Souvenir of the George Borrow Celebration | Page 7

in which the relic is to be seen: a sword of curious workmanship,
the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of ivory and mother-of-pearl.
'Tis the sword of Cordova, won in the bloodiest fray off St. Vincent's
promontory, and presented by Nelson to the old capital of the
much-loved land of his birth. Yes, the proud Spaniard's sword is to be
seen in yonder guildhouse, in the glass case affixed to the wall; many
other relics has the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard's
sword."
After these descriptive passages, he at once passes to the questionings
of his father and mother as to the career of "the other child," much
more difficult to settle in life than his more sober-minded elder brother,
who had, as Dr. Martineau informed me, "quite too much sense" to join
in the wild escapade described by Dr. Knapp in one of his most "purple

patches." Captain Borrow was sadly exercised about his younger son,
and exclaimed, in the discussion about his prospects, "Why, he has
neither my hair nor 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!"
Our glimpses of the Grammar School life are meagre, but we can
readily understand that to a lad of Borrow's temperament the routine of
a well-ordered school was naturally distasteful, though he loved to gain
knowledge from any unconventional source open to him. So we find
him studying French and Italian with "one banished priest," the Rev.
Thomas D'Eterville, M.A., of Caen University, who, as Borrow says,
"lived in an old court of the old town," having come to Norwich in
1793. He advertised his "school in St. Andrew's," and this was situated
in Locket's Yard, now built over by Messrs. Harmer's factory. Later he
resided in the Strangers' Hall, then occupied by priests of the adjoining
Roman Catholic Chapel of St. John, now superseded by the grand
church which towers on the crest of St. Giles's Hill. The Norman priest
was robust, with a slight stoop, but a rapid and vigorous step, "sixty or
thereabouts," when Borrow was his pupil in 1816, according to
"Lavengro." But he was really considerably younger, for when he died
at Caen, February 22nd, 1843, his age was given as seventy-six. In a
local obituary notice he was described as "a well-known and respected
inhabitant of Norwich for upwards of forty years, who retired a few
months ago to end his days in his native country." He made a small
fortune, and there were rumours that he was engaged in the contraband
trade. In a suppressed passage, reproduced by Dr. Knapp in his notes to
"Lavengro," D'Eterville says he found friends here, and was able to ride
a good horse to visit pupils in the country; also that he always carried
pistols, which Borrow said he had seen. Here, then, was another
character after Borrow's heart, especially as he told his pupil that one
day he would be a great philologist. Of course, young Borrow was by
no means the sort of lad to spend all his time on books. He loved to
sally forth with an old condemned musket, and did such execution that
he seldom returned (sad to say!) without a string of bullfinches,

blackbirds, and linnets hanging round his neck. Yet, as Mr. Jenkins
says, Borrow's "love of animals was almost feminine." With less zest
he went fishing--too listless a pastime to interest him much, for he
often fell into a doze by the water side, and sometimes let his rod drop
into the stream. His poetical but strictly accurate account of Earlham is
worth quoting:
"At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground which
rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of which, after
many meanderings, eventually enter the principal river of the district,
and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down to the ocean. It is a
sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its course from its spring-head,
high up in the remote regions of East Anglia, till it arrives in the valley
behind yon rising ground; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly
spot, but most lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream.
Beneath its arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are
there stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have
sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, where
they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, the