The Life of George Borrow [208]
Anglian accent. As a matter of fact his father was Cornish and his mother of Huguenot stock. It would be absurd to argue from this obvious exaggeration of the actual facts that Borrow was a myth.
Then he has been taken to task for not being a philologist as well as a linguist. He may have used the word philologist somewhat loosely on occasion. "Think what the reader would have lost," says one eminent but by no means prejudiced critic {476a} with real sympathy and insight, "had Borrow waited to verify his etymologies." In all probability Nature will never produce a Humboldt-Le Sage combination of intellect. Language was to Borrow merely the key that permitted him access to the chamber of men's minds. It must be confessed that sometimes he invaded the sacred precincts of philology. His chapter on the Basque language in The Bible in Spain has been described as "utterly frantic," and German philologists, speechless in their astonishment, have expressed themselves upon his conclusions in marks of exclamation! He was not qualified to discourse upon the science of language.
He was a staunch member of the Church of England, because he believed there was in it more religion than in any other Church; but this did not hinder him from consorting with the godless children of the tents, or contributing towards the upkeep of Nonconformist-schools. The gypsies honoured and trusted him because, crooked themselves, they appreciated straightness and clean living in another. They had never known him use a bad word or do a bad thing. He was, on occasion, arrogant, overbearing, ungracious, in short all the unattractive things that a proud and masterful man can be; but his friendship was as strong as the man himself; his charity above the narrow prejudices of sect. When he threw his tremendous power into any enterprise or undertaking, it was with the determination that it should succeed, if work and self-sacrifice could make it. "The wisest course," he thought, was, " . . . to blend the whole of the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something more, to enjoy one's pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death and judgment."
Borrow loved mystery for its own sake, and none were ever able quite to penetrate into the inner fastness of his personality. Those who came nearest to it were probably Hasfeldt and Ford, whose persistent good-humour was an armour against a reserve that chilled most men. Of all Borrow's friends it is probable that none understood him so well as Hasfeldt. He recognised the strength of character of the white-haired man who sang when he was happy, and he refused to be affected by his gloomy moods. "Write and tell me," he requests, "if you have not fallen in love with some nun or Gypsy in Spain, or have met with some other romantic adventure worthy of a roaming knight." On another occasion (June 1845) he boasts with some justification, "Heaven be praised, I can comprehend you as a reality, while many regard you as an imaginary, fantastic being. But they who portray you have not eaten bread and salt with you."
Borrow's contemporary recognition was a chance; he was writing for another generation, and some of the friends that he left behind have loyally striven to erect to him the only monument an artist desires-- the proclaiming of his works.
Nature it appeared had framed Borrow in a moment of magnificence, and, lest he should be enticed away from her, had instilled into his soul a hatred of all things artificial and at variance with her august decrees. He was shy and suspicious with the men and women who regulated their lives by the narrow standards of civilisation and decorum; but with the children of the tents and the vagrants of the wayside he was a single-minded man, eager to learn the lore of the open air. He recognised in these vagabonds the true sons and daughters of "the Great Mother who mixes all our bloods."
APPENDIX: LIST OF BORROW'S WORKS
1825
Celebrated Trials, and Remarkable Cases
Then he has been taken to task for not being a philologist as well as a linguist. He may have used the word philologist somewhat loosely on occasion. "Think what the reader would have lost," says one eminent but by no means prejudiced critic {476a} with real sympathy and insight, "had Borrow waited to verify his etymologies." In all probability Nature will never produce a Humboldt-Le Sage combination of intellect. Language was to Borrow merely the key that permitted him access to the chamber of men's minds. It must be confessed that sometimes he invaded the sacred precincts of philology. His chapter on the Basque language in The Bible in Spain has been described as "utterly frantic," and German philologists, speechless in their astonishment, have expressed themselves upon his conclusions in marks of exclamation! He was not qualified to discourse upon the science of language.
He was a staunch member of the Church of England, because he believed there was in it more religion than in any other Church; but this did not hinder him from consorting with the godless children of the tents, or contributing towards the upkeep of Nonconformist-schools. The gypsies honoured and trusted him because, crooked themselves, they appreciated straightness and clean living in another. They had never known him use a bad word or do a bad thing. He was, on occasion, arrogant, overbearing, ungracious, in short all the unattractive things that a proud and masterful man can be; but his friendship was as strong as the man himself; his charity above the narrow prejudices of sect. When he threw his tremendous power into any enterprise or undertaking, it was with the determination that it should succeed, if work and self-sacrifice could make it. "The wisest course," he thought, was, " . . . to blend the whole of the philosophy of the tombstone with a portion of the philosophy of the publican and something more, to enjoy one's pint and pipe and other innocent pleasures, and to think every now and then of death and judgment."
Borrow loved mystery for its own sake, and none were ever able quite to penetrate into the inner fastness of his personality. Those who came nearest to it were probably Hasfeldt and Ford, whose persistent good-humour was an armour against a reserve that chilled most men. Of all Borrow's friends it is probable that none understood him so well as Hasfeldt. He recognised the strength of character of the white-haired man who sang when he was happy, and he refused to be affected by his gloomy moods. "Write and tell me," he requests, "if you have not fallen in love with some nun or Gypsy in Spain, or have met with some other romantic adventure worthy of a roaming knight." On another occasion (June 1845) he boasts with some justification, "Heaven be praised, I can comprehend you as a reality, while many regard you as an imaginary, fantastic being. But they who portray you have not eaten bread and salt with you."
Borrow's contemporary recognition was a chance; he was writing for another generation, and some of the friends that he left behind have loyally striven to erect to him the only monument an artist desires-- the proclaiming of his works.
Nature it appeared had framed Borrow in a moment of magnificence, and, lest he should be enticed away from her, had instilled into his soul a hatred of all things artificial and at variance with her august decrees. He was shy and suspicious with the men and women who regulated their lives by the narrow standards of civilisation and decorum; but with the children of the tents and the vagrants of the wayside he was a single-minded man, eager to learn the lore of the open air. He recognised in these vagabonds the true sons and daughters of "the Great Mother who mixes all our bloods."
APPENDIX: LIST OF BORROW'S WORKS
1825
Celebrated Trials, and Remarkable Cases