the living, which reverted to the Crown in 1841. At East Dereham, too, he came in touch with that exquisite old gentlewoman, Lady Fenn, widow of Sir John Fenn, editor of the “Paston Letters,” as she passed to and fro from her mansion on some errand of bounty or of mercy, leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind. But Borrow’s admiration for Philo, the clerk, was greatest—“Peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissenters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-Church clerk.”
Leaving Dereham in April, 1810, Captain Borrow and his family were transferred to Norman Cross, in the parish of Yaxley, some four miles from Peterborough, to guard a large number of French prisoners in sixteen long casernes, or barracks. At this place little Borrow, now seven years old, made a friend, quite to his liking, in a wild sequestered spot which was his favourite haunt; for he was allowed to pass his time principally in wandering about the neighbouring country. It was at this wild nook he came to know a viper-catcher and herbalist, a quaint figure in a skin cap, and with stout gaiters, who was catching a viper when the boy first made his acquaintance. “‘What do you think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?’ asked the old fellow. ‘What do I think?’ said I. ‘Why, that I could do as much myself.’” This ruffled the old man’s pride, but later he became quite friendly and explained that he hunted the vipers for their fat, to make unguents especially for rheumatism, and also collected simples, knowing he virtues of such as had medicinal value. On one of his excursions this primitive sportsman told him the marvellous tale of the King of the Vipers. The old fellow was wakened from his sleep one sultry day by a dreadful viper moving towards him—“all yellow and gold . . . bearing its head about a foot and a-half above the ground, the dry stubble crackling beneath its outrageous belly . . . then it lifted its head and chest high in the air, and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child,” continued the narrator, “what I felt at that moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for all the sins I ever committed; and there we two were, I looking up at the viper,
and the viper looking down upon me, flickering at me with its tongue.” Happily a sharp gun report close at hand frightened the reptile away. Before leaving the neighbourhood the viper-catcher presented his child friend with a specimen which he had tamed and rendered harmless by removing the fangs. This creature the queer boy fed with milk and often carried with him in his walks.
This episode resulted in experiences which coloured all the rest of Borrow’s life, for, soon after, when he first came among gypsy tents, and saw the long-haired woman with skin dark and swarthy like that of a toad, and a particularly evil expression, and when her husband threatened to baste the intruder with a ladle, the boy broke forth into what in Romany would be called a “gillie,” or ditty, ending—
“My father lies concealed within my tepid breast,
And if to me you offer any harm or wrong,
I’ll call him forth to help me with his forked tongue.”
The story cannot be mangled without losing its wild significance, but, on further threats, Borrow, to use his own words, “made a motion which the viper understood; and now partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my enemy with its glittering eyes.”
The superstitious gypsies were effectively terrified, and invited the lad into their tent: “Don’t be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and satisfied, my precious little God Almighty.”
They had taken him for a goblin, but when he explained that he was not “one of them there,” the man said, “You are a sap-engro, a chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them.” Then, when the boy proceeded to read them a bit of “Robinson Crusoe,” it was voted that it “beat the rubricals hollow.” Next followed the momentous meeting with Ambrose Smith—the Jasper Petulengro of Borrow’s pages—and, as the band of gypsies were departing, Jasper, turning round, leered into the little Gorgio’s face, held out his hand, and said, “Goodbye, Sap, I daresay we shall meet again; remember we are brothers, two gentle brothers.” Gazing after the retreating company, the sap-engro said to himself, “A strange set of people, I
wonder who they can be.” Such was Borrow’s first introduction to the Romany folk.
From July, 1811, to July, 1814, the Borrows led a nomadic life, yet at each tarrying-place Captain Borrow sent his sons to the best school available, and George, in these three years’ travelling with the regiment, acquired Lilly’s Latin Grammar by heart. A Dereham schoolmaster had assured Captain Borrow that “there is but one good school book in the world—the one I use in my seminary—Lilly’s Latin Grammar.” There is, it may be added, good evidence that Shakespeare was taught out of this venerable work.