Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

“A labhair Padric ’nninsè Fail na Riogh
’San faighe caomhsin Colum naomhtha ’n I.”

[which] “Patrick spoke in Innisfail to heathen chiefs of old,
And Columb, the mild prophet-saint, spoke in his island-hold.”

So Borrow gives the Irish and his version in Romantic Ballads, p. VIII. The Erse lines were taken from Lhuyd’s Archaeologia Britannica, Oxford, 1707.

—⁠Knapp ↩

The Castle: Loughmore Castle. —⁠Knapp ↩

Figure of a man: Jerry Grant, the Irish outlaw. See the Newgate Calendars subsequent to 1840⁠—Pelham. Griffith, etc. —⁠Knapp ↩

“Sas” and “Sassanach,” of course mean Englishman or English (Saxon). —⁠Knapp ↩

Clergyman of the parish: The Rev. Patrick Kennedy, vicar of Loughmore. His name is also on the list of subscribers to the Romantic Ballads, Norwich, 1826, as J. Kennedy, by mistake. —⁠Knapp ↩

Swanton Morley: A village near East Dereham. —⁠Knapp ↩

MS., “like the philologist Scaliger, who, though acquainted with the exact value of every word in the Latin language, could see no beauty in the ‘Enchantments of Canidia,’ the masterpiece of the prince of Roman poets. What knew he,” etc. —⁠Knapp ↩

Arrigod yuit (Irish), read “airgiod dhuit:” Have you any money? —⁠Knapp ↩

Tabhair chugam (pronounced “tower khoogam”): Give (it) to me. —⁠Knapp ↩

Is agam an’t leigeas (read “an t-leigheas”): I have the remedy. —⁠Knapp ↩

Another word: deaghbhlasda: See Romany Rye, p. 266, and Notes and Queries, 5th May, 1855, p. 339, article by George Métivier. —⁠Knapp ↩

Old city: Norwich. The regiment having returned to headquarters, 11th May, 1816, was mustered out 17th June. The author describes the city from the “ruined wall” of the old Priory on the hill to the east. —⁠Knapp ↩

The Norman Bridge: is Bishop’s Bridge. —⁠Knapp ↩

Sword of Cordova, in Guild Hall, is a mistake for the sword of the Spanish General Don Xavier Winthuysen. —⁠Knapp ↩

Vone banished priest: Rev. Thomas d’Éterville. The MS. gives the following inedited account of D’Éterville. I omit the oft-recurring expletive sacré (accursed):⁠—

Myself. Were you not yourself forced to flee from your country?

D’Éterville. That’s very true.⁠ ⁠… I became one vagabond⁠—nothing better, I assure you, my dear; had you seen me, you would have said so. I arrive at Douvres; no welcome. I walk to Canterbury and knock at the door of one auberge. The landlord opens. “What do you here?” he says; “who are you?” “Vone exiled priest,” I reply. “Get you gone, sirrah!” he says; “we have beggars enough of our own,” and he slams the door in my face. Ma foi, il faisoit bien, for my toe was sticking through my shoe.

Myself. But you are no longer a vagabond, and your toe does not stick through your shoe now.

D’Éterville. No, thank God, the times are changed. I walked and walked, till I came here, where I became one philologue and taught tongues⁠—French and Italian. I found good friends here, those of my religion. “He very good man,” they say; “one banished priest; we must help him.” I am no longer a vagabond⁠—ride a good horse when I go to visit pupils in the country⁠—stop at auberge⁠—landlord comes to the door: “What do you please to want, sir?” “Only to bait my horse, that is all.” Eh bien, landlord very polite; he not call me vagabond; I carry pistols in my pocket.

Myself. I know you do; I have often seen them. But why do you carry pistols?

D’Éterville. I ride along the road from the distant village. I have been to visit my pupil whom I instruct in philology. My pupil has paid me my bill, and I carry in my purse the fruits of my philology. I come to one dark spot. Suddenly my bridle is seized, and one tall robber stands at my horse’s head with a very clumsy club in his hand. “Stand, rascal,” says he; “your life or your purse!” “Very good, sir,” I respond; “there you have it.” So I put my hand, not into my pocket, but into my holster; I draw out, not my purse, but my weapon, and⁠—bang! I shoot the English robber through the head.

Myself. It is a bad thing to shed blood; I should be loth to shoot a robber to save a purse.

D’Éterville. Que tu es bête! mon ami. Am I to be robbed of the fruits of my philology, made in foreign land, by one English robber? Shall I become once more one vagabond as of old? one exiled priest turned from people’s doors, my shoe broken, toe sticking through it, like that bad poet who put the Pope in hell? Bah, bah!

By degrees D’Éterville acquired a considerable fortune for one in his station. Some people go so far as to say that it was principally made by an extensive contraband trade in which he was engaged. Be this as it may, some twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, he departed this life, and shortly before his death his fellow-religionists, who knew him to be wealthy, persuaded him to make a will, by which he bequeathed all his property to certain popish establishments in England. In his last hours, however, he repented, destroyed his first will, and made another, in which he left all he had to certain of his relations in his native country;⁠—“for,” said he, “they think me one fool, but I will show them that they are mistaken. I came to this land one banished priest, where I made one small fortune; and now I am dying, to whom should I leave the fruits of my philology but to my blood-relations? In God’s name, let me sign.