Lavengro, George Borrow [i love reading books txt] 📗

one fine poem in the German language, that poem is the Oberon;364 a poem, by the by, ignored by the Germans⁠—a speaking fact⁠—and of course, by the Anglo-Germanists. The Germans! he has been amongst them, and amongst many other nations, and confesses that his opinion of the Germans, as men, is a very low one. Germany, it is true, has produced one very great man, the monk who fought the Pope, and nearly knocked him down; but this man his countrymen⁠—a telling fact⁠—affect to despise, and, of course, the Anglo-Germanists: the father of Anglo-Germanism365 was very fond of inveighing against Luther.

The madness, or rather foolery, of the English for foreign customs, dresses and languages, is not an affair of today, or yesterday⁠—it is of very ancient date, and was very properly exposed nearly three centuries ago by one Andrew Borde,366 who under the picture of a “Naked man, with a pair of shears in one hand, and a roll of cloth in the other,” inserted the following lines along with others:⁠—367

I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
Musing in my mind what garment I shall weare;
For now I will weare this, and now I will weare that,
Now I will weare, I cannot tell what.
All new fashions be pleasant to mee,
I will have them, whether I thrive or thee;
What do I care if all the world me fail?
I will have a garment [shall] reach to my taile;
Then am I a minion, for I weare the new guise.
The next yeare after I hope to be wise,
Not only in wearing my gorgeous array,
For I will go to learning a whole summer’s day,
I will learn Latine, Hebrew, Greek, and French,
And I will learn Dutch, sitting on my bench.
I had no peere if to myself I were true,
Because I am not so, diverse times do I rue.
Yet I lacke nothing, I have all things at will
If I were wise and would hold myself still,
And meddle with no matters but to me pertaining,
But ever to be true to God and my King.
But I have such matters rowling in my pate,
That I will and do⁠—I cannot tell what, etc.

IV On Gentility Nonsense

What is gentility? People in different stations in England entertain different ideas of what is genteel,368 but it must be something gorgeous, glittering or tawdry, to be considered genteel by any of them. The beau-ideal of the English aristocracy, of course with some exceptions, is some young fellow with an imperial title, a military personage of course, for what is military is so particularly genteel, with flaming epaulets, a cocked hat and plume, a prancing charger, and a band of fellows called generals and colonels, with flaming epaulets, cocked hats and plumes, and prancing chargers vapouring behind him. It was but lately that the daughter of an English marquis was heard to say, that the sole remaining wish of her heart⁠—she had known misfortunes, and was not far from fifty⁠—was to be introduced to⁠—whom? The Emperor of Austria! The sole remaining wish of the heart of one who ought to have been thinking of the grave and judgment, was to be introduced to the miscreant who had caused the blood of noble Hungarian females to be whipped out of their shoulders, for no other crime than devotion to their country, and its tall and heroic sons. The middle classes⁠—of course there are some exceptions⁠—admire the aristocracy, and consider them pinks, the aristocracy who admire the Emperor of Austria, and adored the Emperor of Russia, till he became old, ugly and unfortunate, when their adoration instantly terminated; for what is more ungenteel than age, ugliness and misfortune! The beau-ideal with those of the lower classes, with peasants and mechanics, is some flourishing railroad contractor: look, for example, how they worship Mr. Flamson.369 This person makes his grand début in the year ’thirty-nine, at a public meeting in the principal room of a country inn. He has come into the neighbourhood with the character of a man worth a million pounds, who is to make everybody’s fortune; at this time, however, he is not worth a shilling of his own, though he flashes about dexterously three or four thousand pounds, part of which sum he has obtained by specious pretences, and part from certain individuals who are his confederates. But in the year ’forty-nine, he is really in possession of the fortune which he and his agents pretended he was worth ten years before⁠—he is worth a million pounds. By what means has he come by them? By railroad contracts, for which he takes care to be paid in hard cash before he attempts to perform them, and to carry out which he makes use of the sweat and blood of wretches who, since their organisation, have introduced crimes and language into England to which it was previously almost a stranger⁠—by purchasing, with paper, shares by hundreds in the schemes to execute which he contracts, and which are of his own devising; which shares he sells as soon as they are at a high premium, to which they are speedily forced by means of paragraphs, inserted by himself and agents, in newspapers devoted to his interest, utterly reckless of the terrible depreciation to which they are almost instantly subjected. But he is worth a million pounds, there can be no doubt of the fact⁠—he has not made people’s fortunes, at least those whose fortunes it was said he would make; he has made them away; but his own he has made, emphatically made it; he is worth a million pounds. Hurrah for the millionnaire! The clown who views the pandemonium of red brick which he has built on the estate which he has purchased in the neighbourhood of the place of his grand début in which every species of architecture, Greek, Indian and Chinese, is employed in caricature⁠—who hears of the grand entertainment