"Well, some are born to be hanged, and some are not; and many of those who are not hanged are much worse than those who are. Jack, with many a good quality, is hanged, whilst that fellow of a lord, who wanted to get the horse from you at about two-thirds of his value, without a single good quality in the world, is not hanged, and probably will remain so. You ask the reason why, perhaps. I'll tell you: the lack of a certain quality called courage, which Jack possessed in abundance, will preserve him; from the love which he bears his own neck he will do nothing that can bring him to the gallows."

Isopel Berners, with Moses and David in her mind, expresses Borrow's private opinion more soberly when she says:

"Fear God, and take your own part. There's Bible in that, young man; see how Moses feared God, and how he took his own part against everybody who meddled with him. And see how David feared God, and took his own part against all the bloody enemies which surrounded him—so fear God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, provided it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him coarse names, and even going so far as to hustle him; but the world, like all bullies, carries a white feather in its tail, and no sooner sees the man taking off his coat, and offering to fight its best, than it scatters here and there, and is always civil to him afterwards. So when folks are disposed to ill-treat you, young man, say 'Lord, have mercy upon me!' and then tip them Long Melford, to which, as the saying goes, there is nothing comparable for shortness all the world over."

{picture: The Green, Long Melford, Suffolk. Photo: C. F. Emeny, Sudbury: page261.jpg}

He had probably a natural inclination towards a liberal or eccentric morality, but he was no thinker, and he gave way to a middle-class phraseology—with exceptions, as when he gives it as the opinion of his old master, the Norwich solicitor, that "all first-rate thieves were sober, and of well-regulated morals, their bodily passions being kept in abeyance by their love of gain." Sometimes Borrow allows these two sides of him, his private and his social sides, to appear together dramatically. For example, he more than half seriously advises Jasper to read the Scriptures and learn his duty to his fellow-creatures and his duty to his own soul, lest he should be ranked with those who are "outcast, despised and miserable." Whereupon Jasper questions him and gets him to admit that the Gypsies are very much like the cuckoos, roguish, chaffing birds that everybody is glad to see again:

"'You would wish to turn the cuckoos into barn-door fowls, wouldn't you?'

"'Can't say I should, Jasper, whatever some people might wish.'

"'And the chals and chies into radical weavers and factory wenches, hey, brother?'

"'Can't say that I should, Jasper. You are certainly a picturesque people, and in many respects an ornament both to town and country; painting and lil writing too are under great obligations to you. What pretty pictures are made out of your campings and groupings, and what pretty books have been written in which Gypsies, or at least creatures intended to represent Gypsies, have been the principal figures! I think if we were without you, we should begin to miss you.'

"'Just as you would the cuckoos, if they were all converted into barn- door fowls. I tell you what, brother, frequently as I have sat under a hedge in spring or summer time, and heard the cuckoo, I have thought that we chals and cuckoos are alike in many respects, but especially in character. Everybody speaks ill of us both, and everybody is glad to see both of us again.'

"'Yes, Jasper, but there is some difference between men and cuckoos; men have souls, Jasper!'

"'And why not cuckoos, brother?'

"'You should not talk so, Jasper; what you say is little short of blasphemy. How should a bird have a soul?'

"'And how should a man?'

"'Oh, we know very well that a man has a soul.'

"'How do you know it?'

"'We know very well.'

"'Would you take your oath of it, brother—your bodily oath?'

"'Why, I think I might, Jasper!'"

There is no doubt that Borrow liked a strong or an extraordinary man none the less for being a scoundrel. There is equally little doubt that he never demeaned himself with the lower orders. He never pretended, and was seldom taken, to be one of themselves. His attitude differed in degree, but not in kind, from that of a frank, free squire or parson towards keepers, fishermen or labourers. And if he did not drink and swear on an equality with them, neither did he crankily worship them as Fitzgerald did "Posh," the fisherman. They respected him—at least so he tells us—and he never gives himself away to any other effect—because he was honest, courageous and fair. Thus he never gave cause for suspicion as a man does who throws off the cloak of class, and he was probably as interesting to them as they to him. Nor did his refusal to adopt their ways and manners out and out prevent a very genuine kind of equality from existing between him and some of them. A man or woman of equal character and force became his equal, as Jasper did, as Isopel and David Haggart did, and he accepted this equality without a trace of snobbishness.

He says himself that he has "no abstract love for what is low, or what the world calls low." Certainly there is nothing low in his familiars, as he presents them, at least nothing sordid. It may be the result of unconscious idealisation, but his Gypsies have nothing more sordid about them than wild birds have. Mrs. Herne is diabolical, but in a manner that would not be unbecoming to a duchess. Leonora is treacherous, but as an elf is permitted to be. As for Jasper and Mrs. Petulengro, they are as radiant as Mercutio and Rosalind. They have all the sweetness of unimprisoned air: they would prefer, like Borrow, "the sound of the leaves and the tinkling of the waters" to the parson and the church; and the smell of the stable, which is strong in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye," to the smell of the congregation and the tombs.



CHAPTER XXVIII—WALKING TOURS

When Borrow had almost finished "The Romany Rye" he went on a visit to his cousins in Cornwall. The story of his saving a man's life in a stormy sea had reached them, and they sent him an invitation, which he accepted at Christmas time in 1853. He stayed for a fortnight with a cousin's married daughter, Mrs. Anne Taylor, at Penquite Farm, near Liskeard, and then several days again after a fortnight spent on a walk to Land's End and back. In his last week he walked to Tintagel and Pentire. He was welcomed with hospitality and admiration. He in turn seems to have been pleased and at his ease, though he only understood half of what was said. Those who remember his visit speak of his tears in the house where his father was born, of his sitting in the centre of a group telling stories of his travels and singing a Gypsy song, of his singing foreign songs all day out of doors, of his fit of melancholy cured by Scotch and Irish airs played on the piano, of his violent opinions on sherry and "Uncle Tom's Cabin," of his protesting against some sign of gentility by using a filthy rag as a pocket handkerchief, and that in a conspicuous manner, of his being vain and not proud, of his telling the children stories, of one child crying out at sight of him: "That is a man!" He made his mark by unusual ways and by intellectual superiority to his rustic cousins. He rode about with one of his cousin's grandchildren. He walked hither and thither alone, doing as much as twenty-five miles a day with the help of "Look out, look out, Svend Vonved," which he sang in the last dark stretches of road. Mr. Walling was "told that he roamed the Caradons in all weathers without a hat, in search of sport and specimens, antiquities and dialects," but I should think the "specimens" were for the table. He talked to the men by the wayside or dived into the slums of Liskeard for disreputable characters. He visited remarkable and famous places, and was delighted with "Druidic" remains and tales of fairies.

Thus Borrow made "fifty quarto pages" of notes, says Knapp, about people, places, dialect, and folk lore. Some of the notes are mere shorthand; some are rapid gossipy jottings; and they include; a verse translation of a Cornish tale.

A book on Cornwall, to have grown out of these notes, was advertised; but it was never written. Perhaps he found it hard to vivify or integrate his notes. In any case there could hardly have been any backbone to the book, and it would have been tourist's work, however good. He was not a man who wrote about everything; the impulse was lacking and he went on with the furious Appendix to "The Romany Rye."

In 1854 he paid a much longer visit to Wales. He took his wife and daughter as far as Llangollen, which he used as a centre during August. Then he had ten days walking through Corwen, Cerrig-y-Drudion, Capel Curig, Bangor, Anglesey, Snowdon, Beth Gelert, Festiniog, and Bala. After three weeks more at Llangollen, he had his boots soled and his umbrella mended, bought a leather satchel with a lock and key, and put in it a white linen shirt, a pair of worsted stockings, a razor, and a prayer book, and with twenty pounds in his pocket and his umbrella grasped in the middle, set out on a tour of three weeks. He travelled through the whole length of Wales, by Llangarmon, Sycharth, Bala, Machynlleth, Devil's Bridge, Plinlimmon, Pont Rhyd Fendigaid, Strata Florida, Tregaron, Lampeter, Pumpsaint, Llandovery, Llangadog, Gwynfe, Gutter Fawr (Brynamman), Swansea, Neath, Merthyr, Caerphilly, Newport, and Chepstow. He had loved the Welsh bards and Wales from his boyhood up, and these three months kept him occupied and happy. When at Llangollen he walked during the day, and in the evening showed his wife and stepdaughter a view, if he had found one. His wife reported to his mother that she had reason to praise God for his condition.

Borrow was happy at seeing the places mentioned by the bards and the houses where some of them were born. "Oh, the wild hills of Wales," he exclaimed, "the land of old renown and of wonder, the land of Arthur and Merlin!" These were the very tones of his Spanish enthusiasm nearly twenty years ago. He travelled probably without maps, and with no general knowledge of the country or of what had been written of it, so that he did not know how to spell Manorbier or recognise it as the birthplace of Gerald of Wales. He remembered his youth, when he translated the bards, with complacent melancholy. He sunned himself in the admiration of his inferiors, talking at great length on subjects with which he was acquainted and repeating his own execrable verse translations. "Nice man"—"civil man"—"clever man . . . has been everywhere," the people said. In the South, too, he had the supreme good fortune to meet Captain Bosvile for the first time for thirty years, and not being recognised, said, "I am the chap what certain folks calls the Romany Rye." Bejiggered if the Captain had not been thinking it was he, and goes on to ask after that "fine young woman and a vartuous" that he used to keep company with, and Borrow in his turn asked after Jasper—"Lord!" was the answer, "you can't think what grand folks he and his wife have become of late years, and all along of a trumpery lil which somebody has written about them." He also met an Italian whose friends he had last seen at Norwich, one whom he had found at Corunna. It is no wonder that it seemed to him he had always had "the health of an elephant," and could walk thirty-four miles a day, and the last mile in ten minutes. He took his chance for a night's lodging, content to have someone else's bed, but going to the best inn where he had a choice, as at Haverfordwest.

