Immortal Memories Part 2

III. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF GEORGE BORROW

An Address delivered in Norwich on the Occasion of the Borrow Centenary, 1903.

One hundred years ago there was born some two miles from the pleasant little town of East Dereham, in this county, a child who was christened George Henry Borrow. That is why we are a.s.sembled here this evening. I count it one of the most interesting coincidences in literary history that only three years earlier there should have left the world in the same little town--a town only known perhaps to those of us who are Norfolk men--a poet who has always seemed to me to be one of the greatest glories of our literature: I mean William Cowper. Cowper died in April, 1800, and Borrow was born in July, 1803, in this same town of East Dereham: and there very much it might be thought, any point of likeness or of contrast must surely end.

Cowper and Borrow do, indeed, come into some trivial kind of kins.h.i.+p at one or two points. In reading Cowper's beautiful letters I have come across two addressed by him to one Richard Phillips, a bookseller of that day, who had been in prison for publis.h.i.+ng some of Thomas Paine's works.

Cowper had been asked by Phillips to write a sympathetic poem denunciatory of the political and religious tyranny that had sent Phillips to jail. Cowper had at first agreed, but was afterwards advised not to have anything more to do with Phillips. Judging by the after career of Phillips, Cowper did wisely; for Phillips was not a good man, although twenty years later he had become a sheriff of London and was knighted. As Sir Richard Phillips he was visited by George Borrow, then a youth at the beginning of his career. Borrow came to Phillips armed with an introduction from William Taylor of Norwich, and his reception is most dramatically recorded in the pages of _Lavengro_. This is, however, to antic.i.p.ate. Then there is a poem by Cowper to Sir John Fenn {62} the antiquary, the first editor of the famous _Paston Letters_. In it there is a reference to Fenn's spouse, who, under the pseudonym of "Mrs.

Teachwell," wrote many books for children in her day. Now Borrow could remember this lady--Dame Eleanor Fenn--when he was a boy. He recalled the "Lady Bountiful leaning on her gold-headed cane, while the sleek old footman followed at a respectful distance behind." Lady Fenn was forty- six years old when Cowper referred to her. She was sixty-six when the boy Borrow saw her in Dereham streets. At no other points do these great East Dereham writers come upon common ground: Cowper during the greater part of his life was a recluse. He practically fled from the world. In reading the many letters he wrote--and they are among the best letters in the English language--one is struck by the small number of his correspondents. He had few acquaintances and still fewer friends. He had never seen a hill until he was sixty, and then it was only the modest hills of Suss.e.x that seemed to him so supremely glorious. He was never on the Continent. For half a lifetime he did not move out of one county, the least picturesque part of Buckinghams.h.i.+re, the neighbourhood of Olney and of Weston. There he wrote the poems that have been a delight to several generations, poems which although they may have gone out of fas.h.i.+on with many are still very dear to some among us; and there, as I have said, he wrote the incomparable letters that have an equally permanent place in literature.

You could not conceive a more extraordinary contrast than the life of this other writer a.s.sociated with East Dereham, whom we have met to celebrate this evening. George Borrow was the son of a soldier, who had risen from the ranks, and of a mother who had been an actress. Soldier and actress both imply to all of us a restless, wandering life. The soldier was a Cornishman by birth, the actress was of French origin, and so you have blended in this little Norfolk boy--who is a Norfolk boy in spite of it all--every kind of nomadic habit, every kind of fiery, imaginative enthusiasm, a temperament not usually characteristic of those of us who claim East Anglia as the land of our birth or of our progenitors. I wish it were possible for me to reconstruct that Norwich world into which young George Borrow entered at thirteen years of age.

That it was a Norwich of great intellectual activity is indisputable. In the year of Borrow's birth John Gurney, who died six years later, first became a partner in the Norwich bank. His more famous son, Joseph John Gurney--aged fifteen--left the Earlham home in order to study at Oxford.

His sister, the still more famous Elizabeth Fry, was now twenty-three. So that when Borrow, the thirteen year old son of the veteran soldier--who had already been in Ireland picking up sc.r.a.ps of Irish, and in Scotland adding to his knowledge of Gaelic--settled down for some of his most impressionable years in Norwich, Joseph John Gurney was a young man of twenty-eight and Elizabeth Fry was thirty-six. Dr. James Martineau was eleven years of age and his sister Harriet was fourteen. Another equally clever woman, not then married to Austin, the famous jurist, was Sarah Taylor, aged twenty-three. This is but to name a few of the crowd of Norwich worthies of that day. Would that some one could produce a picture of the literary life of Norwich of this time and of a quarter of a century onward--a period that includes the famous Bishop Stanley's {66} occupancy of the See of Norwich and the visits to this city from all parts of England of a great number of famous literary men. It is my pleasant occupation to-night to endeavour to show that Borrow, the very least of these men and women in public estimation for a good portion of his life, and perhaps the least in popular judgment even since his death, was really the greatest, was really the man of all others to whom this beautiful city should do honour if it asks for a name out of its nineteenth century history to crown with local recognition.

