Dear Mrs Borrow,—The MS. of Wild Wales has occupied my thoughts almost ever since Friday last.
I approached this MS. with some diffidence, recollecting the unsatisfactory results, on the whole, of our last publication—Romany Rye. I have read a large part of this new work with care and attention, and although it is beautifully written and in a style of English undefiled, which few writers can surpass, there is yet a want of stirring incident in it which makes me fearful as to the result of its publication.
In my hands at least I cannot think it would succeed even as well as Romany Rye—and I am fearful of not doing justice to it. I do not like to undertake a work with the chance of reproach that it may have failed through my want of power to promote its circulation, and I do wish, for Borrow’s own sake, that in this instance he would try some other publisher and perhaps some other form of publication.
In my hands I am convinced the work will not answer the author’s expectations, and I am not prepared to take on me this amount of responsibility.
I will give the best advice I can if called upon, and shall be only too glad if I can be useful to Mr Borrow. I regret to have to write in this sense, but believe me always, Dear Mrs Borrow,
Your faithful friend,
John Murray.
The reply to this letter has not been preserved. It would appear that some “stirring incidents” were added, among others most probably the account of Borrow blessing the Irish reapers, who mistook him for Father Toban. This anecdote was one of John Murray’s favourite passages. It is evident that some concession was made to induce Murray to change his mind. In any case Wild Wales appeared towards the close of 1862 in an edition of 1000 copies. The publisher’s misgivings were not justified, as the first edition produced a profit, up to 30th June 1863, of £531, 14s., which was equally divided between author and publisher. The second, and cheap, edition of 3000 copies lasted for thirteen years, and the deficiency on this absorbed the greater part of the publisher’s profit.
In a way it is the most remarkable of Borrow’s books; for it shows that he was making a serious effort to regain his public. It is an older, wiser and chastened Borrow that appears in its pages, striding through the land of the bards at six miles an hour, his satchel slung over his shoulder, his green umbrella grasped in his right hand, shouting the songs of Wales, about which he knew more than any man he met. There are no gypsies (except towards the end of the book a reference to his meeting with Captain Bosvile), no bruisers, the pope is scarcely mentioned, and “gentility-nonsense” is veiled almost to the point of elimination. It seems scarcely conceivable that the hand that had written the appendix to The Romany Rye could have so restrained itself as to write Wild Wales. Borrow had evidently read and carefully digested Whitwell Elwin’s friendly strictures upon The Romany Rye. Instead of the pope, the gypsies and the bruisers of England, there were the vicarage cat, the bards and the thousand and one trivial incidents of the wayside. There were occasional gleams of the old fighting spirit, notably when he characterises sherry, [453] as “a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by nature, into a race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters,—in fact, into what Englishmen are at the present day.” He has created the atmosphere of Wales as he did that of the gypsy encampment. He shows the jealous way in which the Welsh cling to their language, and their suspicion of the Saesneg, or Saxon. Above all, he shows how national are the Welsh poets, belonging not to the cultured few; but to the labouring man as much as to the landed proprietor. Borrow earned the respect of the people, not only because he knew their language; but on account of his profound knowledge of their literature, their history, and their traditions. No one could escape him, he accosted every soul he met, and evinced a desire for information as to place-names that instantly arrested their attention.
The most curious thing about Wild Wales is the omission of all mention of the Welsh Gypsies, who, with those of Hungary, share the distinction of being the aristocrats of their race. Several explanations have been suggested to account for the curious circumstance. Had Borrow’s knowledge of Welsh Romany been scanty, he could very soon have improved it. The presence of his wife and stepdaughter was no hindrance; for, as a matter of fact, they were very little with him, even when they and Borrow were staying at Llangollen; but during the long tours they were many miles away. In all probability the Welsh Gypsies were sacrificed to British prejudice, much as were pugilism and the baiting of the pope.
In spite of its simple charm and convincing atmosphere, Wild Wales did not please the critics. Those who noticed it (and there were many who did not) either questioned its genuineness, or found it crowded with triviality and self-glorification. It was full of the superfluous, the superfluous repeated, and above all it was too long (some 250,000 words). The Spectator notice was an exception; it did credit to the critical faculty of the man who wrote it. He declined “to boggle and wrangle over minor defects in what is intrinsically good,” and praised Wild Wales as “the first really clever book . . . in which an honest attempt is made to do justice to Welsh literature.”
Borrow had much time upon his hands in London, which he occupied largely in walking. He visited the Metropolitan Gypsyries at Wandsworth, “the Potteries,” and “the Mounts,” as described in Romano Lavo-Lil. Sometimes he would be present at some sporting event, such as the race between the Indian Deerfoot and Jackson, styled the American Deer—tame sport in comparison with the “mills” of his boyhood. He did very little writing, and from 1862, when Wild Wales appeared, until he published The Romano Lavo-Lil in 1874, his literary output consisted of only some translations contributed to Once a Week (January 1862 to December 1863).
In 1865 he was to lose his stepdaughter, who married a William MacOubrey, M.D., described in the marriage register as a physician of Sloane Street, London, and subsequently upon his tombstone as a barrister. In the July of 1866 Borrow and his wife went to Belfast on a visit to the newly married pair. From Belfast Borrow took another trip into Scotland, crossing over to Stranraer. From there he proceeded to Glen Luce and subsequently to Newton Stewart, Castle Douglas, Dumfries, Ecclefechan, Gretna Green, Carlisle, Langholm, Hawick, Jedburgh, Yetholm (where he saw Esther Blyth of Kirk Yetholm), Kelso, Abbotsford, Melrose, Berwick, Edinburgh, Glasgow, and so back to Belfast, having been absent for nearly four weeks.
Mrs Borrow’s health had been the cause of the family leaving Oulton for Great Yarmouth, and about the time of the Irish visit it seems to have become worse. When Borrow was away upon his excursion he received a letter at Carlisle in which his wife informed him that she was not so well; but urging him not to return if he were enjoying his trip and it were benefiting his health.
In the autumn of the following year (1867) they were at Bognor, Mrs Borrow taking the sea air, her husband tramping about the country and penetrating into the New Forest. On their return to town Mrs Borrow appears to have become worse. There was much correspondence to be attended to with regard to the Oulton Estate, and she had to go down to Suffolk to give her personal attention to certain important details. Miss Cobbe throws a little light on the period in a letter to a friend, in which she says:
“Mr Borrow says his wife is very ill and anxious to keep the peace with C. (a litigious neighbour). Poor old B. was very sad at first, but I cheered him up and sent him off quite brisk last night. He talked all about the Fathers again, arguing that their quotations went to prove that it was not our gospels they had in their hands. I knew most of it before, but it was admirably done. I talked a little theology to him in a serious way (finding him talk of his ‘horrors’) and he abounded in my sense of the non-existence of Hell, and of the presence and action on the soul of a Spirit, rewarding and punishing. He would not say ‘God’; but repeated over and over again that he spoke not from books but from his own personal experience.” [456]