The pocket George Borrow — Reading Notes

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In Category - Fantasy Juvenile Worlds

Authors: Borrow, George, 1803-1881, Thomas, Edward, 1878-1917 [Compiler] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2004 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Borrow, George, 1803-1881 -- Selections; Authors, English -- 19th century Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 46,765

Reading time 204 min

Text sections 4

For The pocket George Borrow — Reading Notes, the stored edition analysis reports 46,765 words, 3 hr 24 min estimated reading time, and 4 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 26.5 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Borrow, George, 1803-1881 -- Selections,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #13957

Edward Thomas's 1912 selection of passages from George Borrow's works, including Lavengro, The Bible in Spain, and Wild Wales, offers a portable anthology that captures Borrow's distinctive voice—his love of horses, Gypsy lore, pugilism, and eccentric conversation. The excerpts reveal a writer who blends travel narrative, autobiography, and digressive argument, often through vivid dialogue and sharp observation of people and landscapes.

Editorial Edition Score 4.6/5

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Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
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File: pg13957

Read the Text

There was something peculiarly strange about the figure; but what struck me the most was the tranquillity with which it moved along, taking no heed of me, though of course aware of my proximity, but looking straight forward along the road, save when it occasionally raised a huge face and large eyes towards the moon, which was now shining forth in the eastern quarter. . . .

'A cold night,' said I at last. 'Is this the way to Talavera?'

'It is the way to Talavera, and the night is cold.'

'I am going to Talavera,' said I, 'as I suppose you are yourself.'

'I am going thither, so are you, bueno.'

The tones of the voice which delivered these words were in their way quite as strange and singular as the figure to which the voice belonged. They were not exactly the tones of a Spanish voice, and yet there was something in them that could hardly be foreign; the pronunciation also was correct, and the language, though singular, faultless. But I was most struck with the manner in which the last word, bueno, was spoken. I had heard something like it before, but where or when I could by no means remember. A pause now ensued, the figure stalking on as before with the most perfect indifference, and seemingly with no disposition either to seek or avoid conversation.

'Are you not afraid,' said I at last, 'to travel these roads in the dark? It is said that there are robbers abroad.'

'Are you not rather afraid,' replied the figure, 'to travel these roads in the dark?--you who are ignorant of the country, who are a foreigner, an Englishman?'

'How is it that you know me to be an Englishman?' demanded I, much surprised.

'That is no difficult matter,' replied the figure; 'the sound of your voice was enough to tell me that.'

'You speak of voices,' said I; 'suppose the tone of your own voice were to tell me who you are?'

'That it will not do,' replied my companion; 'you know nothing about me--you can know nothing about me.'

'Be not sure of that, my friend; I am acquainted with many things of which you have little idea.'

'Por exemplo,' said the figure.

'For example,' said I, 'you speak two languages.'

The figure moved on, seemed to consider a moment and then said slowly, 'Bueno.'

'You have two names,' I continued; 'one for the house, and the other for the street; both are good, but the one by which you are called at home is the one which you like best.'

The man walked on about ten paces, in the same manner as he had previously done; all of a sudden he turned, and taking the bridle of the burra gently in his hand, stopped her. I had now a full view of his face and figure, and those huge features and Herculean form still occasionally revisit me in my dreams. I see him standing in the moonshine, staring me in the face with his deep calm eyes. At last he said--

'Are you then _one of us_?'

Upon the shoulder of the goatherd was a beast, which he told me was a lontra, or otter, which he had lately caught in the neighbouring brook; it had a string round its neck, which was attached to his arm. At his left side was a bag, from the top of which peered the heads of two or three singular looking animals; and at his right was squatted the sullen cub of a wolf, which he was endeavouring to tame. His whole appearance was to the last degree savage and wild. After a little conversation, such as those who meet on the road frequently hold, I asked him if he could read, but he made me no answer. I then inquired if he knew anything of God or Jesus Christ; he looked me fixedly in the face for a moment, and then turned his countenance towards the sun, which was beginning to sink in the west, nodded to it, and then again looked fixedly upon me. I believe that I understood the mute reply, which probably was, that it was God who made that glorious light which illumes and gladdens all creation; and, gratified with that belief, I left him and hastened after my companions, who were by this time a considerable way in advance.