For whatever homage may have fallen to Borrow during the half-century or more since his name first came upon many tongues Norwich, it must be admitted, has given very little of it. No one a.s.sociated with your city, I repeat, but has heard of the Gurneys and the Martineaus, of the Stanleys and the Austins, whose life stories have made so large a part of your literary and intellectual history during this very period. But I turn in vain to a number of books that I have in my library for any information concerning one who is indisputably the greatest among the intellectual children of Norwich. I turn to Mr. Prothero's _Life of Dean Stanley_--not one word about Borrow; to that pleasant _Memoir_ of Sarah Austin and her mother, Mrs. Taylor, called _Three Generations of a Norfolk Family_--again not one word. I turn to Mr. Braithwaite's biography of Joseph John Gurney, and to Mr. Augustus Hare's book _The Gurneys of Earlham_--upon these worthy biographers Borrow made no impression whatever, although Joseph John Gurney was personally helpful to him and we read in _Lavengro_ of that pleasant meeting between the pair on the river bank when Mr. Gurney chided the boy Borrow or Lavengro for angling. "From that day," he says, "I became less and less a pract.i.tioner of that cruel fis.h.i.+ng." In Harriet Martineau's _Autobiography_, which enjoyed its hour of fame when it was published twenty-six years ago, there is a contemptuous reference to the disciple of William Taylor, "this polyglot gentleman, who went through Spain disseminating Bibles." If Miss Martineau were alive now she would hear the works of "this polyglot gentleman" praised on every hand, and would find that a cult had arisen which to her would certainly be quite incomprehensible. In that large, dismal book--the _Life of James Martineau_, again, there is but one mention of Dr. Martineau's famous schoolfellow whose name has been linked with him only by a silly story.

Do not let it be thought that I am complaining of this neglect; the world will always treat its greatest writers in precisely this fas.h.i.+on. Borrow did not lack for fame of a kind, but he was, as I desire to show, praised in his lifetime for the wrong thing, where he was praised at all.

Everyone in the fifties and sixties read _The Bible in Spain_, as they read a hundred other books of that period, now forgotten. Many read it who were deceived by its t.i.tle. They expected a tract. Many read it as we to-day read the latest novel or biography of the hour. Then a new book arises and the momentary favourite is forgotten. We think for a whole week that we are in contact with a well-nigh immortal work. A little later we concern ourselves not at all whether the book is immortal or not. We go on to something else. The critic is as much to blame as the reader. Not one man in a hundred whose profession it is to come between the author and the public, and to guide the reader to the best in literature, has the least perception of what is good literature. It is easy when a writer has captured the suffrages of the crowd for the critic to tell the world that he is great. That happened to Carlyle, to Tennyson, to many a popular author whose earliest books commanded little attention: but, happily, these writers did not lose heart. They kept on writing. Borrow was otherwise made. He wrote _The Bible in Spain_--a book of travel of surprising merit. It sold largely on its t.i.tle. Mr.

Augustine Birrell has told us that he knew a boy in a very strict household who devoured the narrative on Sunday afternoons, the t.i.tle being thought to cover a conventional missionary journey. Well, when I was a boy _The Bible in Spain_ had gone out of fas.h.i.+on and the public had not taken up with the author's greater work, _Lavengro_. Borrow was naturally disappointed. He abused the critics and the public. Perhaps he grew somewhat soured. He did not hesitate in _The Romany Rye_ to talk candidly about those "ill-favoured dogs . . . the newspaper editors," and he made the gentleman's gentleman of _Lavengro_ describe how he was excluded from the Servants' Club in Park Lane because his master followed a profession "so mean as literature." In fact as a reaction from the unfriendly reception accorded to the _Romany Rye_--now one of the most costly of his books in a first edition--he lost heart, and he grew to despise the whole literary and writing cla.s.s. Hence the various stories presenting him in not very sympathetic guise, the story of Thackeray being snubbed on asking Borrow if he had read the _Sn.o.b Papers_, of Miss Agnes Strickland receiving an even more forcible rebuff when she offered to send him her _Queens of England_. "For G.o.d's sake don't Madame; I should not know where to put them or what to do with them." These stories are in Gordon Hake's _Memoirs of Eighty Years_, but Mr. Francis Hindes Groome has shown us the other side of the picture, and others also to whom I shall refer a little later have done the same. Perhaps the literary cla.s.s is never the worse for a little plain speaking. The real secret of Borrow is this--that he was a man of action turned into a writer by force of circ.u.mstances.

