gypsy encampment. He shows the jealous way in which the Welsh cling to their language, and their suspicion of the Saesneg, or Saxon. Above all, he shows how national are the Welsh poets, belonging not to the cultured few; but to the labouring man as much as to the landed proprietor. Borrow earned the respect of the people, not only because he knew their language; but on account of his profound knowledge of their literature, their history, and their traditions. No one could escape him, he accosted every soul he met, and evinced a desire for information as to place-names that instantly arrested their attention.

The most curious thing about Wild Wales is the omission of all mention of the Welsh Gypsies, who, with those of Hungary, share the distinction of being the aristocrats of their race. Several explanations have been suggested to account for the curious circ.u.mstance. Had Borrow's knowledge of Welsh Romany been scanty, he could very soon have improved it. The presence of his wife and stepdaughter was no hindrance; for, as a matter of fact, they were very little with him, even when they and Borrow were staying at Llangollen; but during the long tours they were many miles away. In all probability the Welsh Gypsies were sacrificed to British prejudice, much as were pugilism and the baiting of the pope.

In spite of its simple charm and convincing atmosphere, Wild Wales did not please the critics. Those who noticed it (and there were many who did not) either questioned its genuineness, or found it crowded with triviality and self-glorification. It was full of the superfluous, the superfluous repeated, and above all it was too long (some 250,000 words). The Spectator notice was an exception; it did credit to the critical faculty of the man who wrote it. He declined "to boggle and wrangle over minor defects in what is intrinsically good," and praised Wild Wales as "the first really clever book . . .

in which an honest attempt is made to do justice to Welsh literature."