George Borrow and His Circle | Page 7

his parent upon the one subject that appeals to his adventurous spirit, 'I
should like to know something about Big Ben,' he says:
'You are a strange lad,' said my father; 'and though of late I have begun
to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still
much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that
name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations? You wish to
know something about him? Well, I will oblige you this once, and then
farewell to such vanities--something about him. I will tell
you--his--skin when he flung off his clothes--and he had a particular
knack in doing so--his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back
for combat; and when he fought he stood, so--if I remember right--his
skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my
elder son was here!'
Concerning the career of Borrow's father there seem to be no
documents other than one contained in Lavengro, yet no Life of Borrow
can possibly he complete that does not draw boldly upon the son's

priceless tributes. And so we come now to the last scene in the career of
the elder Borrow--his death-bed--which is also the last page of the first
volume of Lavengro. George Borrow's brother has arrived from abroad.
The little house in Willow Lane, Norwich, contained the mother and
her two sons sorrowfully awaiting the end, which came on 28th
February 1824.
At the dead hour of night--it might be about two--I was awakened from
sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in
which I slept. I knew the cry--it was the cry of my mother; and I also
knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment
paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless--the
stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a
violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang
from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly
about the room; she had awoke and found my father senseless in the
bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported
him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and,
snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face.
'The surgeon! the surgeon!' he cried; then, dropping the light, he ran out
of the room, followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the
senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall,
and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed
heavily against my bosom; at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right;
there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words
which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and
then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former
scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him
mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still
contrived to support my dying father. There was a pause; again my
father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old
Minden Serjeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one
period of his life was much on his lips, the name of ----; but this is a
solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was
over; but I was mistaken--my father moved, and revived for a moment;
he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt
that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that,

clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly--it was
the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips the brave old soldier
sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up
his soul.
Did Borrow's father ever really fight Big Ben Brain or Bryan in Hyde
Park, or is it all a fantasy of the artist's imagining? We shall never
know. Borrow called his Lavengro 'An Autobiography' at one stage of
its inception, although he wished to repudiate the autobiographical
nature of his story at another. Dr. Knapp in his anxiety to prove that
Borrow wrote his own memoirs in Lavengro and Romany Rye tells us
that he had no creative faculty--an absurd proposition. But I think we
may accept the contest between Ben Brain and Thomas Borrow, and
what a revelation of heredity that impressive death-bed scene may be
counted. Borrow on one occasion in later life declared that his