The life of Borrow, unlike that of most famous men of letters, has not been overwritten. His death in 1881 caused little emotion and attracted but small attention in the newspapers. _The Times_, then as now so excellent in its biographies as a rule, devoted but twenty lines to him.

Here I may be pardoned for being autobiographical. I was last in Norwich in the early eighties. I had a wild enthusiasm for literature so far as my taste had been directed--that is to say I read every book I came across and had been doing so from my earliest boyhood. But I had never heard of George Borrow or of his works. In my then not infrequent visits to Norwich I cannot recall that his name was ever mentioned, and in my life in London, among men who were, many of them, great readers, I never heard of Borrow or of his achievement. He died in 1881, and as I do not recall hearing his name at the time of his death or until long afterwards, I must have missed certain articles in the _Athenaeum_--two of them admirable "appreciations" by Mr. Watts-Dunton--and so my state of benightedness was as I have described. It may be that those who are a year or two older than I am and those who are younger may find this extraordinary. You have always heard of Borrow and of his works, but I think I am ent.i.tled to insist that when Borrow sank into his grave, an old, and to many an eccentric and bitter man, he had fallen into the most curious oblivion with the public that has ever come to a man, I will not say of equal distinction, but of any distinction whatever. Mr. Egmont Hake told the readers of the _Athenaeum_ in a biography that appeared at the time of Borrow's death that Borrow's works were "forgotten in England" and I find in turning to the biography of Borrow in _The Norvicensian_, for 1882--the organ of the Norwich Grammar School--that the writer of this obituary notice confessed that there were none of Borrow's works in the library of the school of which Borrow had been the most distinguished pupil.

From that time--in 1881--until 1899, a period of eighteen years, Borrow had but little biographical recognition. A few introductions to his books, sundry encyclopaedia articles, and one or two magazine essays made up the sum total of information concerning the author of _Lavengro_ until Dr. Knapp's _Life_ appeared in 1899. That _Life_ has been severely handled by some lovers of Borrow, and lovers of Borrow are now plentiful enough. Dr. Knapp had not the cunning of the really successful biographer. His book still remains in the huge two-volumed form in which it was first issued four years ago, and I do not antic.i.p.ate that it will ever be a popular book. There is no literary art in it. There is a capacity for ama.s.sing facts, but no power of co-ordinating these facts.

Moreover Dr. Knapp did a great deal of mischief by very over-zeal. He made too great a research into all the current gossip in Norfolk and Suffolk concerning Borrow. If you were to make special research into the life of any friend or acquaintance of the past you would hear much foolish gossip and a great many wrong motives imputed, and possibly you would not have an opportunity of checking the various statements. The whole of Dr. Knapp's book seems to be written upon the principle of "I would if I could" say a good many things, and, indeed, every few months there appears in the _Eastern Daily Press_, a journal of your city that I have read every day regularly since boyhood, a letter from some one explaining that the less inquiry about this or that point in Borrow's career the better for Borrow. Take, for example, last Sat.u.r.day's issue of the journal I have named, where I find the following from a correspondent:--

Dr. Knapp, from dictates of courtesy, left it unrevealed, and as he could say nothing to Borrow's credit, pa.s.sed the affair over in silence, and on this point all well-wishers of Borrow's reputation would be wise to take their cue from this biographer's example.

Now there is nothing more d.a.m.natory than a sentence of this kind. What does it amount to? What is the 'it' that is unrevealed by the courteous Dr. Knapp? It seems to amount to the charge that Borrow is accused of gibbeting in his books the people he dislikes; this is what every great imaginative writer has been charged with to the perplexing of dull people. There are many characters in d.i.c.kens's novels which are supposed to be a presentation of near relatives or friends. These he ought to have treated with more kindliness. That heroic little woman, Miss Bronte, gave a picture of Madame Heger, who kept a school at Brussels, that conveyed, I doubt not, a very mistaken presentation of the subject of her satire. Imaginative writers have always taken these liberties.

