George Borrow | Page 3

how
many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, when hostile
kings contended for their possession?--how many an army from the
south and from the north had trod that old bridge?--what red and noble
blood had crimsoned those rushing waters?--what strains had been sung,
ay, were yet being sung on its banks?--some soft as Doric reed; some
fierce and sharp as those of Norwegian Skaldaglam; some as replete
with wild and wizard force as Finland's runes, singing of Kalevale's
moors, and the deeds of Woinomoinen! Honour to thee, thou island
stream! Onward mayst thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy
bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant
future! Flow on, beautiful one!--which of the world's streams canst
thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the Danube, rolling
in its might through lands romantic with the wild exploits of Turk,
Polak, and Magyar! Lovely is the Rhine! on its shelvy banks grows the
racy grape; and strange old keeps of robber-knights of yore are
reflected in its waters, from picturesque crags and airy headlands!--yet
neither the stately Danube, nor the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame,
though abundant, needst thou envy, thou pure island stream!--and far
less yon turbid river of old, not modern renown, gurgling beneath the
walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter's town,
but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha's town, far less needst
thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping sadly to the sea,
surcharged with the abominations of modern Rome--how unlike to thee,

thou pure island stream!"
In this passage Borrow concentrates upon one scene the feelings of
three remote periods of his life. He gives the outward scene as he
remembers it forty years after, and together with the thoughts which
now come into his mind. He gives the romantic suggestion from one of
the favourite ballads of his youth, "Elvir Hill." He gives the child
himself weeping, he knows not why. Yet the passage is one and
indivisible.
These, at any rate, are not "lies--damned lies."
CHAPTER II
--HIS OWN HERO
Borrow's principal study was himself, and in all his best books he is the
chief subject and the chief object. Yet when he came to write
confessedly and consecutively about himself he found it no easy task.
Dr. Knapp gives an interesting account of the stages by which he
approached and executed it. His first mature and original books, "The
Zincali," or "The Gypsies of Spain," and "The Bible in Spain," had a
solid body of subject matter more or less interesting in itself, and
anyone with a pen could have made it acceptable to the public which
desires information. "The Bible of Spain" was the book of the year
1843, read by everybody in one or other of the six editions published in
the first twelve months. These books were also full of himself. Even
"The Zincali," written for the most part in Spain, when he was a man of
about thirty and had no reason for expecting the public to be interested
in himself, especially in a Gypsy crowd--even that early book
prophesied very different things. He said in the "preface" that he bore
the Gypsies no ill-will, for he had known them "for upwards of twenty
years, in various countries, and they never injured a hair of his head, or
deprived him of a shred of his raiment." The motive for this
forbearance, he said, was that they thought him a Gypsy. In his
"introduction" he satisfied some curiosity, but raised still more, when
speaking of the English Gypsies and especially of their eminence "in

those disgraceful and brutalising exhibitions called pugilistic combats."
"When a boy of fourteen," he says, "I was present at a prize fight; why
should I hide the truth? It took place on a green meadow, beside a
running stream, close by the old church of E---, and within a league of
the ancient town of N---, the capital of one of the eastern counties. The
terrible Thurtell was present, lord of the concourse; for wherever he
moved he was master, and whenever he spoke, even when in chains,
every other voice was silent. He stood on the mead, grim and pale as
usual, with his bruisers around. He it was, indeed, who got up the fight,
as he had previously done with respect to twenty others; it being his
frequent boast that he had first introduced bruising and bloodshed
amidst rural scenes, and transformed a quiet slumbering town into a
den of Jews and metropolitan thieves. Some time before the
commencement of the combat, three men, mounted on wild-looking
horses, came dashing down the road in the direction of the meadow, in
the midst of which they presently showed themselves, their