Letters of George Borrow to the British and Foreign Bible SocietyBorrow, George
Religion
Letters of George Borrow to the British and Foreign Bible Society
Borrow, George
Authors, English -- 19th century -- Correspondence; British and Foreign Bible Society; English letters
On my leaving him, the boy came from his hiding-place and rejoined me; he
said his reason for hiding himself was fear that his master might know
that it was he who brought me to him, for that the old man was ashamed of
appearing in the character of a schoolmaster. I asked the boy whether he
or his parents were acquainted with the Scripture and ever read it; but
he did not understand me. I must here observe that the boy was fifteen
years of age, and that he was in many respects very intelligent and had
some knowledge of the Latin language; nevertheless he knew not the
Scripture even by name, and I have no doubt that at least one half of his
countrymen are, in that respect, no wiser than himself. I have
questioned the children of Portugal at the doors of village inns, at the
hearths of their cottages, in the fields where they labour, at the stone
Mountains by the way-sides where they water their cattle, about the
Scripture, the Bible, the Old and New Testament, and in scarcely one
instance have they known what I was alluding to or could return me a
rational answer, though in all other instances I had no reason to
complain of their want of apprehension. Indeed nothing has surprised me
more than the free and unembarrassed manner with which the Portuguese
peasantry sustain a conversation, and the purity of the language in which
they express their thoughts; and yet very few of them can write or read,
whereas the peasantry of our own country, whose education is in general
much superior, are in their conversation coarse and dull almost to
brutality, and absurdly ungrammatical in the language which they use,
though the English tongue, upon the whole, is more simple in its grammar
than the Portuguese.
On my way back from Mafra to Cintra I very nearly lost my life. As the
night was closing in fast, we left the regular road by the advice of the
guide, and descending the hill on which Mafra stands reached the bottom
of the valley, from which there is a narrow pathway winding round the
next hill, exceedingly steep, with a precipice on the left side; the
horse on which I was mounted, and which was by no means suited for such
climbing, in his violent struggles to accomplish the ascent burst the
girth of the saddle, so that I was cast violently off, with the saddle
beneath me. Fortunately, I fell on the right side, or I should have
rolled down the hill and probably have been killed; as it was, I remained
stunned and senseless for two or three minutes, when I revived, and with
the assistance of the guide and the man who waits on me, walked up the
remaining part of the hill, when, the saddle being readjusted, I mounted
again. I was very drowsy and stupid for two or three days, from the
influence of the fall, but I am happy to say at present, thanks to the
Almighty, I have long ceased to feel any inconvenience from it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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