When the worst is said it simply amounts to this, that Borrow was a good hater. Dr. Johnson said that he loved a good hater, and he might very well have loved Borrow. Dante, whom we all now agree to idolize, treated people even more roughly; he placed some of his acquaintances who had ill- used him in the very lowest circles of h.e.l.l. May I express a hope, therefore, that this type of letter to the Norwich newspapers about Dr.

Knapp's "kindness" to Borrow's reputation may cease. If Dr. Knapp had printed the whole of the facts we should know how to deal with them; but this is one of his limitations as a biographer. He has not in the least helped to a determination of Borrow's real character.

Had Borrow possessed a biographer so skilful with her pen as Mrs. Gaskell in her _Life of Charlotte Bronte_, so keen-eyed for the dramatic note as Sir George Trevelyan in his _Life of Macaulay_, he would have multiplied readers for _Lavengro_. There are many people who have read the Bronte novels from sheer sympathy with the writers that their biographer, Mrs.

Gaskell, had kindled. Let us not, however, be ungrateful to Dr. Knapp.

He has furnished those of us who are sufficiently interested in the subject with a fine collection of doc.u.ments. Here is all the material of biography in its crude state, but presenting vividly enough the live Borrow to those who have the perception to read it with care and judgment. Still more grateful may we be to Dr. Knapp for his edition of Borrow's works, particularly for those wonderful episodes in _Lavengro_ which he has reproduced from the original ma.n.u.script, episodes as dramatic as any other portion of the text, and making Dr. Knapp's edition of _Lavengro_ the only possible one to possess.

But to return to the main facts of Borrow's career, which every one here at least is familiar with. You know of his birth at East Dereham, of his life in Ireland and in Scotland, of his school days at Norwich, of his departure from Norwich to London on his father's death, of his dire struggles in the literary whirlpool, and of his wanderings in gipsy land.

You know, thanks to Dr. Knapp, more than you could otherwise have learned of his life at St. Petersburg, whither he had been sent by the Bible Society, on the recommendation of Mr. Joseph John Gurney and another patron. Then he has himself told us in picturesque fas.h.i.+on of his life in Portugal and Spain. After this we hear of his marriage to Mary Clarke, his residence from 1840 to 1853 at Oulton, in Suffolk, from 1853 to 1860 at Yarmouth, from 1860 to 1874 in Hereford Square, London, and finally from 1874 to 1881 at Oulton, where he died. That is the bare skeleton of Borrow's life, and for half his life, I think, we should be content with a skeleton. For the other half of it we have the best autobiography in the English language. An autobiography that ranks with Goethe's _Truth and Poetry from my Life_ and Rousseau's _Confessions_. In four books--in _Lavengro_, _Romany Rye_, _The Bible in Spain_, and _Wild Wales_ we have some delightful glimpses of an interesting personality, and here we may leave the personal side of Borrow. Beyond this we know that he was unquestionably a devoted son, a good husband, a kind father.

The literary life has its perils, so far as domesticity is concerned. Sir Walter Scott in his life of Dryden speaks of:--

Her who had to endure the apparently causeless fluctuation of spirits incidental to one compelled to dwell for long periods of time in the fitful realms of the imagination,

and it is certain that those who dwell in the realms of the imagination are usually very irritable, very difficult to live with. Literary history in its personal side is largely a dismal narrative of the uncomfortable relations of men of genius with their wives and with their families. Your man of genius thinks himself bound to hang up his fiddle in his own house, however merry a fellow he may prove himself to a hundred boon companions outside. George Borrow was perhaps the opposite of all this. As a companion and a neighbour he did not always s.h.i.+ne, if the impression of many a witness is to be trusted. They tell anecdotes of his lack of cordiality, of his unsociability, and so on. They have told those anecdotes more industriously in Norwich than anywhere else. He himself in an incomparable account of going to church with the gypsies in _The Romany Rye_ has the following:

It appeared as if I had fallen asleep in the pew of the old church of pretty Dereham. I had occasionally done so when a child, and had suddenly woke up. Yes, surely, I had been asleep and had woke up; but no! if I had been asleep I had been waking in my sleep, struggling, striving, learning and unlearning in my sleep. Years had rolled away whilst I had been asleep--ripe fruit had fallen, green fruit had come on whilst I had been asleep--how circ.u.mstances had altered, and above all myself whilst I had been asleep. No, I had not been asleep in the old church! I was in a pew, it is true, but not the pew of black leather, in which I sometimes fell asleep in days of yore, but in a strange pew; and then my companions, they were no longer those of days of yore. I was no longer with my respectable father and mother, and my dear brother, but with the gypsy cral and his wife, and the gigantic Tawno, the Antinous of the dusky people. And what was I myself? No longer an innocent child but a moody man, bearing in my face, as I knew well, the marks of my strivings and strugglings; of what I had learnt and unlearnt.

