Mr. John Pilgrim lived at Brunswick House, on the Newmarket Road, Norwich, and here Borrow frequently visited him. Mr. Baldrey recalls one particular visit:
A LETTER FROM BORROW TO HIS WIFE WRITTEN FROM ROME IN HIS CONTINENTAL JOURNEY OF 1844
I have a curious recollection of his dining one night at Brunswick House. John Pilgrim, who was a careful, abstemious man, never took more than two glasses of port at dinner. 'John,' said Borrow, 'this is a good port. I prefer Burgundy if you can get it good; but, lord, you cannot get it now.' It so happened that Mr. Pilgrim had some fine old Clos-Vougeot in the cellar. 'I think,' said he, 'I can give you a good drop of Burgundy.' A bottle was sent for, and Borrow finished it, alone and unaided. 'Well,' he remarked, 'I think this is a good Burgundy. But I'm not quite certain. I should like to try a little more.' Another bottle was called up, and the guest finished it to the last drop. I am still,' he said, 'not quite sure about it, but I shall know in the morning.' The next morning Mr. Pilgrim and I were leaving for the office, when Borrow came up the garden path waving his arms like a windmill. 'Oh, John,' he said, 'that was Burgundy! When I woke up this morning it was coursing through my veins like fire.' And yet Borrow was not a man to drink to excess. I cannot imagine him being the worse for liquor. He had wonderful health and digestion. Neither a gourmand nor a gourmet, he could take down anything, and be none the worse for it. I don't think you could have made him drunk if you tried.
And here is a glimpse of Borrow after his wife's death, for which we are grateful to Mr. Baldrey:
After the funeral of Mrs. Borrow he came to Norwich and took me over to Oulton with him. He was silent all the way. When we got to the little white wicket gate before the approach to the house he took off his hat and began to beat his breast like an Oriental. He cried aloud all the way up the path. He calmed himself, however, by the time that Mr. Crabbe had opened the door and asked us in. Crabbe brought in some wine, and we all sat down to table. I sat opposite to Mrs. Crabbe; her husband was on my left hand. Borrow sat at one end of the table, and the chair at the opposite end was left vacant. We were talking in a casual way when Borrow, pointing to the empty chair, said with profound emotion, 'There! It was there that I first saw her.' It was a curious coincidence that though there were four of us we should have left that particular seat unoccupied at a little table of about four feet square.[257]
But this is a lengthy digression from the story of Henrietta Clarke, who married William MacOubrey, an Irishman—and an Orangeman—from Belfast in 1865. The pair lived first in Belfast and afterwards at 80 Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square. Before his marriage he had practised at 134 Sloane Street, London. MacOubrey, although there has been some doubt cast upon the statement, was a Doctor of Medicine of Trinity College, Dublin, and a Barrister-at-Law. Within his limitations he was an accomplished man, and before me lie not only documentary evidence of his M.D. and his legal status, but several printed pamphlets that bear his name.[258] What is of more importance, the letters from and to his wife that have through my hands and have been consigned to the flames prove that husband and wife lived on most affectionate terms.
It is natural that Borrow's correspondence with his stepdaughter should have been of a somewhat private character, and I therefore publish only a selection from his letters to her, believing however that they modify an existing tradition very considerably: