On this very day, in his account, he first met the “fiery, enthusiastic and open-hearted,” pleasure-loving young Irishman, whom he calls Francis Ardry, who took him to the theatre and to “the strange and eccentric places of London,” and no doubt helped to give him the feeling of “a regular Arabian Nights’ entertainment.” C. G. Leland [{87}] tells a story told to him by one who might have been the original of Ardry. The story is the only independent
evidence of Borrow’s London life. This “old gentleman” had been in youth for a long time the most intimate friend of George Borrow, who was, he said, a very wild and eccentric youth. “One night, when skylarking about London, Borrow was pursued by the police, as he wished to be, even as Panurge so planned as to be chased by the night-watch. He was very tall and strong in those days, a trained shoulder-hitter, and could run like a deer. He was hunted to the Thames, and there they thought they had him. But the Romany Rye made for the edge, and leaping into the wan water, like the Squyre in the old ballad, swam to the other side, and escaped.”
It is no wonder he “did not like reviewing at all,” especially as he “never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require no killing.” He forgot “The Dairyman’s Daughter,” and he could not foresee the early fate of “Lavengro” itself. He preferred manlier crime and riskier deception to reviewing. As he read over the tales of rogues, he says, he became again what he had been as a boy, a necessitarian, and could not “imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets.”
These were the days of such books as “The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Samuel Denmore Hayward, denominated the Modern Macheath, who suffered at the Old Bailey, on Tuesday, November 27, 1821, for the Crime of Burglary,” by Pierce Egan, embellished with a highly-finished miniature by Mr. Smart, etched by T. R. Cruikshank; and a facsimile of his handwriting. London, 1822.”
It is a poor book, and now has descendants lower in the
social scale. It pretends to give “a most awful but useful lesson to the rising generation” by an account of the criminal whose appearance as a boy “was so superior to other boys of his class in life as to have the look of a gentleman’s child.” He naturally became a waiter, and “though the situation did not exactly accord with his ambition, it answered his purpose, because it afforded him an opportunity of studying character, and being in the company of gentlemen.” He was “a generous high-minded fellow towards the ladies,” and became the fancy man of someone else’s mistress, living “in the style of a gentleman solely at the expense of the beautiful Miss ---.” His “unembarrassed and gentlemanly” behaviour survived even while he was being searched, and he entered the chapel before execution “with a firm step, accompanied with the most gentlemanly deportment.” The end came nevertheless: “Bowing to the sheriffs and the few persons around him with all the manners of an accomplished gentleman, he ascended the drop with a firmness that astonished everyone present; and resigned his eventful life without scarce a struggle.”
The moral was the obvious one. “His talents were his misfortunes.” The biographer pretends to believe that, though the fellow lived in luxury, he must always have had a harassed mind; the truth being that he himself would have had a harassed mind if he had played so distinguished a part. “The chequered life of that young man,” he says, “abounding with incidents and facts almost incredible, and scarcely ever before practised with so much art and delusion in so short a period, impressively points out the danger arising from the possession of great talents when perverted or misapplied.”
He points out, furthermore, how vice sinks before virtue. “For instance, view the countenances of thieves, who are regaling themselves on the most expensive liquors, laughing
and singing, how they are changed in an instant by the appearance of police officers entering a room in search of them. . . .”
Finally, “let the youth of London bear in mind that honesty is the best policy. . . .