He was very much moved by the adventure. "I have a wonderful deal to say if I once begin; I have been everywhere," he said to the old man at Gutter Fawr. He gave the shepherd advice about his sheep. "I am in the habit," he said to the landlord at Pont Erwyd, "of talking about everything, being versed in all matters, do you see, or affecting to be so, which comes much to the same thing." Even in the company of his stepdaughter—as they were not in Hyde Park—he sang in Welsh at the top of his voice. The miller's hospitality in Mona brought tears to his eyes; so did his own verse translation of the "Ode to Sycharth," because it made him think "how much more happy, innocent and holy I was in the days of my boyhood when I translated Iolo's ode than I am at the present time." He kissed the silver cup at Llanddewi Brefi and the tombstone of Huw Morus at Llan Silin. When the chair of Huw Morus was wiped and he was about to sit down in it, he uncovered and said in his best Welsh:

"'Shade of Huw Morus, supposing your shade haunts the place which you loved so well when alive—a Saxon, one of the seed of the Coiling Serpent, has come to this place to pay that respect to true genius, the Dawn Duw, which he is ever ready to pay. He read the songs of the Nightingale of Ceiriog in the most distant part of Lloegr, when he was a brown-haired boy, and now that he is a grey-haired man he is come to say in this place that they frequently made his eyes overflow with tears of rapture.'

"I then sat down in the chair, and commenced repeating verses of Huw Morus. All which I did in the presence of the stout old lady, the short, buxom, and bare-armed damsel, and of John Jones, the Calvinistic weaver of Llangollen, all of whom listened patiently and approvingly though the rain was pouring down upon them, and the branches of the trees and the tops of the tall nettles, agitated by the gusts from the mountain hollows, were beating in their faces, for enthusiasm is never scoffed at by the noble, simple-minded, genuine Welsh, whatever treatment it may receive from the coarse-hearted, sensual, selfish Saxon."

Unless we count the inn at Cemmaes, where he took vengeance on the suspicious people by using his note-book in an obvious manner, "now skewing at an object, now leering at an individual," he was only once thoroughly put out, and that was at Beth Gelert by a Scotchman: which suggests a great deal of amiability, on one side, considering that Borrow's Welsh was book-Welsh, execrably pronounced.

He filled four books with notes, says Knapp, who has printed from them some parts which Borrow did not use, including the Orange words of "Croppies lie down," and Borrow's translation of "the best ghost story in the world," by Lope de Vega. The book founded on these Welsh notes was advertised in 1857, but not published until 1862.

In the September after his Welsh holiday, 1855, Borrow took his wife and daughter to the Isle of Man, deposited them at Douglas, and travelled over the island for seven weeks, with intervals at Douglas. He took notes that make ninety-six quarto pages in Knapp's copy. He was to have founded a book on them, entitled, "Wanderings in Quest of Manx Literature." Knapp quotes an introduction which was written. This and the notes show him collecting in manuscript or viva voce the carvals or carols then in circulation among the Manx; and he had the good fortune to receive two volumes of them as gifts. Some he translated during his visit. He went about questioning people concerning the carvals and a Manx poet, named George Killey. He read a Manx prayer-book to the poet's daughter at Kirk Onchan, and asked her a score of questions. He convinced one woman that he was "of the old Manx." Finding a Manxman who spoke French and thought it the better language, he made the statement that "Manx or something like it was spoken in France more than a thousand years before French." He copied Runic inscriptions, and took down several fairy tales and a Manx version of the story of "Finn McCoyle" and the Scotch giant. He went to visit a descendant of the ballad hero, Mollie Charane. When he wished to know the size of some old skeletons he inquired if the bones were as large as those of modern ones. As he met people to compliment him on his Manx, so he did on his walking. Knapp speaks of a "terrible journey" over the mountain from Ramsay to Braddan and Douglas in October, but does not make any quotation relating to it. In his opinion the notes "seldom present any matter of general interest save to the islanders of Man and the student of Runic inscriptions." Enough, however, is quoted to show that Borrow was delighted with the country and the people, finding plenty to satisfy his curiosity in languages and customs. But he was irritable, and committed to paper some sarcastic remarks about Sir John Bowring and Lord Raglan, "the secret friend" of Russia; while the advancement of an enemy and the death of a cousin caused him to reflect: "William Borrow, the wonderful inventor, dead, and Leicester Curzon . . . a colonel. Pretty justice!" In 1862, in the pages of "Once a Week," he published two of his Manx translations, the ballads—"Brown William" and "Mollie Charane." In August and September, 1857, Borrow was walking again in Wales, covering four hundred miles, as he told John Murray, and once, at least, between Builth and Mortimer's Cross, making twenty-eight miles in a day. His route was through Laugharne, Saundersfoot, Tenby, Pembroke, Milford and Milford Haven, Stainton, Johnston, Haverfordwest, St. Davids, Fishguard, Newport, Cardigan, Llechryd, Cilgerran, Cenarth, Newcastle Emlyn, Lampeter, Llanddewi Brefi, Builth, Presteign, Mortimer's Cross, and so to Shrewsbury, and to Uppington, where Goronwy Owen was curate in the middle of the eighteenth century. Knapp transcribed part of Borrow's journal for Messrs. T. C. Cantrill and J. Pringle, remarking that the rubbed pencil writing took him eight days to decipher. With the annotations of Messrs. Cantrill and Pringle it was printed in "Y Cymmrodor," {270a} the journal of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion. I will quote one day's entries, with the annotations, which are the fruit of the most patient devotion:

"Haverfordwest—little river—bridge; {270b} steep ascent {270c}—sounds of music—young fellows playing—steep descent—strange town—Castle Inn. H.W. in Welsh Hool-fordd.

"[August] 27th, Thursday.—Burning day as usual. Breakfasted on tea, eggs, and soup. Went up to the Castle. St. Mary's Church—river—bridge—toll—The two bridge keepers—River Dun Cledi {270d}—runs into Milford Haven—exceedingly deep in some parts—would swallow up the largest ship ever built {270e}—people in general dislike and despise the Welsh.

"Started for St. David's. Course S.W. {270f}After walking about 2 m. crossed Pelkham Bridge {271a}—it separates St. Martin's from Camrwyn {271b} parish, as a woman told me who was carrying a pipkin in which were some potatoes in water but not boiled. In her other hand she had a dried herring. She said she had lived in the parish all her life and could speak no Welsh, but that there were some people within it who could speak it. Rested against a shady bank, {271c} very thirsty and my hurt foot very sore. She told me that the mountains to the N. were called by various names. One the [Clo—-?] mountain. {271d}

"The old inn {271e}—the blind woman. {271f} Arrival of the odd-looking man and the two women I had passed on the road. The collier [on] {271g} the ass gives me the real history of Bosvile. Written in Roche Castle, a kind of oblong tower built on the rock—there is a rock within it, a huge crag standing towards the East in what was perhaps once a door. It turned out to be a chapel. {271h}

"The castle is call'd in Welsh Castel y Garn, a translation of Roche. The girl and water—B—-? (Nanny) Dallas. {272a} Dialogue with the Baptist {272b} who was mending the roads.

"Splendid view of sea—isolated rocks to the South. Sir las {272c} headlands stretching S. Descent to the shore. New Gall Bridge. {272d} The collier's wife. Jemmy Remaunt {272e} was the name of man on the ass. Her own husband goes to work by the shore. The ascent round the hill. Distant view of Roche Castle. The Welshers, the little village {272f}—all looking down on the valley appropriately called Y Cwm. Dialogue with tall man Merddyn? {272g}—The Dim o Clywed."

Not much of this second tour can be shown to have been used in "Wild Wales," where he alludes to it in the ninety-third chapter, saying that he "long subsequently" found some of the wildest solitudes and most romantic scenery among the mountains about Tregaron; but the collier may have given him the suggestion for the encounter with Bosvile in the ninety-eighth chapter. The spelling points to Borrow's ignorance of the relation of pronunciation and orthography.

In 1858 Borrow's mother died at Oulton and was buried in Oulton churchyard. During October and November in that year, partly to take his mind from his bereavement, he was walking in the Scottish Highlands and Islands. His note-book contains "nothing of general interest," says Knapp, except an imperfect outline of the journey, showing that he was at Oban, Tobermory, the Mull of Cantire, Glasgow, Perth, Aberdeen, Inverness, Dingwall, Tain, Dornoch, Helmsdale, Wick, John o'Groats, Thurso, Stromness, Kirkwall, and Lerwick.

In 1860, after taking a house at 20, Hereford Square, West Brompton, he and his wife and stepdaughter went to Dublin, and himself walked to Connemara and the Giant's Causeway. His wife thought this journey "full of adventure and interest," but he left no record of it. They were again in Ireland in 1866, Miss Clarke having lately married a Dr. MacOubrey, of Belfast. Borrow himself crossed over to Stranraer and had a month's walking in Scotland, to Glen Luce, Castle Douglas, Dumfries, Ecclefechan, Carlisle, Gilnochie, Hawick, Jedburgh, Yetholm, Kelso, Melrose, Coldstream, Berwick, and Edinburgh. He talked to the people, admired the scenery, bathed, and enjoyed his meals. He left the briefest of journals, but afterwards, in "Romano Lavo-Lil," published an account of the "Gypsy toon" of Kirk Yetholm and how he was introduced to the Gypsy Queen. He dropped his umbrella and flung his arms three times up into the air and asked her in Romany what her name was, and if she was a mumper or a true Gypsy. She asked him what was the meaning of this "gibberish," but he describes how gradually he made her declare herself, and how she examined him in Gypsy and at last offered him a chair, and entered into "deep discourse" about Gypsy matters. He talked as he did to such people, saying "Whoy, I calls that a juggal," etc. He found fault with her Romany, which was thin and mixed with Gaelic and cant words. She told him that he reminded her of her grandfather, Will Faa, "being a tall, lusty man like himself, and having a skellying look with the left eye, just like him." He displayed his knowledge of the affairs of the tribe, both in her country and in England. She told him that she had never heard so much Romany before. She promised to receive him next day, but was out when he called. He found her at St. George's Fair, near Roxburgh Castle, and she pointed him out several other Gypsies, but as she assured him they knew not a word of Romany and would only be uncivil to him, he left them to "pay his respects at the tomb of Walter Scott, a man with whose principles he had no sympathy, but for whose genius he had always entertained the most intense admiration."

