If Borrow is taken literally, he was at Blackheath on May 12, 1825, sold his “Life of Joseph Sell” on the 20th, and left London on the 22nd. “For some months past I had been far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, endeavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements to be determined by Providence.”

He says definitely in the appendix to “The Romany Rye,” that he fled from London and hack-authorship for “fear of a consumption.” Walking on an unknown road out of London the “poor thin lad” felt tired at the ninth milestone, and thought of putting up at an inn for the night, but instead took the coach to ---, i.e., Amesbury.

The remaining ninety chapters of “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye” are filled by the story of the next four months of Borrow’s life and by stories told to him during that period. The preceding fifty-seven chapters had sufficed for twenty-two years. “The novelty” of the new itinerant life, says Mr. Thomas Seccombe, {96} “graved every incident in the most vivid possible manner upon the writer’s recollection.” After walking for four days northwest from Salisbury he met an author, a rich man who was continually touching things to avert the evil chance, and with him he stayed the night. On the next day he bought a pony and cart from the tinker, Jack Slingsby, with the purpose of working on the tinker’s beat and making horse-shoes. After some days he was visited down in a Shropshire dingle by a Gypsy girl, who poisoned him at the instigation of his enemy, old Mrs. Herne. Only the accidental appearance of the Welsh preacher, Peter Williams, saved him. Years afterwards, in 1854, it may be mentioned here, he told a friend in Cornwall that his fits of melancholy were due to the poison of a Gypsy crone. He spent a week in the company of the preacher and his wife, and was about to cross the Welsh border with them when Jasper Petulengro reappeared, and he turned back. Jasper told him that Mrs. Herne had hanged herself out of disappointment at his escape from her poison. This made it a point of honour for Jasper to fight Borrow, whose bloody face satisfied him in half an hour: he even offered Borrow his sister Ursula for a wife. Borrow refused, and settled alone in Mumper’s Dingle, which was perhaps Mumber Lane, five miles from Willenhall in Staffordshire. {97} Here he fought the Flaming Tinman, who had driven Slingsby out of his beat. The Tinman brought with him his wife and Isopel Berners, the tall fair-haired girl who struck Borrow first with her beauty and then with her right arm. Isopel stayed with Borrow after the defeat of the Tinman, and their companionship in the dingle fills a very large part of “Lavengro” and “The Romany Rye,” with interruptions and diversions from the Man in Black, the gin-drinking priest, who was then at work undermining the Protestantism of old England. Isopel stood by him when suffering from “indescribable horror,” and recommended “ale, and let it be strong.” Borrow makes her evidently inclined to marry him; for example, when she says that if she goes to America she will go alone “unless—unless that should happen which is not likely,” and when he says “. . . If I had the power I would make you queen of something better than the dingle—Queen of China. Come, let us have tea,” and “‘Something less would content me,’ said Belle, sighing, as she rose to prepare our evening meal”—and when at the postillion’s suggestion of a love affair, she buries her face in her hands. “She would sigh, too,” he says, “as I recounted the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands of ferocious publishers.” In one place Borrow says: “I am, of course, nothing to her, but she is mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me.” Borrow represents himself as tyrannically imposing himself upon the girl as teacher of Armenian, enlivening the instruction with the one mild double entendre, of “I decline a mistress.” At times they seem on terms of as perfect good fellowship as ever was, with a touch of post-matrimonial indifference; but Isopel had fits of weeping and Borrow of listlessness. Borrow was uncommonly fond of prophetic tragic irony. As he made Thurtell unconsciously suggest to the reader his own execution, so he makes Isopel say one day when she is going a journey: “I shall return once more.” Lavengro starts but thinks no more of it.