But this "moody man," let it be always remembered, was a good husband and father. His wife was devoted to him, his step-daughter carries now to an old age a profound reverence and affection for his memory. Grieved beyond all words was she--the Henrietta or "Hen" of all his books--at what is maintained to be the utterly fict.i.tious narrative of Borrow's described deathbed that Professor Knapp presented from the ill-considered gossip that he picked up while staying in the neighbourhood. {80} Borrow has himself something to say concerning his family in _Wild Wales_:--

Of my wife I will merely say that she is a perfect paragon of wives--can make puddings and sweets and treacle posset, and is the best woman of business in East Anglia: of my step-daughter, for such she is though I generally call her daughter, and with good reason seeing that she has always shown herself a daughter to me, that she has all kinds of good qualities and several accomplishments, knowing something of conchology, more of botany, drawing capitally in the Dutch style, and playing remarkably well on the guitar.

Yes, I am not quite sure but that Borrow was really a good fellow all round, as well as being a good husband and father. He hated the literary cla.s.s, it is true. He considered that the "contemptible trade of author," as he called it, was less creditable than that of a jockey. He avoided as much as possible the writers of books, and particularly the blue-stocking, and when they came in his way he was not always very polite, sometimes much the reverse. Only the other day a letter was published from the late Professor Cowell describing a visit to Borrow and his not very friendly reception. Well, Borrow was here as elsewhere a man of insight. The literary cla.s.s is usually a very narrow cla.s.s. It can talk about no trade but its own. Things have grown worse since Borrow's day, I am sure, but they were bad enough then. Borrow was a man of very varied tastes. He took interest in gypsies and horses and prize fighters and a hundred other entertaining matters, and so he despised the literary cla.s.s, which cared for none of these things. But unhappily for his fame the literary cla.s.s has had the final word; it has revealed all the gossip of a gossiping peasantry, and it has done its best to present the recluse of Oulton in a disagreeable light. Fortunately for Borrow, who kept the bores at bay and contented himself with but few friends, there were at least two who survived him to bear testimony to the effect that he was "a singularly steadfast and loyal friend." One of these was Mr. Watts-Dunton, who tells us in one of his essays that:

George Borrow was a good man, a most winsome and a most charming companion, an English gentleman, straightforward, honest, and brave as the very best examplars of that fine old type.

I have dwelt longer on this aspect of my subject than I should have done had I been addressing any other audience than a Norwich one. But the fact is that all the gossip and backbiting and censoriousness that has gathered round Borrow for a hundred years has come out of this very city, commencing with the "bursts of laughter" that, according to Miss Martineau, greeted Borrow's travels in Spain for the Bible Society.

Borrow was twenty-one years of age when he left Norwich to make his way in the world. During the next twenty years he may have undergone many changes of intellectual view, as most of us do, as Miss Martineau notably did, and Miss Martineau and her laughing friends were diabolically uncharitable. That lack of charity followed Borrow throughout his life.

He was libelled by many, by Miss Frances Power Cobbe most of all.

However, the great city of Norwich will make up for it in the future, and she will love Borrow as Borrow indisputably loved her. How he praised her fine cathedral, her lordly castle, her Mousehold Heath, her meadows in which he once saw a prize fight, her pleasant scenery--no city, not even glorious Oxford, has been so well and adequately praised, and I desire to show that that praise is not for an age but for all time.

If George Borrow has not been happy in his biographer, and if, as is true, he has received but inadequate treatment on this account--such series of little books as _The English Men of Letters_ and the _Great Writers_ quite ignoring him--he has been equally unfortunate in his critics. There are hardly any good and distinctive appreciations in print of Borrow's works. While other great names in the great literature of the Victorian Period have been praised by a hundred pens, there has scarcely been any notable and worthy praise of Borrow, and if I were in an audience that was at all sceptical as to Borrow's supreme merits, which happily I am not; if I were among those who declared that they could see but small merit in Borrow themselves, but were prepared to accept him if only I could bring good authority that he was a very great writer, I should be hardly put to to comply with the demand. I can only name Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton and Mr. Augustine Birrell as critics of considerable status who have praised Borrow well. "The delightful, the bewitching, the never sufficiently-to-be-praised George Borrow," says Mr.