In 1868 he took an autumn walk through Sussex and Hampshire while his wife was at Bognor. In the next year his wife died, after being afflicted for some time by troubles connected with her property, by dropsy, valvular disease of the heart, and "hysteria." Borrow was melancholy and irritable, but apparently did not go for another walk in Scotland as was suggested for a cure; nor ever again did he get far afield on foot.



CHAPTER XXIX—"WILD WALES"

In 1862, between Borrow's two visits to Ireland, his "Wild Wales" was published. It had been heralded by an advertisement in 1857, by the publication of the "Sleeping Bard" in 1860, and by an article on "The Welsh and their Literature" in the "Quarterly" for January, 1861. This article quotes "an unpublished work called 'Wild Wales'" and "Mr. Borrow's unpublished work, 'Celtic Bards, Chiefs and Kings.'" It opened with a vivid story of the coming of Hu Gadarn and his Cymry to Britain:

"Hu and his people took possession of the best parts of the island, either driving the few Gaels to other districts or admitting them to their confederacy. As the country was in a very wild state, much overgrown with forests in which bears and wolves wandered, and abounding with deep stagnant pools, which were the haunts of the avanc or crocodile, Hu forthwith set about clearing it of some of its horrors, and making it more fit to be the abiding place of civilised beings. He made his people cut down woods and forests, and destroy, as far as was possible, wild beasts and crocodiles. He himself went to a gloomy pool, the haunt of the king of the efync, baited a huge hook attached to a cable, flung it into the pool, and when the monster had gorged the snare drew him out by means of certain gigantic oxen, which he had tamed to the plough, and burnt his horrid, wet, scaly carcass on a fire. He then caused enclosures to be made, fields to be ploughed and sown, pleasant wooden houses to be built, bees to be sheltered and encouraged, and schools to be erected where song and music were taught. O a truly great man was Hu Gadarn! though a warrior, he preferred the sickle and pruning hook to the sword, and the sound of the song and lute to the hoarse blast of the buffalo's horn:

"The mighty Hu with mead would pay The bard for his melodious lay; The Emperor of land and sea And of all living things was he."

This probably represents Borrow's view of early history, simple, heroical and clear, as it would have been had he been in command of it. The article professed to be a review of Borrow's "Sleeping Bard," and was in fact by Borrow himself. He had achieved the supreme honour of reviewing his own work, and, as it fell out, he persuaded the public to buy every copy. Very few were found to buy "Wild Wales," notwithstanding. The first edition of a thousand copies lasted three years; the second, of three thousand, lasted twenty-three years. Borrow was ridiculed for informing his readers that he paid his bill at a Welsh inn, without mentioning the amount. He was praised for having written "the first clever book . . . in which an honest attempt is made to do justice to the Welsh literature," for knowing far more than most educated Welshmen about that literature, and for describing his travels and encounters "with much of the freshness, humour and geniality of his earlier days," for writing in fact "the best book about Wales ever published."

Certainly no later book which could be compared with it has been as good, or nearly as good. As for its predecessors, the "Itinerary" and the "Description" of Gerald of Wales, even setting aside the charm of antiquity, make a book that is equal to "Wild Wales" for originality, vivacity and truth. Of the antiquarian and picturesque travellers in the late eighteenth century and early nineteenth none wrote anything that is valuable except for some facts and some evidence of taste. Borrow himself probably knew few or none of them, though he mentions Gerald. There is no evidence that he knew the great nineteenth-century collections of Welsh manuscripts and translations. He says nothing of the "Mabinogion." He had apparently never heard of the pedestrian Iolo Morganwg. He perhaps never saw Stephens' "Literature of the Kymry." His knowledge was picked up anyhow and anywhere from Welsh texts and Lhuyd's "Archaeologia," without system and with very little friendly discussion or comparison. Wales, therefore, was to him as wonderful as Spain, and equally uncharted. What he saw did not spoil the visionary image, and his enthusiasm coupled with curiosity gives the book of his travels just the continuous impulse which he never found for his Cornish, Manx, Irish or Scottish notes. He was able to fill the book with sympathetic observation and genial self-revelation.

The book is of course a tourist's book. Borrow went through the country as a gentleman, running no risks, and having scarcely an object except to see what was to be seen and to please himself. He got, as he probably counted on getting, the consideration due to a gentleman who can pay his way and meets only the humbler sort of people, publicans, farmers, drovers, labourers, sextons, parish clerks, and men upon the road. He seldom stayed more than a night or an hour or two anywhere. His pictures, therefore, are the impressions of the moment, wrought up at leisure. His few weeks in Wales made a book of the same size as an equal number of years in Spain.

Sometimes he writes like a detached observer working from notes, and the result has little value except in so far as it is a pure record of what was to be seen at such and such a place in the year 1854. There are many short passages apparently straight from his notes, dead and useless. The description of Llangollen Fair, on August 21, is of this kind, but superior, and I shall quote it entire:

"The day was dull with occasional showers. I went to see the fair about noon. It was held in and near a little square in the south-east quarter of the town, of which square the police-station is the principal feature on the side of the west, and an inn, bearing the sign of the Grapes, on the east. The fair was a little bustling fair, attended by plenty of people from the country, and from the English border, and by some who appeared to come from a greater distance than the border. A dense row of carts extended from the police-station, half across the space. These carts were filled with pigs, and had stout cord nettings drawn over them, to prevent the animals escaping. By the sides of these carts the principal business of the fair appeared to be going on—there stood the owners, male and female, higgling with Llangollen men and women, who came to buy. The pigs were all small, and the price given seemed to vary from eighteen to twenty-five shillings. Those who bought pigs generally carried them away in their arms; and then there was no little diversion; dire was the screaming of the porkers, yet the purchaser invariably appeared to know how to manage his bargain, keeping the left arm round the body of the swine and with the right hand fast gripping the ear—some few were led away by strings. There were some Welsh cattle, small of course, and the purchasers of these seemed to be Englishmen, tall burly fellows in general, far exceeding the Welsh in height and size.

"Much business in the cattle-line did not seem, however, to be going on. Now and then a big fellow made an offer, and held out his hand for a little Pictish grazier to give it a slap—a cattle bargain being concluded by a slap of the hand—but the Welshman generally turned away, with a half-resentful exclamation. There were a few horses and ponies in a street leading into the fair from the south.

"I saw none sold, however. A tall athletic figure was striding amongst them, evidently a jockey and a stranger, looking at them and occasionally asking a slight question of one or another of their proprietors, but he did not buy. He might in age be about eight-and-twenty, and about six feet and three-quarters of an inch in height; in build he was perfection itself—a better-built man I never saw. He wore a cap and a brown jockey coat, trowsers, leggings, and highlows, and sported a single spur. He had whiskers—all jockeys should have whiskers—but he had what I did not like, and what no genuine jockey should have, a moustache, which looks coxcombical and Frenchified—but most things have terribly changed since I was young. Three or four hardy-looking fellows, policemen, were gliding about in their blue coats and leather hats, holding their thin walking-sticks behind them; conspicuous amongst whom was the leader, a tall lathy North Briton with a keen eye and hard features. Now if I add there was much gabbling of Welsh round about, and here and there some slight sawing of English—that in the street leading from the north there were some stalls of gingerbread and a table at which a queer-looking being with a red Greek-looking cap on his head, sold rhubarb, herbs, and phials containing the Lord knows what, and who spoke a low vulgar English dialect,—I repeat, if I add this, I think I have said all that is necessary about Llangollen Fair."

But this is a somewhat exceptional passage, and the same detachment is rarely found except in his descriptions of scenery, which are short and serve well enough to remind the reader of the great hills, the rapid waters, the rocks, and the furnaces, chimneys and pits. Borrow certainly does remind us of these things. In the first place he does so by a hundred minute and scattered suggestions of the romantic and sublime, and so general that only a pedant will object to the nightingales which he heard singing in August near Bethesda. He gives us black mountains, gloomy shadows, cascades falling into lakes, "singular-looking" rocks, and mountain villages like one in Castile or La Mancha but for the trees, mountains that made him exclaim: "I have had Heaven opened to me," moors of a "wretched russet colour," "black gloomy narrow glens." He can also be precise and connoisseur-like, as when he describes the cataract at Llan Rhaiadr:

"What shall I liken it to? I scarcely know, unless to an immense skein of silk agitated and disturbed by tempestuous blasts, or to the long tail of a grey courser at furious speed. Through the profusion of long silvery threads or hairs, or what looked such, I could here and there see the black sides of the crag down which the Rhyadr precipitated itself with something between a boom and a roar."

He is still more a connoisseur when he continues:

"I never saw water falling so gracefully, so much like thin beautiful threads as here. Yet even this cataract has its blemish. What beautiful object has not something which more or less mars its loveliness? There is an ugly black bridge or semicircle of rock, about two feet in diameter and about twenty feet high, which rises some little way below it, and under which the water, after reaching the bottom, passes, which intercepts the sight, and prevents it from taking in the whole fall at once. This unsightly object has stood where it now stands since the day of creation, and will probably remain there to the day of judgment. It would be a desecration of nature to remove it by art, but no one could regret if nature in one of her floods were to sweep it away."

