George Borrow and His Circle | Page 6

tiles had been removed, would be
protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their prison-sick eyes on the
wide expanse of country unfolded from that airy height. Ah! there was
much misery in those casernes; and from those roofs, doubtless, many a
wistful look was turned in the direction of lovely France. Much had the
poor inmates to endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of
England be it said--of England, in general so kind and bountiful.
Rations of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very
hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment even for
the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; and such, alas!
was the fare in those casernes.
But here we have only to do with Thomas Borrow, of whom we get
many a quaint glimpse in Lavengro, our first and our last being
concerned with him in the one quality that his son seems to have
inherited, as the associate of a prize-fighter--Big Ben Brain. Borrow
records in his opening chapter that Ben Brain and his father met in
Hyde Park probably in 1790, and that after an hour's conflict 'the
champions shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite

enough of the other's prowess.' Borrow further relates that four months
afterwards Brain 'died in the arms of my father, who read to him the
Bible in his last moments.' Dr. Knapp finds Borrow in one of his many
inaccuracies or rather 'imaginings' here, as Brain did not die until 1794.
More than once in his after years the old soldier seems to have had a
shy pride in that early conflict, although the piety which seems to have
come to him with the responsibilities of wife and children led him to
count any recalling of the episode as a 'temptation.' When Borrow was
about thirteen years of age, he overheard his father and mother
discussing their two boys, the elder being the father's favourite and
George the mother's:
'I will hear nothing against my first-born,' said my father, 'even in the
way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride; the very image of myself in
my youthful days, long before I fought Big Ben, though perhaps not
quite so tall or strong built. As for the other, God bless the child! I love
him, I'm sure; but I must be blind not to see the difference between him
and his brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my 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!--I confess I do not like them,
and that they give me no little uneasiness.'[7]
Borrow throughout his narrative refers to his father as 'a man of
excellent common sense,' and he quotes the opinion of William Taylor,
who had rather a bad reputation as a 'freethinker' with all the
church-going citizens of Norwich, with no little pride. Borrow is of
course the 'young man' of the dialogue. He was then eighteen years of
age:
'Not so, not so,' said the young man eagerly; 'before I knew you I knew
nothing, and am still very ignorant; but of late my father's health has
been very much broken, and he requires attention; his spirits also have
become low, which, to tell you the truth, he attributes to my
misconduct. He says that I have imbibed all kinds of strange notions
and doctrines, which will, in all probability, prove my ruin, both here

and hereafter; which--which----'
'Ah! I understand,' said the elder, with another calm whiff. 'I have
always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is something
remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I would fain have
cultivated his acquaintance; the feeling, however, has not been
reciprocated. I met him the other day, up the road, with his cane and
dog, and saluted him; he did not return my salutation.'
'He has certain opinions of his own,' said the youth, 'which are widely
different from those which he has heard that you profess.'
'I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,' said the elderly
individual. 'I hold certain opinions; but I should not respect an
individual the more for adopting them. All I wish for is tolerance,
which I myself endeavour to practise. I have always loved the truth,
and sought it; if I have not found it, the greater my misfortune.'[8]
When Borrow is twenty years of age we have another glimpse of father
and son, the father in his last illness, the son eager as usual to draw out