The Life of George Borrow

by Herbert George Jenkins

In a fragment of a letter from Edward FitzGerald to W. B. Donne (June 1874), there is an interesting reference to Borrow:—

“Wait!” he writes. “I have one little thing to tell you, which, little as it is, is worth all the rest, if you don’t know already.

“Borrow—has got back to his own Oulton Lodge. My Nephew, Edmund Kerrich, now Adjutant to some Volunteer Battalion, wants a house near, not in, Lowestoft: and got some Agent to apply for Borrow’s—who sent word that he is himself there—an old Man—wanting Retirement, etc. This was the account Edmund got.

“I saw in some Athenæum a somewhat contemptuous notice of G. B.’s ‘Rommany Lil’ or whatever the name is. I can easily understand that B. should not meddle with science of any sort; but some years ago he would not have liked to be told so, however Old Age may have cooled him now.” [467]

Borrow sent a message to FitzGerald through Edmund Kerrich of Geldeston, asking him to visit Oulton Cottage. The reply shows all the sweetness of the writer’s nature:—

Little Grange, Woodbridge,
Jan. 10/75.

Dear Borrow,—My nephew Kerrich told me of a very kind invitation that you sent to me, through him, some while ago. I think the more of it because I imagine, from what I have heard, that you have slunk away from human company as much—as I have! For the last fifteen years I have not visited any one of my very oldest friends, except the daughters of my old [?friend] George Crabbe, and Donne—once only, and for half a day, just to assure myself by—my own eyes how he was after the severe illness he had last year, and which he never will quite recover from, I think; though he looked and moved better than I expected.

Well—to tell you all about why I have thus fallen from my company would be a tedious thing, and all about one’s self too—whom, Montaigne says, one never talks about without detriment to the person talked about. Suffice to say, ‘so it is’; and one’s friends, however kind and ‘loyal’ (as the phrase goes), do manage to exist and enjoy themselves pretty reasonably without one.

So with me. And is it not much the same with you also? Are you not glad now to be mainly alone, and find company a heavier burden than the grasshopper? If one ever had this solitary habit, it is not likely to alter for the better as one grows older—as one grows old. I like to think over my old friends. There they are, lingering as ineffaceable portraits—done in the prime of life—in my memory. Perhaps we should not like one another so well after a fifteen-years separation, when all of us change and most of us for the worse. I do not say that would be your case; but you must, at any rate, be less inclined to disturb the settled repose into which you, I suppose, have fallen. I remember first seeing you at Oulton, some twenty-five years ago; then at Donne’s in London; then at my own happy home in Regent’s Park; then ditto at Gorleston—after which, I have seen nobody, except the nephews and nieces left me by my good sister Kerrich.

So shall things rest? I could not go to you, after refusing all this while to go to older—if not better—friends, fellow Collegians, fellow schoolfellows; and yet will you still believe me (as I hope they do)

Yours and theirs sincerely,

Edward FitzGerald.

Borrow was still a remarkably robust man. Mr Watts-Dunton tells how,

“At seventy years of age, after breakfasting at eight o’clock in Hereford Square, he would walk to Putney, meet one or more of us at Roehampton, roam about Wimbledon and Richmond Park with us, bathe in the Fen Ponds with a north-east wind cutting across the icy water like a razor, run about the grass afterwards like a boy to shake off some of the water-drops, stride about the park for hours, and then, after fasting for twelve hours, eat a dinner at Roehampton that would have done Sir Walter Scott’s eyes good to see. Finally, he would walk back to Hereford Square, getting home late at night. And if the physique of the man was bracing, his conversation, unless he happened to be suffering from one of his occasional fits of depression, was still more so. Its freshness, raciness and eccentric whim no pen could describe. There is a kind of humour the delight of which is that while you smile at the pictures it draws, you smile quite as much or more to think that there is a mind so whimsical, crotchetty, and odd as to draw them. This was the humour of Borrow.” [469a]

He was seventy years of age when, one March day during a bitterly-cold east wind, he stripped and plunged into one of the Fen Ponds in Richmond Park, which was covered with ice, and dived and swam under the water for a time, reappearing some distance from the spot where he had entered the water. [469b]

The remaining years of Borrow’s life were spent in Suffolk. He would frequently go to Norwich, however; for the old city seemed to draw him irresistibly from his hermitage. He would take a lodging there, and spend much of his time occupying a certain chair in the Norfolk Hotel in St Giles. There were so many old associations with Norwich that made it appear home to him. He was possessed of sentiment in plenty, it had caused his old mother to wish that “dear George would not have such fancies about the old house” in Willow Lane.

Later, Dr and Mrs MacOubrey removed to Oulton (about 1878), and Borrow’s life became less dismal and lonely; but he was nearing his end. Sometimes there would be a flash of that old unconquerable spirit. His stepdaughter relates how,

“on the 21st of November [1878], the place [the farm] having been going to decay for fourteen months, Mr Palmer [the tenant] called to demand that Mr Borrow should put it in repair; otherwise he would do it himself and send in the bills, saying, ‘I don’t care for the old farm or you either,’ and several other insulting things; whereupon Mr Borrow remarked very calmly, ‘Sir, you came in by that door, you can go out by it’—and so it ended.” [470a]