But Borrow's temperamental method—where he undertakes to do more than sketch his environment in the blurred large method corresponding to ordinary passing impressions—is the rhetorical sublime of this mountain lake between Festiniog and Bala:

"I sped towards it through gorse and heather, occasionally leaping a deep drain. At last I reached it. It was a small lake. Wearied and panting, I flung myself on its bank, and gazed upon it.

"There lay the lake in the low bottom, surrounded by the heathery hillocks; there it lay quite still, the hot sun reflected upon its surface, which shone like a polished blue shield. Near the shore it was shallow, at least near that shore upon which I lay. But farther on, my eye, practised in deciding upon the depths of waters, saw reason to suppose that its depth was very great. As I gazed upon it my mind indulged in strange musings. I thought of the afanc, a creature which some have supposed to be the harmless and industrious beaver, others the frightful and destructive crocodile. I wondered whether the afanc was the crocodile or the beaver, and speedily had no doubt that the name was originally applied to the crocodile.

"'O, who can doubt,' thought I, 'that the word was originally intended for something monstrous and horrible? Is there not something horrible in the look and sound of the word afanc, something connected with the opening and shutting of immense jaws, and the swallowing of writhing prey? Is not the word a fitting brother of the Arabic timsah, denoting the dread horny lizard of the waters? Moreover, have we not the voice of tradition that the afanc was something monstrous? Does it not say that Hu the Mighty, the inventor of husbandry, who brought the Cumry from the summer-country, drew the old afanc out of the lake of lakes with his four gigantic oxen? Would he have had recourse to them to draw out the little harmless beaver? O, surely not. Yet have I no doubt that, when the crocodile had disappeared from the lands where the Cumric language was spoken, the name afanc was applied to the beaver, probably his successor in the pool; the beaver now called in Cumric Llostlydan, or the broad- tailed, for tradition's voice is strong that the beaver has at one time been called the afanc.' Then I wondered whether the pool before me had been the haunt of the afanc, considered both as crocodile and beaver. I saw no reason to suppose that it had not. 'If crocodiles,' thought I, 'ever existed in Britain, and who shall say they have not? seeing that their remains have been discovered, why should they not have haunted this pool? If beavers ever existed in Britain, and do not tradition and Giraldus say that they have? why should they not have existed in this pool?

"'At a time almost inconceivably remote, when the hills around were covered with woods, through which the elk and the bison and the wild cow strolled, when men were rare throughout the lands, and unlike in most things to the present race—at such a period—and such a period there has been—I can easily conceive that the afanc-crocodile haunted this pool, and that when the elk or bison or wild cow came to drink of its waters, the grim beast would occasionally rush forth, and seizing his bellowing victim, would return with it to the deeps before me to luxuriate at his ease upon its flesh. And at time less remote, when the crocodile was no more, and though the woods still covered the hills, and wild cattle strolled about, men were more numerous than before, and less unlike the present race, I can easily conceive this lake to have been the haunt of the afanc-beaver, that he here built cunningly his house of trees and clay, and that to this lake the native would come with his net and his spear to hunt the animal for his precious fur. Probably if the depths of that pool were searched, relics of the crocodile and the beaver might be found, along with other strange things connected with the periods in which they respectively lived. Happy were I if for a brief space I could become a Cingalese, that I might swim out far into that pool, dive down into its deepest part, and endeavour to discover any strange things which beneath its surface may lie.' Much in this guise rolled my thoughts as I lay stretched on the margin of the lake."

In another place he tells a poor man that he believes in the sea-serpent, and has a story of one seen in the very neighbourhood where he meets the man. Immediately after the description of the lake there is a proof—one of many—that he was writing straight from notes. Speaking of a rivulet, he says: "It was crossed by two bridges, one immensely old and terribly delapidated, the other old enough, but in better repair—went and drank under the oldest bridge of the two." The book is large and strong enough to stand many such infinitesimal blemishes.

Alongside of the sublime I will put what Borrow says he liked better. He is standing on a bridge over the Ceiriog, just after visiting the house of Huw Morus at Pont y Meibion:

"About a hundred yards distant was a small watermill, built over the rivulet, the wheel going slowly, slowly round; large quantities of pigs, the generality of them brindled, were either browsing on the banks, or lying close to the sides, half immersed in the water; one immense white hog, the monarch seemingly of the herd, was standing in the middle of the current. Such was the scene which I saw from the bridge, a scene of quiet rural life well suited to the brushes of two or three of the old Dutch painters, or to those of men scarcely inferior to them in their own style—Gainsborough, Moreland, and Crome. My mind for the last half-hour had been in a highly-excited state; I had been repeating verses of old Huw Morus, brought to my recollection by the sight of his dwelling-place; they were ranting roaring verses, against the Roundheads. I admired the vigour, but disliked the principles which they displayed; and admiration on the one hand, and disapproval on the other, bred a commotion in my mind like that raised on the sea when tide runs one way and wind blows another. The quiet scene from the bridge, however, produced a sedative effect on my mind, and when I resumed my journey I had forgotten Huw, his verses, and all about Roundheads and Cavaliers."

But it must be said that if the book is on the whole a cheerful one, its cheerfulness not only receives a foil from the rhetorical sublime, but is a little misted by a melancholy note here and there. Thus he sees "a melancholy ship" out on the sea near Holyhead. He qualifies russet twice as "wretched" in describing a moor. He speaks of "strange-looking" hills near Pont Erwyd, and again near the Devil's Bridge. His moods were easily changed. He speaks of "wretched russet hills," with no birds singing, but only "the lowing of a wretched bullock," and then of beautiful hills that filled his veins with fresh life so that he walked on merrily.

As for his people, it cannot be asserted that they are always alive though they are often very Welsh. They are sketched, with dialogue and description, after the manner of "The Bible in Spain," though being nearer home they had to be more modest in their peculiarities. He establishes Welsh enthusiasm, hospitality and suspiciousness, in a very friendly manner. The poet-innkeeper is an excellent sketch of a mild but by no means spiritless type. He is accompanied by a man with a bulging shoe who drinks ale and continually ejaculates: "The greatest poet in the world"; for example, when Borrow asks: "Then I have the honour to be seated with a bard of Anglesey?" "Tut, tut," says the bard. Borrow agrees with him that envy—which has kept him from the bardic chair—will not always prevail:

"'Sir,' said the man in grey, 'I am delighted to hear you. Give me your hand, your honourable hand. Sir, you have now felt the hand-grasp of a Welshman, to say nothing of an Anglesey bard, and I have felt that of a Briton, perhaps a bard, a brother, sir? O, when I first saw your face out there in the dyffryn, I at once recognised in it that of a kindred spirit, and I felt compelled to ask you to drink. Drink, sir! but how is this? the jug is empty—how is this?—O, I see—my friend, sir, though an excellent individual, is indiscreet, sir—very indiscreet. Landlord, bring this moment another jug of ale.'

"'The greatest prydydd,' stuttered he of the bulged shoe—'the greatest prydydd—Oh—'

"'Tut, tut,' said the man in grey.

"'I speak the truth and care for no one,' said he of the tattered hat. 'I say the greatest prydydd. If any one wishes to gainsay me let him show his face, and Myn Diawl—'

The landlord brought the ale, placed it on the table, and then stood as if waiting for something.

"'I suppose you are waiting to be paid,' said I; 'what is your demand?'

"'Sixpence for this jug, and sixpence for the other,' said the landlord.

"I took out a shilling and said: 'It is but right that I should pay half of the reckoning, and as the whole affair is merely a shilling matter I should feel obliged in being permitted to pay the whole, so, landlord, take the shilling and remember you are paid.' I then delivered the shilling to the landlord, but had no sooner done so than the man in grey, starting up in violent agitation, wrested the money from the other, and flung it down on the table before me saying:—

"'No, no, that will never do. I invited you in here to drink, and now you would pay for the liquor which I ordered. You English are free with your money, but you are sometimes free with it at the expense of people's feelings. I am a Welshman, and I know Englishmen consider all Welshmen hogs. But we are not hogs, mind you! for we have little feelings which hogs have not. Moreover, I would have you know that we have money, though perhaps not so much as the Saxon.' Then putting his hand into his pocket he pulled out a shilling, and giving it to the landlord, said in Welsh: 'Now thou art paid, and mayst go thy ways till thou art again called for. I do not know why thou didst stay after thou hadst put down the ale. Thou didst know enough of me to know that thou didst run no risk of not being paid.'

"'But,' said I, after the landlord had departed, 'I must insist on being [? paying] my share. Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to see a poet?'

"'A poet's face,' said the man in grey, 'should be common to all, even like that of the sun. He is no true poet, who would keep his face from the world.'

"'But,' said I, 'the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind a cloud.'

"'Not so,' said the man in grey. 'The sun does not hide his face, it is the cloud that hides it. The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and so is the poet. If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of theirs. Bear that in mind; and now pray take up your money.'

"'That man is a gentleman,' thought I to myself, 'whether poet or not; but I really believe him to be a poet; were he not he could hardly talk in the manner I have just heard him.'

"The man in grey now filled my glass, his own and that of his companion. The latter emptied his in a minute, not forgetting first to say 'the best prydydd in all the world!' The man in grey was also not slow to empty his own. The jug now passed rapidly between my two friends, for the poet seemed determined to have his full share of the beverage. I allowed the ale in my glass to remain untasted, and began to talk about the bards, and to quote from their works. I soon found that the man in grey knew quite as much of the old bards and their works as myself. In one instance he convicted me of a mistake.

"I had quoted those remarkable lines in which an old bard, doubtless seeing the Menai Bridge by means of second sight, says: 'I will pass to the land of Mona notwithstanding the waters of Menai, without waiting for the ebb'—and was feeling not a little proud of my erudition when the man in grey, after looking at me for a moment fixedly, asked me the name of the bard who composed them—'Sion Tudor,' I replied.

"'There you are wrong,' said the man in grey; 'his name was not Sion Tudor, but Robert Vychan, in English, Little Bob. Sion Tudor wrote an englyn on the Skerries whirlpool in the Menai; but it was Little Bob who wrote the stanza in which the future bridge over the Menai is hinted at.'