Birrell in one of the essays he has written on the subject; {84} while Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, has written no less than four papers on one whom he knew and admires personally, and of whom he insists that "his idealizing powers, his romantic cast of mind, his force, his originality, give him a t.i.tle to a permanent place high in the ranks of English prose writers."

All this is very interesting, but in literature as in life we have got to work out our own destinies. We have not got to accept Borrow because this or that critic tells us he is good. I have therefore no quarrel with any one present who does not share my view that Borrow was one of the greater glories of English literature. I only desire to state my case for him.

To be a lover of Borrow, a Borrovian, in fact, it is not necessary to know all his books. You may never have seen copies of the _Romantic Ballads_ or of _Faustus_, of _Targum_ or of _The Turkish Jester_, of Borrow's translation of _The Talisman_ of Pushkin. Your state may be none the less gracious. To possess these books is largely a collector's hobby. They are interesting, but they would not have made for the author an undying reputation. Further, you may not care for _The Bible in Spain_, you may be untouched by the _Gypsies in Spain_ and _Wild Wales_, and even then I will not deny to you the t.i.tle of a good Borrovian, if only you p.r.o.nounce _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_ to be among the greatest books you know. I can admire the _Gypsies in Spain_ and _Wild Wales_. I can read _The Bible in Spain_ with something of the enthusiasm with which our fathers read it. It is a stirring narrative of travel and much more. Robert Louis Stevenson did, indeed, rank it among his "dear acquaintances" in bookland, "the _Pilgrim's Progress_ in the first rank, _The Bible in Spain_ not far behind," he says. All the same, it has not, none of these three books has, the distinctive mark of first cla.s.s genius that belongs to the other two in the five-volumed edition of Borrow's Collected Works that many of us have read through more than once. Not all clever people have thought _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_ to be thus great. A critic in the _Athenaeum_ declared _Lavengro_ when it was published in 1851 to be "balderdash," while a critic writing just fifty years afterwards and writing from Norfolk, alas! insisted that the author of this book "was absolutely wanting in the power of invention" that he (Borrow) could "only have drawn upon his memory," that he had "no sense of humour." If all this were true, if half of it were true, Borrow was not the great man, the great writer that I take him to be. But it is not true. _Lavengro_ with its continuation _The Romany Rye_, is a great work of imagination, of invention; it is in no sense a photograph, a memory picture, and it abounds in humour as it abounds in many other great characteristics. What makes an author supremely great? Surely a certain quality which we call genius, as distinct from the mere intellectual power of some less brilliant writer:--

True genius is the ray that flings A novel light o'er common things

and here it is that Borrow s.h.i.+nes supreme. He has invested with quite novel light a hundred commonplace aspects of life. Not an inventor! not imaginative! Why, one of the indictments against him is that philologists decry his philology and gyptologists his gypsy learning. If, then, his philology and his gypsy lore were imperfect, as I believe they were, how much the greater an imaginative writer he was. To say that _Lavengro_ merely indicates keen observation is absurd. Not the keenest observation will crowd so many adventures, adventures as fresh and as novel as those of Gil Blas or Robinson Crusoe, into a few months'

experience. "I felt some desire," says Lavengro, "to meet with one of those adventures which upon the roads of England are generally as plentiful as blackberries in autumn." I think that most of us will wander along the roads of England for a very long time before we meet an Isopel Berners, before we have such an adventure as that of the blacksmith and his horse, or of the apple woman whose favourite reading was _Moll Flanders_. These and a hundred other adventures, the fight with the Flaming Tinman, the poisoning of Lavengro by the gypsy woman, the discourse with Ursula under the hedge, when once read are fixed upon the memory for ever. And yet you may turn to them again and again, and with ever increasing zest. The story of Isopel Berners is a piece of imaginative writing that certainly has no superior in the literature of the last century. It was a.s.suredly no photographic experience. Isopel Berners is herself a creation ranking among the fine creations of womanhood of the finest writers. I doubt not but that it was inspired by some actual memory of Borrow--the memory of some early love affair in which the distractions of his mania for word-learning--the Armenian and other languages--led him to pa.s.s by some opportunity of his life, losing the substance for the shadow. But whether there were ever a real Isopel we shall never know. We do know that Borrow has presented his fict.i.tious one with infinite poetry and fine imaginative power. We do know, moreover, that it is not right to describe Isopel Berners as a marvellous episode in a narrative of other texture. _Lavengro_ is full of marvellous episodes. Some one has ventured to comment upon Borrow's style--to imply that it is not always on a high plane. What does that matter? Style is not the quality that makes a book live, but the novelty of the ideas. Stevenson was a splendid stylist, and his admirers have deluded themselves into believing that he was, therefore, among the immortals. But Stevenson had nothing new to tell the world, and he was not, he is not, therefore of the immortals. Borrow is of the immortals, not by virtue of a style, but by virtue of having something new to say.