Continue Reading →

Edward Thomas, better known as a poet and critic, compiled this 1912 pocket anthology of George Borrow with a clear purpose: to give strangers an invitation and lovers a keepsake. His note admits the selection is neither complete nor authoritative, but aims to capture Borrow's distinctive, unhurried voice. The passages are longer than typical for such anthologies, because Borrow, as Thomas observes, is not a pithy writer. What emerges is a portrait of a writer who moves between genres—travel, memoir, philology, pugilism—with a restless curiosity that resists easy categorization.

A Compiler's Candor

Thomas's preface is unusually frank about the limits of his project. He writes that after reading Borrow once or twice, a reader will likely dip into his books at intervals, gradually making a personal anthology. Yet he offers his own selection, hoping it will serve as an invitation or challenge. He acknowledges that many of the best things, especially from Wild Wales, had to be omitted because they are longer still. This honesty sets the tone: the anthology is a personal gesture, not a definitive collection. Thomas also notes that Borrow is not best when sententious, which explains why the chosen passages favor narrative and dialogue over moralizing.

Voices in Dispute

Borrow's writing thrives on argument. In one excerpt, a Spanish nobleman declares a preference for mules over horses, claiming horses kick too violently. Borrow's narrator counters with a technical point about mules that kick backward, adding a wry remark about the Father of the Church. Elsewhere, Francis Ardry and the narrator debate great men—Alexander, Napoleon, Tamerlane—before Ardry dismisses Wellington with a curt 'bah!' and returns to dog-fighting. These exchanges reveal Borrow's love of learned digression and his ear for the rhythms of spoken disagreement. The reader encounters a writer who treats conversation as a form of combat, but one conducted with relish rather than rancor.

Horses, Fairs, and the Road

Borrow's world is full of horses and the people who judge them. In a fair scene, the narrator rides a horse that attracts the attention of jockey-like connoisseurs. He ignores their calls, remembering the ostler's advice, and once outside town, he clears a five-barred gate to display the animal's quality. The passage is dense with practical detail—the horse's walking step versus its long trot, the borrowed finery that improves its appearance, the two gates fronting each other. Borrow writes with the authority of someone who knows horses intimately, and the scene conveys the tactile, competitive atmosphere of a country fair. The narrator's silent defiance of the experts adds a layer of quiet pride.

A Portable Anthology's Shape

The contents list shows the range of Borrow's work: Lavengro, The Romany Rye, The Bible in Spain, Wild Wales, and the Zincali. Thomas has chosen passages that highlight Borrow's fascination with Gypsies, pugilism, and religious controversy, but also quieter moments—a moonlit landscape, a goatherd's shoulder, a landlord bringing ale. The selection is weighted toward narrative and character rather than exposition. Because the excerpts are taken from longer works, the reader encounters scenes out of their original context, but Thomas's arrangement creates its own rhythm, moving from the Zincali's caves to Jasper Petulengro's opinions on death, from the bruisers' arrival to the binding of a book. The anthology becomes a mosaic of Borrow's obsessions.

This anthology is best read not as a summary of Borrow's achievement but as a series of encounters. Thomas has chosen passages that reward rereading: the dialogue crackles, the landscapes are sharply observed, and the narrator's voice—at once learned, stubborn, and curious—grows more distinctive with each excerpt. Readers new to Borrow might start with the horse fair or the argument about mules; those already familiar will find old friends in new arrangements. The pocket format invites dipping, as Thomas intended, and the book's value lies in the moments it preserves.

There are days when I dip into this Borrow and feel the wildness of his roads, the Gypsy voices lingering past the page. It reminds me of another quiet companion, Cambridge Sketches — Reading Notes, which holds a different sort of wandering—through quadrangles and memories. Both feel like old friends who never hurry their stories, and I’m grateful for that slowness.