"'You are right,' said I, 'you are right. Well, I am glad that all song and learning are not dead in Ynis Fon.'

"'Dead,' said the man in grey, whose features began to be rather flushed, 'they are neither dead, nor ever will be. There are plenty of poets in Anglesey. . . .'"

The whole sketch is in Borrow's liberal unqualified style, but keeping on the right side of caricature. The combination of modesty, touchiness and pride, without humour, is typical and happily caught.

The chief fault of his Welsh portraits, in fact, is his almost invariable, and almost always unnecessary, exhibition of his own superiority. He is nearly always the big clever gentleman catechizing certain quaint little rustic foreigners. He met one old man with a crabstick who told him his Welsh was almost as bad as his English, and a drover who had the advantage of him in decided opinions and a sense of superiority, and put him down as a pig-jobber; but these are exceptions. He is not unkind, but on the other hand he forgets that as a rule his size, his purse, and his remarkable appearance and qualities put his casual hosts very much at a disadvantage, and he is thus led to exaggerate what suspiciousness he observed.

His success is all the more wonderful when his position and his almost total lack of condescension and concession are considered, but considered they must be. When he met a Welsh clergyman who could talk about the Welsh language, Huw Morus and ale, he said nothing about him except that he was "a capital specimen of the Welsh country clergyman. His name was Walter Jones." Too often he merely got answers to his questions, which break up his pages in an agreeable manner, but do little more. In such conversations we should fare ill indeed if one of the parties were not Borrow, and even as it is, he can be tedious beyond the limits necessary for truth. I will give an example:

"After a little time I entered into conversation with my guide. He had not a word of English. 'Are you married?' said I.

"'In truth I am, sir.'

"'What family have you?'

"'I have a daughter.'

"'Where do you live?'

"'At the house of the Rhyadr.'

"'I suppose you live there as servant?'

"'No, sir, I live there as master.'

"'Is the good woman I saw there your wife?'

"'In truth, sir, she is.'

"'And the young girl I saw your daughter?'

"'Yes, sir, she is my daughter.'

"'And how came the good woman not to tell me you were her husband?'

"'I suppose, sir, you did not ask who I was, and she thought you did not care to know.' . . ."

To multiply instances might cease to be amusing. It may have been Borrow's right way of getting what he wanted, though it sounds like a Charity Organization inquisitor. As to the effectiveness of setting down every step of the process instead of the result, there can hardly be two opinions, unless the reader prefers an impression of the wandering inquisitive gentleman to one of the people questioned. Probably these barren dialogues may be set down to indolence or to the too facile adoption of a trick. They are too casual and slight to be exact, and on the other hand they are too literal to give a direct impression.

Luckily he diversified such conversation with stories of poets and robbers, gleaned from his books or from wayside company. The best of this company was naturally not the humble homekeeping publican or cottager, but the man or woman of the roads, Gypsy or Irish. The vagabond Irish, for example, give him early in the book an effective contrast to the more quiet Welsh; his guide tells how they gave him a terrible fright:

"I had been across the Berwyn to carry home a piece of weaving work to a person who employs me. It was night as I returned, and when I was about half-way down the hill, at a place which is called Allt Paddy, because the Gwyddelod are in the habit of taking up their quarters there, I came upon a gang of them, who had come there and camped and lighted their fire, whilst I was on the other side of the hill. There were nearly twenty of them, men and women, and amongst the rest was a man standing naked in a tub of water with two women stroking him down with clouts. He was a large fierce-looking fellow, and his body, on which the flame of the fire glittered, was nearly covered with red hair. I never saw such a sight. As I passed they glared at me and talked violently in their Paddy Gwyddel, but did not offer to molest me. I hastened down the hill, and right glad I was when I found myself safe and sound at my house in Llangollen, with my money in my pocket, for I had several shillings there, which the man across the hill had paid me for the work which I had done."

The best man in the book is the Irish fiddler, with a shock of red hair, a hat that had lost part of its crown and all its rim, and a game leg. This Irishman in the early part of the book and the Irishwoman at the end are characters that Borrow could put his own blood into. He has done so in a manner equal to anything in the same kind in his earlier books. I shall quote the whole interview with the man. It is an admirable piece of imagination. If any man thinks it anything else, let him spend ten years in taking down conversations in trains and taverns and ten years in writing them up, and should he have anything as good as this to show, he has a most rare talent:

"'Good morning to you,' said I.

"'A good marning to your hanner, a merry afternoon, and a roaring joyous evening—that is the worst luck I wish to ye.'

"'Are you a native of these parts?' said I.

"'Not exactly, your hanner—I am a native of the city of Dublin, or, what's all the same thing, of the village of Donnybrook which is close by it.'

"'A celebrated place,' said I.

"'Your hanner may say that; all the world has heard of Donnybrook, owing to the humours of its fair. Many is the merry tune I have played to the boys at that fair.'

"'You are a professor of music, I suppose?'

"'And not a very bad one as your hanner will say if you will allow me to play you a tune.'

"'Can you play "Croppies Lie Down"?'

"'I cannot, your hanner; my fingers never learnt to play such a blackguard tune; but if ye wish to hear "Croppies Get Up" I can oblige ye.'

"'You are a Roman Catholic, I suppose?'

"'I am not, your hanner—I am a Catholic to the backbone, just like my father before me. Come, your hanner, shall I play ye "Croppies Get Up"?'

"'No,' said I; 'It's a tune that doesn't please my ears. If, however, you choose to play "Croppies Lie Down," I'll give you a shilling.'

"'Your hanner will give me a shilling?'

"'Yes,' said I, 'if you play "Croppies Lie Down": but you know you cannot play it, your fingers never learned the tune.'

"'They never did, your hanner; but they have heard it played of ould by the blackguard Orange fiddlers of Dublin on the first of July, when the Protestant boys used to walk round Willie's statue on College Green—so if your hanner gives me the shilling they may perhaps bring out something like it.'

"'Very good,' said I; 'begin!'

"'But, your hanner, what shall we do for the words? Though my fingers may remember the tune, my tongue does not remember the words—that is unless . . .'

"'I give another shilling,' said I; 'but never mind you the words; I know the words, and will repeat them.'

"'And your hanner will give me a shilling?'

"'If you play the tune,' said I.

"'Hanner bright, your hanner?'

"'Honour bright,' said I.

"Thereupon the fiddler, taking his bow and shouldering his fiddle, struck up in first-rate style the glorious tune, which I had so often heard with rapture in the days of my boyhood in the barrack yard of Clonmel; whilst I walking by his side as he stumped along, caused the welkin to resound with the words, which were the delight of the young gentlemen of the Protestant academy of that beautiful old town.

"'I never heard those words before,' said the fiddler, after I had finished the first stanza.

"'Get on with you,' said I.

"'Regular Orange words!' said the fiddler, on my finishing the second stanza.

"'Do you choose to get on?' said I.

"'More blackguard Orange words I never heard!' cried the fiddler, on my coming to the conclusion of the third stanza. 'Divil a bit farther will I play; at any rate till I get the shilling.'

"'Here it is for you,' said I; 'the song is ended and of course the tune.'

"'Thank your hanner,' said the fiddler, taking the money, 'your hanner has kept your word with me, which is more than I thought your hanner would. And now, your hanner, let me ask you why did your hanner wish for that tune, which is not only a blackguard one, but quite out of date; and where did your hanner get the words?'

"'I used to hear the tune in my boyish days,' said I, 'and wished to hear it again, for though you call it a blackguard tune, it is the sweetest and most noble air that Ireland, the land of music, has ever produced. As for the words, never mind where I got them; they are violent enough, but not half so violent as the words of some of the songs made against the Irish Protestants by the priests.'

"'Your hanner is an Orange man, I see. Well, your hanner, the Orange is now in the kennel, and the Croppies have it all their own way.'

"'And perhaps,' said I, 'before I die, the Orange will be out of the kennel and the Croppies in, even as they were in my young days.'

"'Who knows, your hanner? and who knows that I may not play the ould tune round Willie's image in College Green, even as I used some twenty-seven years ago?'

"'O then you have been an Orange fiddler?'