He is with d.i.c.kens and with Carlyle as one of the three great British prose writers of the age we call Victorian, who in quite different ways have presented a new note for their own time and for long after. It is the distinction of Borrow that he has invested the common life of the road, of the highway, the path through the meadow, the gypsy encampment, the country fair, the very apple stall and wayside inn with an air of romance that can never leave those of us who have once come under the magnificent spell of _Lavengro_ and the _Romany Rye_. Perhaps Borrow is pre-eminently the writer for those who sit in armchairs and dream of adventures they will never undertake. Perhaps he will never be the favourite author of the really adventurous spirit, who wants the real thing, the latest book of actual travel. But to be the favourite author of those who sit in arm-chairs is no small thing, and, as I have said already, Borrow stands with Carlyle and d.i.c.kens in _our_ century, by which I mean the nineteenth century; with Defoe and Goldsmith in the eighteenth century, as one of the really great and imperishable masters of our tongue.

What then will Norwich do for George Borrow? I ask this question, although it would, perhaps, be an impertinence to ask it were I not a Norwich man. If you have read Dr. Knapp's _Life of Borrow_, you will have seen more than one reference to Mrs. Borrow's landlord, "old King,"

"Tom King the carpenter," and so on, who owned the house in Willow Lane in which Borrow spent his boyhood. That 'old King the carpenter'--I believe he called himself a builder, but perhaps this was when he grew more prosperous--was my great-great-uncle. One of his sons became physician to Prince Talleyrand and married a sister of John Stuart Mill.

One of his great-nieces was my grandmother, and her mother's family, the Parkers, had lived in Norwich for many generations. So on the strength of this little piece of genealogy let me claim, not only to be a good Borrovian, but also a good Norvicensian. Grant me then a right to plead for a practical recognition of Borrow in the city that he loved most, although he sometimes scolded it as it often scolded him. I should like to see a statue, or some similar memorial. If you pa.s.s through the cities of the Continent--French, German, or Belgian--you will find in well-nigh every town a memorial to this or that worthy connected with its literary or artistic fame. How many memorials has Norwich to the people connected with its literary or artistic fame? Nay, I am not rash and impetuous. I would beg any one of my hearers who thinks that Borrow might well have a memorial in marble or bronze in your city to wait a while. You are busy with a statue to Sir Thomas Browne--a most commendable scheme. To attempt to raise one to Borrow at this moment would probably be to court disaster. Nor do I advocate a memorial by private subscription. Observation has shown me what that means: failure or half failure in nearly every case. The memorial when it comes must be initiated by the City Fathers in council a.s.sembled. That time is perhaps far distant. But let us all do everything we can to make secure the high and honourable achievement of George Borrow, to kindle an interest in him and his writings, to extend a taste for the undoubted beauties of his works among all cla.s.ses of his fellow-citizens--that is to secure Borrow the best of all monuments. More durable than bra.s.s will be the memorial that is contained in the a.s.surance that he possesses the reverence and the homage of all true Norfolk hearts.

IV. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF GEORGE CRABBE

An Address delivered at the Crabbe Celebration at Aldeburgh in Suffolk on the 16th of September, 1905.

I have been asked to say something in praise of George Crabbe. The task would be an easier one were it not for the presence of the distinguished critic from the University of Nancy who is with us to-day. M. Huchon {97} has devoted to the subject a singleminded zeal to which one whose profession is primarily that of a journalist can make no claim. Moreover it has been well said that _the judgment of foreigners is the judgment of posterity_, and I fully believe that where a writer has secured the suffrages of men of another nation than his own, he has done more for his ultimate fame than the pa.s.sing and fickle favour of his countrymen can secure for him. In any case Crabbe has been praised more eloquently than almost any other modern, and this in spite of the fact that he was not read by the generation succeeding his death, nor is he read much in our own time.

