It is quite noteworthy that Borrow makes no mention of his term at the Grammar School in “Lavengro,” but, after his Irish experiences, opens a chapter with the following eloquent description of Norwich:—
“A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you will, but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of pleasure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city, the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages.”
“It was yonder, to the west, that the great naval hero of Britain first saw the light; he who annihilated the sea pride of Spain and dragged the humble banner of France in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder to the west, and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town; in its dark flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl. ’Tis the sword of Cordova, won in the bloodiest fray off St. Vincent’s promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard’s sword is to be seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall; many other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard’s sword.”
After these descriptive passages, he at once passes to the questionings of his father and mother as to the career of “the other child,” much more difficult to settle in life than his more sober-minded elder brother, who had, as Dr. Martineau informed me, “quite too much sense” to join in the wild escapade described by Dr. Knapp in one of his most “purple patches.” Captain Borrow was sadly exercised about his younger son, and exclaimed, in the discussion about his prospects, “Why, he has neither my hair nor eyes; and then his countenance! Why, ’tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me! I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say against that; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his face, nor for his hair and eyes; but, then, his ways and manners!”
Our glimpses of the Grammar School life are meagre, but we can readily understand that to a lad of Borrow’s temperament the routine of a well-ordered school was naturally distasteful, though he loved to gain knowledge from any unconventional source open to him. So we find him studying French and Italian with “one banished priest,” the Rev. Thomas D’Eterville, M.A., of Caen University, who, as Borrow says, “lived in an old court of the old town,” having come to Norwich in 1793. He advertised his “school in St. Andrew’s,” and this was situated in Locket’s Yard, now built over by Messrs. Harmer’s factory. Later he resided in the Strangers’ Hall, then occupied by priests of the adjoining Roman Catholic Chapel of St. John, now superseded by the grand church which towers on the crest of St. Giles’s Hill. The Norman priest was
robust, with a slight stoop, but a rapid and vigorous step, “sixty or thereabouts,” when Borrow was his pupil in 1816, according to “Lavengro.” But he was really considerably younger, for when he died at Caen, February 22nd, 1843, his age was given as seventy-six. In a local obituary notice he was described as “a well-known and respected inhabitant of Norwich for upwards of forty years, who retired a few months ago to end his days in his native country.” He made a small fortune, and there were rumours that he was engaged in the contraband trade. In a suppressed passage, reproduced by Dr. Knapp in his notes to “Lavengro,” D’Eterville says he found friends here, and was able to ride a good horse to visit pupils in the country; also that he always carried pistols, which Borrow said he had seen. Here, then, was another character after Borrow’s heart, especially as he told his pupil that one day he would be a great philologist. Of course, young Borrow was by no means the sort of lad to spend all his time on books. He loved to sally forth with an old condemned musket, and did such execution that he seldom returned (sad to say!) without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and linnets hanging round his neck. Yet, as Mr. Jenkins says, Borrow’s “love of animals was almost feminine.” With less zest he went fishing—too listless a pastime to interest him much, for he often fell into a doze by the water side, and sometimes let his rod drop into the stream. His poetical but strictly accurate account of Earlham is worth quoting:
“At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of East Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks the side of the slope; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the nearest of which, when the sun is nigh at its meridian, fling a broad shadow upon the face of the pool; through yon vista you catch a glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among those umbrageous trees; you might almost suppose it an earl’s home; and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl’s home, in the days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd, or Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in the gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl’s Home.”
It was while fishing in “a sweet rivulet” in the grounds of the old hall one summer’s day that “a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell,” asked, “Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun?” The speaker was none other than the learned Friend, Joseph John Gurney (1788-1847), who as a young man read nearly all the Old Testament in Hebrew in the early morning. It was natural, therefore, that he should ask the young angler if he knew Hebrew, having confessed, according to “Lavengro,” that he himself could not read Dante. This is clearly wrong, for writing to Thomas Fowell Buxton, in 1808, he mentions that he is reading Sophocles, some Italian, Livy, etc., and in the following year he informs his sister, Hannah Buxton, that he is engaged, inter alia, on Apollonius Rhodius, the Greek Testament, and Ariosto.
Borrow had good reason to respect and admire the Quakers, as is evidenced in “Wild Wales” (Chap. CVI.), for when a Methodist called them “a bad lot,” and said he at first thought Borrow was a Methodist minister (!), and hoped to hear from him something “conducive to salvation,” Borrow’s severe answer was: “So you shall. Never speak ill of people of whom you know nothing. If that