"'I have, your hanner. And now as your hanner has behaved like a gentleman to me I will tell ye all my history. I was born in the city of Dublin, that is in the village of Donnybrook, as I tould your hanner before. It was to the trade of bricklaying I was bred, and bricklaying I followed till at last, getting my leg smashed, not by falling off the ladder, but by a row in the fair, I was obliged to give it up, for how could I run up the ladder with a patten on my foot, which they put on to make my broken leg as long as the other. Well, your hanner; being obliged to give up my bricklaying, I took to fiddling, to which I had always a natural inclination, and played about the streets, and at fairs, and wakes, and weddings. At length some Orange men getting acquainted with me, and liking my style of playing, invited me to their lodge, where they gave me to drink, and tould me that if I would change my religion and join them, and play their tunes, they would make it answer my purpose. Well, your hanner, without much stickling I gave up my Popery, joined the Orange lodge, learned the Orange tunes, and became a regular Protestant boy, and truly the Orange men kept their word, and made it answer my purpose. O the meat and drink I got, and the money I made by playing at the Orange lodges and before the processions when the Orange men paraded the streets with their Orange colours. And O, what a day for me was the glorious first of July when with my whole body covered with Orange ribbons I fiddled "Croppies Lie Down"—"Boyne Water," and the "Protestant Boys" before the procession which walked round Willie's figure on horseback in College Green, the man and horse all ablaze with Orange colours. But nothing lasts under the sun, as your hanner knows; Orangeism began to go down; the Government scowled at it, and at last passed a law preventing the Protestant boys dressing up the figure on the first of July, and walking round it. That was the death-blow of the Orange party, your hanner; they never recovered it, but began to despond and dwindle, and I with them, for there was scarcely any demand for Orange tunes. Then Dan O'Connell arose with his emancipation and repale cries, and then instead of Orange processions and walkings, there were Papist processions and mobs, which made me afraid to stir out, lest knowing me for an Orange fiddler, they should break my head, as the boys broke my leg at Donnybrook fair. At length some of the repalers and emancipators knowing that I was a first-rate hand at fiddling came to me, and tould me, that if I would give over playing "Croppies Lie Down" and other Orange tunes, and would play "Croppies Get Up," and what not, and become a Catholic and a repaler, and an emancipator, they would make a man of me—so as my Orange trade was gone, and I was half-starved, I consinted, not however till they had introduced me to Daniel O'Connell, who called me a credit to my country, and the Irish Horpheus, and promised me a sovereign if I would consint to join the cause, as he called it. Well, your hanner, I joined with the cause and became a Papist, I mane a Catholic once more, and went at the head of processions, covered all over with green ribbons, playing "Croppies Get Up," "Granny Whale," and the like. But, your hanner; though I went the whole hog with the repalers and emancipators, they did not make their words good by making a man of me. Scant and sparing were they in the mate and drink, and yet more sparing in the money, and Daniel O'Connell never gave me the sovereign which he promised me. No, your hanner, though I played "Croppies Get Up," till my fingers ached, as I stumped before him and his mobs and processions, he never gave me the sovereign: unlike your hanner who gave me the shilling ye promised me for playing "Croppies Lie Down," Daniel O'Connell never gave me the sovereign he promised me for playing "Croppies Get Up." Och, your hanner, I often wished the ould Orange days were back again. However as I could do no better I continued going the whole hog with the emancipators and repalers and Dan O'Connell; I went the whole animal with them till they had got emancipation; and I went the whole animal with them till they nearly got repale—when all of a sudden they let the whole thing drop—Dan and his party having frighted the Government out of its seven senses, and gotten all they thought they could get, in money and places, which was all they wanted, let the whole hullabaloo drop, and of course myself, who formed part of it. I went to those who had persuaded me to give up my Orange tunes, and to play Papist ones, begging them to give me work; but they tould me very civilly that they had no farther occasion for my services. I went to Daniel O'Connell reminding him of the sovereign he had promised me, and offering if he gave it me to play "Croppies Get Up" under the nose of the lord-lieutenant himself; but he tould me that he had not time to attend to me, and when I persisted, bade me go to the Divil and shake myself. Well, your hanner, seeing no prospect for myself in my own country, and having incurred some little debts, for which I feared to be arrested, I came over to England and Wales, where with little content and satisfaction I have passed seven years.'

"'Well,' said I, 'thank you for your history—farewell.'

"'Stap, your hanner; does your hanner think that the Orange will ever be out of the kennel, and that the Orange boys will ever walk round the brass man and horse in College Green as they did of ould?'

"'Who knows?' said I. 'But suppose all that were to happen, what would it signify to you?'

"'Why then Divil in my patten if I would not go back to Donnybrook and Dublin, hoist the Orange cockade, and become as good an Orange boy as ever.'

"'What,' said I, 'and give up Popery for the second time?'

"'I would, your hanner; and why not? for in spite of what I have heard Father Toban say, I am by no means certain that all Protestants will be damned.'

"'Farewell,' said I.

"'Farewell, your hanner, and long life and prosperity to you! God bless your hanner and your Orange face. Ah, the Orange boys are the boys for keeping faith. They never served me as Dan O'Connell and his dirty gang of repalers and emancipators did. Farewell, your hanner, once more; and here's another scratch of the illigant tune your hanner is so fond of, to cheer up your hanner's ears upon your way.'

"And long after I had left him I could hear him playing on his fiddle in first-rate style the beautiful tune of 'Down, down, Croppies Lie Down.'"



CHAPTER XXX—"WILD WALES" (continued)

Much more than in any of his other books Borrow is the hero in "Wild Wales"—a strange black-coated gentleman with white hair striding over the hills and along the rivers, carrying an umbrella, asking innumerable questions and giving infinite information about history, literature, religion, politics, and minor matters, willing to talk to anyone, but determined not to put up at a trampers' hostelry. The Irish at Chester took him for a minister, the Irish reapers in Anglesey took him for a priest and got him to bless them in Latin while they knelt. All wondered to hear the Saxon speaking or reading in Welsh. A man who could speak Spanish addressed him in that language as a foreigner—"'I can't tell you how it was, sir,' said he, looking me very innocently in the face, 'but I was forced to speak Spanish to you.'" At Pentre Dwr the man with the pigs heard his remarks on pigs and said: "I see you are in the trade and understand a thing or two." The man on the road south to Tregaron told him that he looked and spoke like the Earl of Leicester.

He reveals himself also without recourse to impartial men upon the road. The mere figure of the tall man inquiring for the birthplaces of poets and literally translating place names for their meaning, is very powerful in holding the attention. He does not conceal his opinions. Some were already familiar to readers of Borrow, his admiration for Smollett and for Scott as a writer, his hate of gentility, Cavaliers, Papists, France, sherry, and teetotalism. He had some bad ale in Wales, and he had some Allsopp, which he declared good enough for the summer, and at Bala one of his best Welshmen gave him the best of home-brewed, "rich and mellow, with scarcely any smack of the hop in it, and though so pale and delicate to the eye nearly as strong as brandy." The Chester ale he spirted out of the window after the Chester cheese. To his subjects of admiration he also adds Robert Southey, as "not the least of Britain's four great latter poets, decidedly her best prose writer, and probably the purest and most noble character to which she has ever given birth"; but this was when he was thinking of Madoc, the Welsh discoverer of America. I should be sorry to have to name any of the other "four poets" except Byron. Another literary dictum is that Macpherson's "Ossian" is genuine because a book which followed it and was undoubtedly genuine bore a strong resemblance to it. An opinion that shows as fully as any single one could Borrow's vivid and vague inaccuracy and perversity is this of Snowdon:

"But it is from its connection with romance that Snowdon derives its chief interest. Who when he thinks of Snowdon does not associate it with the heroes of romance, Arthur and his knights? whose fictitious adventures, the splendid dreams of Welsh and Breton minstrels, many of the scenes of which are the valleys and passes of Snowdon, are the origin of romance, before which what is classic has for more than half a century been waning, and is perhaps eventually destined to disappear. Yes, to romance Snowdon is indebted for its interest and consequently for its celebrity; but for romance Snowdon would assuredly not be what it at present is, one of the very celebrated hills of the world, and to the poets of modern Europe almost what Parnassus was to those of old."

Who associates Snowdon with Arthur, and what Arthurian stories have the valleys and passes of Snowdon for their scenes? what "poets of modern Europe" have sung of it? And yet Borrow has probably often carried this point with his reader.

Borrow as a Christian is very conspicuous in this book. He cannot speak of Sir Henry Morgan without calling him "a scourge of God on the cruel Spaniards of the New World. . . . On which account God prospered and favoured him, permitting him to attain the noble age of ninety." He was fond of discovering the hand of God, for example, in changing a nunnery—"a place devoted to gorgeous idolatry and obscene lust"—into a quiet old barn: "Surely," he asks, "the hand of God is visible here?" and the respectful mower answers: "It is so, sir." In the same way, when he has told a man called Dafydd Tibbot, that he is a Frenchman—"Dearie me, sir, am I indeed?" says the man, very pleased—he supposes the man a descendant of a proud, cruel, violent Norman, for the descendants of proud, cruel and violent men "are doomed by God to come to the dogs." He tells us that he comforted himself, after thinking that his wife and daughter and himself would before long be dead, by the reflection that "such is the will of Heaven, and that Heaven is good." He showed his respect for Sunday by going to church and hesitating to go to Plynlimmon—"It is really not good to travel on the Sunday without going into a place of worship." He wished, as he passed Gwynfe, which means Paradise,—or Gwynfa does; but no matter,—that he had never read Tom Payne, who "thinks there's not such a place as Paradise." He lectures a poet's mistress for not staying with her hunchbacked old husband and making him comfortable: he expresses satisfaction at the poet's late repentance. After praising Dafydd as the Welsh Ovid and Horace and Martial, he says:

"Finally, he was something more; he was what not one of the great Latin poets was, a Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the vanity of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung, his hair to fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank with—we were going to say Caedmon—had we done so we should have done wrong; no uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand Saxon Skald—but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet, inferior to none but the protege of Hilda."

(Here, by the way, he omits to correct the plural unity of the "Quarterly Reviewer.")

But perhaps these remarks are not more than the glib commonplaces of a man who had found Christianity convenient, but not exactly sufficient. In another place he says: "The wisest course evidently is to combine a portion of the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something more, to enjoy one's pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death and judgment—that is what I intend to do, and indeed is what I have done for the last thirty years." Which is as much as to say that he was of "the religion of all sensible men": which is as much as to say that he did not greatly trouble about such matters.

In the cognate matter of patriotism Borrow is superficially more unsound in "Wild Wales." At Birmingham railway station he "became a modern Englishman, enthusiastically proud of modern England's science and energy"; at the sight of Norman castles he felt no Norman enthusiasm, but only hate for the Norman name, which he associated with "the deflowering of helpless Englishwomen, the plundering of English homesteads, and the tearing out of Englishmen's eyes"; but when he was asked on Snowdon if he was a Breton, he replied: "I wish I was, or anything but what I am, one of a nation amongst whom any knowledge save what relates to money-making and over-reaching is looked upon as a disgrace. I am ashamed to say that I am an Englishman." And at Gutter Fawr he gloomily expressed the opinion that we were not going to beat the Russians—"the Russians are a young nation and we are an old; they are coming on and we are going off; every dog has its day." But this was mere refractoriness. England had not asked his advice; she had moreover joined forces with her old enemy, France: the patriot therefore hoped that she would perish to fulfil his own prophecy that she must. And after the vaticination he sat down to a large dish of veal cutlets, fried bacon and potatoes, with a jug of ale, and "made one of the best suppers he ever made in his life," finally "trifling" with some whisky and water. That is "the religion of every sensible man," which is Lord Tennyson's phrase, I believe, but my interpretation.