If you want to read Crabbe to-day in his entirety, you must become possessed of a huge and clumsy volume of sombre appearance, small type and repellant double columns. For fully seventy years it has not paid a publisher to reprint Crabbe's poems properly. {98} When this was achieved in 1834, the edition in eight volumes was comparatively a failure, and the promised two volumes of essays and sermons were not forthcoming in consequence. Selections from Crabbe have been many, but when all is said he has been the least read for the past sixty or seventy years of all the authors who have claims to be considered cla.s.sics. The least read but perhaps the best praised--that is one point of certainty.

The praise began with the politicians--with the two greatest political leaders of their age. The eloquent and n.o.ble Edmund Burke, the great- hearted Charles James Fox. Burke "made" George Crabbe as no poet was ever made before or since. To me there is no picture in all literature more unflaggingly interesting than that of the great man, whose life was so full of affairs, taking the poor young stranger by the hand, reading through his abundant ma.n.u.scripts, and therefrom selecting--as the poet was quite unable to select--_The Library_ and _The Village_ as the most suitable for publication, helping him to a publisher, introducing him to friends, and proving himself quite untiring on his behalf. There is a letter of Burke's printed in a little known book--_The Correspondence of Sir Thomas Hanmer_, Speaker of the House of Commons--in which Burke takes the trouble to defend Crabbe's moral character and to press his claims for being admitted to holy orders. "Dudley North tells me," he continues, "that he has the best character possible among those with whom he has always lived, that he is now working hard to qualify, and has not only Latin, but some smattering of Greek." It had its gracious amenities, that eighteenth century, for I do not believe that there is a man in the ranks of the present Government, or of the present Opposition, who would take all this trouble for a poor unknown who had appealed to him merely by two or three long letters recounting his career. Nay, Cabinet Ministers are less punctilious than formerly, and the newest type, I understand, leaves letters unanswered. I can imagine the att.i.tude of one of our modern statesmen in the face of two quite bulky packages of many sheets from a young author. He would request his secretary to see what they were all about, and then would follow the curt answer--"I am directed by Dash to say that he cannot comply with your request." Burke not only wrote to the Speaker of the House of Commons, but enclosed Crabbe's letter to him, a quite wonderful piece of autobiography. {100} All Crabbe's admirers should read that letter.

Crabbe apologizes for writing again, and refers to "these repeated attacks on your patience." "My father," he said, "had a place in the Custom House at Aldeburgh. He had a large family, a little income and no economy," and then the story of his life up to that time is told to Burke in fullest detail.

Again, there is that other statesman-admirer of Crabbe, Charles James Fox. Fox gave to Crabbe's work an admiration which never faltered, and on his death-bed requested that the pathetic story of Phoebe Dawson in _The Parish Register_ should be read to him--it was, we are told, "the last piece of poetry that soothed his dying ear."

In Lord Holland's _Memoirs of the Whig Party_ there is a statement by his nephew which no biographer so far has quoted:--

I read over to him the whole of Crabbe's _Parish Register_ in ma.n.u.script. Some parts he made me read twice; he remarked several pa.s.sages as exquisitely beautiful, and objected to some few which I mentioned to the author and which he, in almost every instance, altered before publication. Mr. Fox repeated once or twice that it was a very pretty poem, that Crabbe's condition in the world had improved since he wrote _The Village_, and his view of life, likewise _The Parish Register_, bore marks of considerably more indulgence to our species; though not so many as he could have wished, especially as the few touches of that nature were beautiful in the extreme. He was particularly struck with the description of the substantial happiness of a farmer's wife.

From great novelists the tributes are not less noteworthy than from great statesmen. Jane Austen, whose personality perhaps has more real womanly attractiveness than that of any sister novelist of the first rank, declared playfully that if she could have been persuaded to change her state it would have been to become Mrs. Crabbe; and who can forget Sir Walter Scott's request in his last illness: "Read me some amusing thing--read me a bit of Crabbe." They read to him from _The Borough_, and we all remember his comment, "Capital--excellent--very good." Yet at this time--in 1832--any popularity that Crabbe had once enjoyed was already on the wane. Other idols had caught the popular taste, and from that day to this there was to be no real revival of appreciation for these poems. There were to be no lack of admirers, however, of the audience "fit though few." Byron's praise has been too often quoted for repet.i.tion. Wordsworth, who rarely praised his contemporaries in poetry, declared of Crabbe that his works "would last from their combined merit as poetry and truth." Macaulay writes of "that incomparable pa.s.sage in Crabbe's _Borough_ which has made many a rough and cynical reader cry like a child"--the pa.s.sage in which the condemned felon