The Life of George Borrow

by Herbert George Jenkins

It was on an occasion such as this that Borrow yearned for a son to knock the rascal down. He was an infirm man, his body feeling the wear and tear of the strenuous open-air life he had led. In 1879, according to Mrs MacOubrey, he was “unable to walk as far as the white gate,” the boundary of his estate. He was obviously breaking-up very rapidly. The surroundings appear to have reflected the gloomy nature of the master of the estate. The house was dilapidated, “with everything about it more or less untidy,” [470b] although at this period his income amounted to upwards of five hundred pounds a year.

“During his latter years,” writes Mr W. A. Dutt, “his tall, erect, somewhat mysterious figure was often seen in the early hours of summer mornings or late at night on the lonely pathways that wind in and out from the banks of Oulton Broad . . . the village children used to hush their voices and draw aside at his approach. They looked upon him with fear and awe. . . . In his heart, Borrow was fond of the little ones, though it amused him to watch the impression his strange personality made upon them. Older people he seldom spoke to when out on his solitary rambles; but sometimes he would flash out such a glance from beneath his broad-brimmed hat and shaggy eyebrows as would make timid country folk hasten on their way filled with vague thoughts and fears of the evil eye.” [470c]

Even to the last the old sensitiveness occasionally flashed out, as on the occasion of a visit from the Vicar of Lowestoft, who drove over with an acquaintance of Borrow’s to make the hermit’s acquaintance. The visitor was so incautious as to ask the age of his host, when, with Johnsonian emphasis, came the reply: “Sir, I tell my age to no man!” This occurred some time during the year 1880. Immediately his discomfited guest had departed, Borrow withdrew to the summer-house, where he drew up the following apothegm on “People’s Age”:—

“Never talk to people about their age. Call a boy a boy, and he will fly into a passion and say, ‘Not quite so much of a boy either; I’m a young man.’ Tell an elderly person that he’s not so young as he was, and you will make him hate you for life. Compliment a man of eighty-five on the venerableness of his appearance, and he will shriek out: ‘No more venerable than yourself,’ and will perhaps hit you with his crutch.”

On 1st December 1880 Borrow sent for his solicitor from Lowestoft, and made his will, by which he bequeathed all his property, real and personal, to his stepdaughter Henrietta, devising that it should be held in trust for her by his friend Elizabeth Harvey. It was evidently Borrow’s intention so to tie up the bequest that Dr MacOubrey could not in any way touch his wife’s estate.

The end came suddenly. On the morning of 26th July 1881 Dr and Mrs MacOubrey drove into Lowestoft, leaving Borrow alone in the house. When they returned he was dead. Throughout his life Borrow had been a solitary, and it seems fitting that he should die alone. It has been urged against his stepdaughter that she disregarded Borrow’s appeals not to be left alone in the house, as he felt himself to be dying. He may have made similar requests on other occasions; still, whatever the facts, it was strange to leave so old and so infirm a man quite unattended.

On 4th August the body was brought to London, and buried beside that of Mrs George Borrow in Brompton Cemetery. On the stone, which is what is known as a saddle-back, is inscribed:

In Loving Remembrance of

George Henry Borrow, Esq.,

WHO DIED JULY 26TH, 1881 (AT HIS RESIDENCE “OULTON COTTAGE, SUFFOLK”)

IN HIS 79TH YEAR.

(Author of The Bible in Spain, Lavengro—and other works.)

“IN HOPE OF A GLORIOUS RESURRECTION.”

A fruitless effort was made by the late J. J. Colman of Carrow to purchase the whole of Borrow’s manuscripts, library, and papers for the Carrow Abbey Library; but the price asked, a thousand pounds, was considered too high, and they passed into the possession of another. Eventually they found their way into the reverent hands of the man who subsequently made Borrow his hero, and who devoted years of his life to the writing of his biography—Dr W. J. Knapp.

It was Borrow’s fate, a tragic fate for a man so proud, to outlive the period of his fame. Not only were his books forgotten, but the world anticipated his death by some seven or eight years. His was a curiously complex nature, one that seems specially to have been conceived by Providence to arouse enmity among the many, and to awaken in the hearts of the few a sterling, unwavering friendship. It is impossible to reconcile the accounts of those who hated him with those whose love and respect he engaged.