CHAPTER XXXI—"WILD WALES": STYLE

"Wild Wales" having been written from a tourist's note books is less flowing than "The Bible in Spain" and less delicate than "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." A man is often called an "individual," the sun is called "the candle of God." A book just bought is "my late literary acquisition." Facts such as "I returned to Llangollen by nearly the same way by which I had come," abound. Sentences straight from his note book, lacking either in subject or predicate, occur here and there. At times a clause with no sort of value is admitted, as when, forgetting the name of Kilvey Hill, he says that Swansea town and harbour "are overhung on the side of the east by a lofty green mountain with a Welsh name, no doubt exceedingly appropriate, but which I regret to say has escaped my memory."

{picture: The Dolaucothy Arms. Photo: A. & G. Taylor, Swansea: page302.jpg}

More than once his direct simplicity slips into what could hardly have been supposed to be within the power of such a pen, as in this conclusion to a chapter:

"How one enjoys one's supper at one's inn, after a good day's walk, provided one has the proud and glorious consciousness of being able to pay one's reckoning on the morrow!"

Nor is the reader ever allowed to forget that a massive unfeeling Victorianism is the basis of Borrow's style. Thus he tells the story of the Treachery of the Long Knives:

"Hengist, wishing to become paramount in Southern Britain, thought that the easiest way to accomplish his wish would be by destroying the South British chieftains. Not believing that he should be able to make away with them by open force, he determined to see what he could do by treachery. Accordingly he invited the chieftains to a banquet, to be held near Stonehenge, or the Hanging Stones, on Salisbury Plain. The unsuspecting chieftains accepted the invitation, and on the appointed day repaired to the banquet, which was held in a huge tent. Hengist received them with a smiling countenance, and every appearance of hospitality, and caused them to sit down to table, placing by the side of every Briton one of his own people. The banquet commenced and all seemingly was mirth and hilarity. Now Hengist had commanded his people that, when he should get up and cry 'nemet eoure saxes,' that is, take your knives, each Saxon should draw his long sax, or knife, which he wore at his side, and should plunge it into the throat of his neighbour. The banquet went on, and in the midst of it, when the unsuspecting Britons were revelling on the good cheer which had been provided for them, and half-drunken with the mead and beer which flowed in torrents, uprose Hengist, and with a voice of thunder uttered the fatal words, 'nemet eoure saxes'; the cry was obeyed, each Saxon grasped his knife, and struck with it at the throat of his defenceless neighbour. Almost every blow took effect; only three British chieftains escaping from the banquet of blood. This infernal carnage the Welsh have appropriately denominated the treachery of the long knives. It will be as well to observe that the Saxons derived their name from the saxes, or long knives, which they wore at their sides, and at the use of which they were terribly proficient."

Even so, Borrow's personal vitality triumphs, as it does over his many mistakes, such as Lledach for Clydach, in Welsh orthography. There is perhaps hardly such a thing as prose which shall be accounted perfect by every different age: but what is most important of all, the harmony of style which gradually steals upon the reader and subjects him to incalculable minor effects, is not the property of any one age, but of every age; and Victorian prose in general, and Borrow's in particular, attains it. "Wild Wales" is rough in grain; it can be long-winded, slovenly and dull: but it can also be read; and if the whole, or any large portion, be read continuously it will give a lively and true impression of a beautiful, diverse country, of a distinctive people, and of a number of vivid men and women, including Borrow himself. It is less rich than "The Bible in Spain," less atmospheric than "Lavengro." It is Borrow's for reasons which lie open to the view, not on account of any hidden pervasive quality. Thus what exaggeration there is may easily be seen, as when a fallow deer is described as equal to a bull in size, or when carn-lleidyr is said to be one "who, being without house and home, was more desperate than other thieves, and as savage and brutish as the wolves and foxes with whom he occasionally shared his pillow, the earn." As a rule he keeps us upon an everyday normal plane. The bard of Anglesey and the man who attends upon him come through no ivory gate:

"They saluted me; I returned their salutation, and then we all three stood still looking at one another. One of the men was rather a tall figure, about forty, dressed in grey, or pepper-and-salt, with a cap of some kind on his head, his face was long and rather good-looking, though slightly pock-broken. There was a peculiar gravity upon it. The other person was somewhat about sixty—he was much shorter than his companion, and much worse dressed—he wore a hat that had several holes in it, a dusty, rusty black coat, much too large for him; ragged yellow velveteen breeches, indifferent fustian gaiters, and shoes, cobbled here and there, one of which had rather an ugly bulge by the side near the toes. His mouth was exceedingly wide, and his nose remarkably long; its extremity of a deep purple; upon his features was a half-simple smile or leer; in his hand was a long stick."

{picture: Dolaucothy House. (From a photograph by Lady Pretyman, by whose kind permission it is reproduced.): page305.jpg}

My last example shall be the house of Dolau Cothi, near Pumpsaint, in Caermarthenshire:

"After breakfast I departed for Llandovery. Presently I came to a lodge on the left-hand beside an ornamental gate at the bottom of an avenue leading seemingly to a gentleman's seat. On inquiring of a woman who sat at the door of the lodge to whom the grounds belonged, she said to Mr. Johnes, and that if I pleased I was welcome to see them. I went in and advanced along the avenue, which consisted of very noble oaks; on the right was a vale in which a beautiful brook was running north and south. Beyond the vale to the east were fine wooded hills. I thought I had never seen a more pleasing locality, though I saw it to great disadvantage, the day being dull, and the season the latter fall. Presently, on the avenue making a slight turn, I saw the house, a plain but comfortable gentleman's seat with wings. It looked to the south down the dale. 'With what satisfaction I could live in that house,' said I to myself, 'if backed by a couple of thousands a-year. With what gravity could I sign a warrant in its library, and with what dreamy comfort translate an ode of Lewis Glyn Cothi, my tankard of rich ale beside me. I wonder whether the proprietor is fond of the old bard and keeps good ale. Were I an Irishman instead of a Norfolk man I would go in and ask him.'"

To the merit of this the whole book, perhaps the whole of Borrow's work, contributes. Simple-looking tranquil successes of this kind are the privilege of a master, and when they occur they proclaim the master with a voice which, though gentle, will find but few confessing to be deaf to it. They are not frequent in "Wild Wales." Borrow had set himself too difficult a task to succeed altogether with his methods and at his age. Wales was not unknown land; De Quincey, Shelley, and Peacock, had been there in his own time; and Borrow had not sufficient impulse or opportunity to transfigure it as he had done Spain; nor had he the time behind him, if he had the power still, to treat it as he had done the country of his youth in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye."



CHAPTER XXXII—"ROMANO LAVO-LIL"

Ambition, with a little revenge, helped to impel Borrow to write "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." Some of this ambition was left over for "Wild Wales," which he began and finished before the publication of "The Romany Rye." There was little of any impulse left for the writing of books after "Wild Wales." In 1862 and 1863 he published in "Once a Week" some translations in prose and verse, from Manx, Russian, Danish and Norse—one poem, on Harald Harfagr, being illustrated by Frederick Sandys. He never published the two-volume books, advertised as "ready for the press" in 1857, "Celtic Bards, Chiefs, and Kings," "Kaempe Viser . . . translated from the Ancient Danish," "Northern Skalds, Kings and Earls."

Borrow was living in Hereford Square, seeing many people, occasionally dining well, walking out into the suburban country, and visiting the Gypsy camps in London. He made notes of his observations and conversations, which, says Knapp, "are not particularly edifying," whatever that may mean. Knapp gives one example from the manuscript, describing the race at Brompton, on October 14, 1861, between Deerfoot, the Seneca Indian, and Jackson, the "American Deer." Borrow also wrote for the "Antiquities of the Royal School of Norwich," an autobiography too long for insertion. This survived to be captured and printed by Knapp. It is very inaccurate, but it serves to corroborate parts of "Lavengro," and its inaccuracy, though now transparent, is characteristically exaggerated or picturesque.

Borrow's scattered notes would perhaps never have been published in his lifetime, but for an accident. In 1870 Charles Godfrey Leland, author of "Hans Breitmann," introduced himself to Borrow as one who had read "The Zincali," "Lavengro," and "The Romany Rye," five times. Borrow answered that he would be pleased to see him at any time. They met and Leland sent Borrow his "Breitmann Ballads" because of the German Romany ballad in it, and his "Music Lesson of Confucius" because of the poem in it inspired by Borrow's reference to Svend Vonved in "The Romany Rye." Leland confessed in a genial familiar way what "an incredible influence" Borrow's books had had on him, and thanked him for the "instructions in 'The Romany Rye' as to taking care of a horse on a thirty-mile ride." Borrow became jealous of this American "Romany Rye." Leland, suspecting nothing, wrote offering him the dedication of his "English Gypsies." John Murray assured Leland that Borrow received this letter, but it was never acknowledged except by the speedy announcement of a new book—"Romano Lavo-Lil: a word book of the Romany or English Gypsy Language, by George Borrow, with specimens of Gypsy poetry, and an account of certain Gypsyries or places inhabited by them, and of various things relating to Gypsy life in England." Leland speaks of the affair in "The Gypsies," saying that he had nothing but pleasant memories of the good old Romany Rye:

"A grand old fellow he was—a fresh and hearty giant, holding his six- feet-two or three inches as uprightly at eighty as he ever had at eighteen. I believe that was his age, but may be wrong. Borrow was like one of the old Norse heroes, whom he so much admired, or an old-fashioned Gypsy bruiser, full of craft and merry tricks. One of these he played on me, and I bear him no malice for it. The manner of the joke was this: I had written a book on the English Gypsies and their language; but before I announced it, I wrote a letter to Father George, telling him that I proposed to print it, and asking his permission to dedicate it to him. He did not answer the letter, but 'worked the tip' promptly enough, for he immediately announced in the newspapers on the following Monday his 'Word- book of the Romany Language,' 'with many pieces in Gypsy, illustrative of the way of speaking and thinking of the English Gypsies, with specimens of their poetry, and an account of various things relating to Gypsy life in England.' This was exactly what I had told him that my book would contain. . . . I had no ill-feeling about it.

