The Life of George Borrow [205]
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}
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
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}
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