While she was away he began to think: “I began to think, ‘What was likely to be the profit of my present way of life; the living in dingles, making pony and donkey shoes, conversing with Gypsy-women under hedges, and extracting from them their odd secrets?’ What was likely to be the profit of such a kind of life, even should it continue for a length of time?—a supposition not very probable, for I was earning nothing to support me, and the funds with which I had entered upon this life were gradually disappearing. I was living, it is true, not unpleasantly, enjoying the healthy air of heaven; but, upon the whole, was I not sadly misspending my time? Surely I was; and, as I looked back, it appeared to me that I had always been doing so. What had been the profit of the tongues which I had learned? had they ever assisted me in the day of hunger? No, no! it appeared to me that I had always misspent my time, save in one instance, when by a desperate effort I had collected all the powers of my imagination, and written the ‘Life of Joseph Sell’; but even when I wrote the ‘Life of Sell,’ was I not in a false position? Provided I had not misspent my time, would it have been necessary to make that effort, which, after all, had only enabled me to leave London, and wander about the country for a time? But could I, taking all circumstances into consideration, have done better than I had? With my peculiar temperament and ideas, could I have pursued with advantage the profession to which my respectable parents had endeavoured to bring me up? It appeared to me that I could not, and that the hand of necessity had guided me from my earliest years, until the present night in which I found myself seated in the dingle, staring on the brands of the fire. But ceasing to think of the past which, as irrecoverably gone, it was useless to regret, even were there cause to regret it, what should I do in future? Should I write another book like the ‘Life of Joseph Sell;’ take it to London, and offer it to a publisher? But when I reflected on the grisly sufferings which I had undergone whilst engaged in writing the ‘Life of Sell,’ I shrank from the idea of a similar attempt; moreover, I doubted whether I possessed the power to write a similar work—whether the materials for the life of another Sell lurked within the recesses of my brain? Had I not better become in reality what I had hitherto been merely playing at—a tinker or a Gypsy? But I soon saw that I was not fitted to become either in reality. It was much more agreeable to play the Gypsy or the tinker, than to become either in reality. I had seen enough of gypsying and tinkering to be convinced of that. All of a sudden the idea of tilling the soil came into my head; tilling the soil was a healthful and noble pursuit! but my idea of tilling the soil had no connection with Britain; for I could only expect to till the soil in Britain as a serf. I thought of tilling it in America, in which it was said there was plenty of wild, unclaimed land, of which any one, who chose to clear it of its trees, might take possession. I figured myself in America, in an immense forest, clearing the land destined, by my exertions, to become a fruitful and smiling plain. Methought I heard the crash of the huge trees as they fell beneath my axe; and then I bethought me that a man was intended to marry—I ought to marry; and if I married, where was I likely to be more happy as a husband and a father than in America, engaged in tilling the ground? I fancied myself in America, engaged in tilling the ground, assisted by an enormous progeny. Well, why not marry, and go and till the ground in America? I was young, and youth was the time to marry in, and to labour in. I had the use of all my faculties; my eyes, it is true, were rather dull from early study, and from writing the ‘Life of Joseph Sell’; but I could see tolerably well with them, and they were not bleared. I felt my arms, and thighs, and teeth—they were strong and sound enough; so now was the time to labour, to marry, eat strong flesh, and beget strong children—the power of doing all this would pass away with youth, which was terribly transitory. I bethought me that a time would come when my eyes would be bleared, and perhaps, sightless; my arms and thighs strengthless and sapless; when my teeth would shake in my jaws, even supposing they did not drop out. No going a wooing then—no labouring—no eating strong flesh, and begetting lusty children then; and I bethought me how, when all this should be, I should bewail the days of my youth as misspent, provided I had not in them founded for myself a home, and begotten strong children to take care of me in the days when I could not take care of myself; and thinking of these things, I became sadder and sadder, and stared vacantly upon the fire till my eyes closed in a doze.”

So, before going to bed, he filled the kettle in case Isopel should return during the night. He fell asleep and was dreaming hard and hearing the sound of wheels in his dream “grating amidst sand and gravel,” when suddenly he awoke. “The next moment I was awake, and found myself sitting up in my tent; there was a glimmer of light through the canvas caused by the fire; a feeling of dread came over me, which was perhaps natural, on starting suddenly from one’s sleep in that wild lone place; I half imagined that some one was nigh the tent; the idea made me rather uncomfortable, and to dissipate it I lifted up the canvas of the door and peeped out, and, lo! I had an indistinct view of a tall figure standing by the tent. ‘Who is that?’ said I, whilst I felt my blood rush to my heart. ‘It is I,’ said the voice of Isopel Berners; ‘you little expected me, I dare say; well, sleep on, I do not wish to disturb you.’ ‘But I was expecting you,’ said I, recovering myself, ‘as you may see by the fire and the kettle. I will be with you in a moment.’