"My obligations to him for 'Lavengro' and 'The Romany Rye' and his other works are such as I owe to few men. I have enjoyed Gypsying more than any other sport in the world, and I owe my love of it to George Borrow."

"The English Gypsies" appeared in 1873, and the "Romano Lavo-Lil" in 1874.

"Romano Lavo-Lil" contains a note on the English Gypsy language, a word- book, some Gypsy songs and anecdotes with English translations, a list of Gypsy names of English counties and towns, and accounts of several visits to Gypsy camps in London and the country. It was hastily put together, and the word-book, for example, did not include all the Romany used in "Lavengro" and "The Romany Rye." There were now critics capable of discovering other shortcomings.

Borrow's book was reviewed along with Leland's "English Gypsies" and Dr. Miklosich's "Dialects and Migrations of the Gypsies in Europe," and he was attacked for his derivations, his ignorance of philology and of other writers on his subject, his sketchy knowledge of languages, his interference with the purity of the idiom in his Romany specimens. His Gypsy songs were found interesting, his translations, of course, bad. The final opinion of the book as a book on the Gypsy language was: {310}

"Whether or not Mr. Borrow has in the course of his long experience become the deep Gypsy which he has always been supposed to be, we cannot say; but it is certain that his present book contains little more than he gave to the public forty years ago, and does not by any means represent the present state of knowledge on the subject. But at the present day, when comparative philology has made such strides, and when want of accurate scholarship is as little tolerated in strange and remote languages as in classical literature, the 'Romano Lavo-Lil' is, to speak mildly, an anachronism."

Nor, apart from the word-book and Gypsy specimens, is the book a good example of Borrow's writing. The accounts of visits to Gypsies at Kirk Yetholm, Wandsworth, Pottery Lane (Notting Hill), and Friar's Mount (Shore-ditch), are interesting as much for what they tell us of Borrow's recreations in London as for anything else. The portrait of the "dark, mysterious, beautiful, terrible" Mrs. Cooper, the story of Clara Bosvil, the life of Ryley Bosvil—"a thorough Gypsy, versed in all the arts of the old race, had two wives, never went to church, and considered that when a man died he was cast into the earth, and there was an end of him"—and his death and burial ceremony, and some of Borrow's own opinions, for example, in favour of Pontius Pilate and George IV.—these are simple and vigorous in the old style. They show that with a sufficient impulse he could have written another book at least equal to "Wild Wales." But these uneven fragments were not worthy of the living man. They were the sort of thing that his friends might have been expected to gather up after he was dead. Scraps like this from "Wisdom of the Egyptians," are well enough:

"'My father, why were worms made?' 'My son, that moles might live by eating them.' 'My father, why were moles made?' 'My son, that you and I might live by catching them.' 'My father, why were you and I made?' 'My son, that worms might live by eating us.'"

Related to Borrow, and to a living Gypsy, by Borrow's pen, how much better! It is a book that can be browsed on again and again, but hardly ever without this thought. It was the result of ambition, and might have been equal to its predecessors, but competition destroyed the impulse of ambition and spoilt the book.

"Romano Lavo-Lil" was his last book. For posthumous publication he left only "The Turkish Jester; or, The Pleasantries of Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, translated from the Turkish by G. B." (Ipswich, 1884). This was a string of the sayings and adventures of one Cogia, in this style: "One day Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi said: 'O Mussulmen, give thanks to God Most High that He did not give the camel wings; for had He given them, they would have perched upon your houses and chimneys, and have caused them to tumble down upon your heads.'" This may have been the translation from the Turkish that Fitzgerald read in 1857 and could not admire. It is a diverting book and illustrates Borrow's taste.



CHAPTER XXXIII—LAST YEARS

From 1860 to 1874 Borrow lived at Brompton, and perhaps because he wrote few letters these years seem to have been more cheerful, except at the time of his wife's death. He is seen at "The Star and Garter" in 1861 entertaining Murray and two others at dinner, in a heavy and expensive style. He is still an uncomfortable, unattractive figure in a drawing- room, especially with accurate and intelligent ladies, like Miss Frances Power Cobbe, who would not humour his inaccurate dictatorship. Miss Cobbe was his neighbour in Hereford Square. She says that if he was not a Gypsy by blood he ought to have been one; she "never liked him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite," but nevertheless invited him to her house and tried to console him in his bereavement by a gentle tact which was not tact in Borrow's case:

"Poor old Borrow is in a sad state. I hope he is starting in a day or two for Scotland. I sent C—- with a note begging him to come and eat the Welsh mutton you sent me to-day, and he sent back word, 'Yes.' Then, an hour afterwards, he arrived, and in a most agitated manner said he had come to say 'he would rather not. He would not trouble anyone with his sorrows.' I made him sit down, and talked to him as gently as possible, saying: 'It won't be a trouble, Mr. Borrow, it will be a pleasure to me.' But it was all of no use. He was so cross, so rude, I had the greatest difficulty in talking to him. I asked him would he look at the photos of the Siamese, and he said: 'Don't show them to me!' So, in despair, as he sat silent, I told him I had been at a pleasant dinner-party the night before, and had met Mr. L—-, who told me of certain curious books of mediaeval history. 'Did he know them?' 'No, and he dared say Mr. L—- did not, either! Who was Mr. L—-?' I described that obscure individual (one of the foremost writers of the day), and added that he was immensely liked by everybody. Whereupon Borrow repeated at least twelve times, 'Immensely liked! As if a man could be immensely liked!' quite insultingly. To make a diversion (I was very patient with him as he was in trouble) I said I had just come home from the Lyell's and had heard . . . But there was no time to say what I had heard! Mr. Borrow asked: 'Is that old Lyle I met here once, the man who stands at the door (of some den or other) and bets?' I explained who Sir Charles was (of course he knew very well), but he went on and on, till I said gravely: 'I don't think you meet those sort of people here, Mr. Borrow—we don't associate with Blacklegs, exactly.'"

A cantankerous man, and as little fitted for Miss Cobbe as Miss Cobbe for him.

{picture: Francis Power Cobbe. (Reproduced by kind permission of Messrs. Miller, Taylor and Holmes.): page313.jpg}

There is not one pleasant story of Borrow in a drawing-room. His great and stately stature, his bright "very black" or "soft brown" eyes, thick white hair, and smooth oval face, his "loud rich voice" that could be menacing with nervousness when he was roused, his "bold heroic air," {313} ever encased in black raiment to complete the likeness to a "colossal clergyman," never seemed to go with any kind of furniture, wall- paper, or indoor company where there were strangers who might pester him. His physical vigour endured, though when nearing sixty he is said to have lamented that he was childless, saying mournfully: "I shall soon not be able to knock a man down, and I have no son to do it for me." {314a} No record remains of his knocking any man down. But, at seventy, he could have walked off with E. J. Trelawny, Shelley's friend, under his arm, and was not averse to putting up his "dukes" to a tramp if necessary. {314b} At Ascot in 1872 he intervened when two or three hundred soldiers from Windsor were going to wreck a Gypsy camp for some affront. Amid the cursing and screaming and brandishing of belts and tent-rods appeared "an arbiter, a white-haired brown-eyed calm Colossus, speaking Romany fluently, and drinking deep draughts of ale—in a quarter of an hour Tommy Atkins and Anselo Stanley were sworn friends over a loving quart." {314c} But this is told by Hindes Groome, who said in one place that he met Borrow once, and in another three times. At seventy, he would breakfast at eight in Hereford Square, walk to Roehampton and pick up Mr. Watts-Dunton or Mr. Hake, roam about Wimbledon Common and Richmond Park, bathe in the Pen Ponds even if it were March and there were ice on the water, then run about to dry, and after fasting for twelve hours would eat a dinner at Roehampton "that would have done Sir Walter Scott's eyes good to see." {314d} He loved Richmond Park, and "seemed to know every tree." {314e} He loved also "The Bald-faced Stag," in Roehampton Valley, and over his pot of ale would talk about Jerry Abershaw, the highwayman, and his deeds performed in the neighbourhood. {314f} If he liked old Burton and '37 port he was willing to drink the worst swipes if necessary. {314g}

At another "Bald-faced Hind," above Fairlop, he used to see the Gypsies, for it was their trysting place. He went in search of them in Wandsworth and Battersea and whereever they were to be found, from Notting Hill to Epsom Downs, though they were corrupted by loss of liberty and, in his opinion, were destined soon to disappear, "merged in the dregs of the English population." With them, as with others, his vocabulary was "rich in picturesque words of the high road and dingle." Once he consented to join a friend in trying Matthew Arnold's "Scholar Gypsy" on Gypsy taste. The Gypsy girl was pleased with the seventeenth-century story on which the poem is based, and with some "lovely bits of description," but she was in the main at first bewildered, and at last unsympathetic and ran away. The beauty of the girl was too much for Borrow's power of expression—it was "really quite—quite—." The girl's companion, a young woman with a child, was smoking a pipe, and Borrow took it out of her mouth and asked her not to smoke till he came again, because the child was sickly and his friend put it down to the tobacco. "It ought to be a criminal offence for a woman to smoke at all," said Borrow; "fancy kissing a woman's mouth that smelt of stale tobacco—pheugh!" {315} Whether this proves Borrow's susceptibility to female charm I cannot say, but it seems to me rather to prove a sort of connoisseurship, which is not the same thing.