“Putting on in haste the articles of dress which I had flung off, I came out of the tent, and addressing myself to Isopel, who was standing beside her cart, I said—‘Just as I was about to retire to rest I thought it possible that you might come to-night, and got everything in readiness for you. Now, sit down by the fire whilst I lead the donkey and cart to the place where you stay; I will unharness the animal, and presently come and join you.’ ‘I need not trouble you,’ said Isopel; ‘I will go myself and see after my things.’ ‘We will go together,’ said I, ‘and then return and have some tea.’ Isopel made no objection, and in about half an hour we had arranged everything at her quarters. I then hastened and prepared tea. Presently Isopel rejoined me, bringing her stool; she had divested herself of her bonnet, and her hair fell over her shoulders; she sat down, and I poured out the beverage, handing her a cup. ‘Have you made a long journey to-night?’ said I. ‘A very long one,’ replied Belle,’ I have come nearly twenty miles since six o’clock.’ ‘I believe I heard you coming in my sleep,’ said I; ‘did the dogs above bark at you?’ ‘Yes,’ said Isopel, ‘very violently; did you think of me in your sleep?’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘I was thinking of Ursula and something she had told me.’ ‘When and where was that?’ said Isopel. ‘Yesterday evening,’ said I, ‘beneath the dingle hedge.’ ‘Then you were talking with her beneath the hedge?’ ‘I was,’ said I, ‘but only upon Gypsy matters. Do you know, Belle, that she has just been married to Sylvester, so you need not think that she and I . . . ’ ‘She and you are quite at liberty to sit where you please,’ said Isopel. ‘However, young man,’ she continued, dropping her tone, which she had slightly raised, ‘I believe what you said, that you were merely talking about Gypsy matters, and also what you were going to say, if it was, as I suppose, that she and you had no particular acquaintance.’ Isopel was now silent for some time. ‘What are you thinking of?’ said I. ‘I was thinking,’ said Belle, ‘how exceedingly kind it was of you to get everything in readiness for me, though you did not know that I should come.’ ‘I had a presentiment that you would come,’ said I; ‘but you forget that I have prepared the kettle for you before, though it was true I was then certain that you would come.’ ‘I had not forgotten your doing so, young man,’ said Belle; ‘but I was beginning to think that you were utterly selfish, caring for nothing but the gratification of your own strange whims.’ ‘I am very fond of having my own way,’ said I, ‘but utterly selfish I am not, as I dare say I shall frequently prove to you. You will often find the kettle boiling when you come home.’ ‘Not heated by you,’ said Isopel, with a sigh. ‘By whom else?’ said I; ‘surely you are not thinking of driving me away?’ ‘You have as much right here as myself,’ said Isopel, ‘as I have told you before; but I must be going myself.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘we can go together; to tell you the truth, I am rather tired of this place.’ ‘Our paths must be separate,’ said Belle. ‘Separate,’ said I, ‘what do you mean? I shan’t let you go alone, I shall go with you; and you know the road is as free to me as to you; besides, you can’t think of parting company with me, considering how much you would lose by doing so; remember that you scarcely know anything of the Armenian language; now, to learn Armenian from me would take you twenty years.’

“Belle faintly smiled. ‘Come,’ said I, ‘take another cup of tea.’ Belle took another cup of tea, and yet another; we had some indifferent conversation, after which I arose and gave her donkey a considerable feed of corn. Belle thanked me, shook me by the hand, and then went to her own tabernacle, and I returned to mine.”

He torments her once more with Armenian and makes her speak in such a way that the reader sees—what he himself did not then see—that she was too sick with love for banter. She bade him farewell with the same transparent significance on the next day, when he was off early to a fair. “I waved my hand towards her. She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away and never saw Isopel Berners again.” That night as he was going home he said: “Isopel Berners is waiting for me, and the first word that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind. We shall go to America, and be so happy together.” She sent him a letter of farewell, and he could not follow her, he would not try, lest if he overtook her she should despise him for running after her.

I can only say that it is an extraordinary love-making, but then all love-making, when truthfully reported, is extraordinary. There can be little doubt, therefore, that this episode is truthfully reported. Borrow himself has made a comment on himself and women through the mouth of Jasper. The Gypsy had overheard him talking to his sister Ursula for three hours under a hedge, and his opinion was: “I begin to think you care for nothing in this world but old words and strange stories.” When, afterwards, invited to kiss the same Ursula, he refused, “having,” he says, “inherited from nature a considerable fund of modesty, to which was added no slight store acquired in the course of my Irish education,” i.e. at the age of twelve.

After Isopel had gone he bought a fine horse with the help of a loan of £50 from Jasper, and travelled with it across England, meeting adventures and hearing of others. He was for a time bookkeeper at a coaching inn, still with some pounds in his purse. At Horncastle, which he mentions more than once by name, he sold the horse for £150. As the fair at Horncastle lasted from the 11th to the 21st of August, the date of this last adventure is almost exactly fixed. Here the book ends.

Horncastle Horse Fair. (From an old print.)