arrow path from the church leads you to
Oulton Hall, which came into the possession of Borrow by marriage, really
a very plain, red-brick, capacious, comfortable-looking old farmhouse,
only of a superior class. Keeping the Hall to the right, you reach a
gate, which opens into a very narrow lane, full of mud in the winter and
dust in the summer. The lane loses itself in the marshland, on the
borders of Lake Lothing--a name supposed to have been derived from a
certain Danish prince, murdered on the spot by a jealous Court retainer;
and it is a fitting place for a murder, as in that lonely district there
was no eye to pity, no ear to hear, no hand to save. Even to-day, as you
look away from the train, there is little sign of life, save the sail of
a distant wherry as it makes sluggishly for Norwich or Beccles, as it
goes either into the Waveney or the Yare; or the gray wing of the heron
as it flies heavily along the marsh; and that is all. Far away, perhaps,
rises a ridge, with a house on it; or a steeple, with a few trees
struggling to yield the barren spot a shelter from the suns of summer or
the howling winds of winter; but all is still life there, and the
habitations of men are few and far between. In the particular lane to
which I have introduced the reader--there are but two--there is a little
cottage on your left, and beyond, under a group of trees, mostly fir,
which almost hide it from view, a home of a rather superior character, in
a very dilapidated condition, with everything around it more or less
untidy--that was where George Borrow lived and worked in his way for many
a long day. The step-daughter and her husband reside there now--very
ancient people, who are to be seen driving about Lowestoft in a little
wicker car, drawn by an amiable and active donkey, an aged dog guarding
the cottage during their temporary absence. The female, an ancient one,
who did for the house, lives in the little cottage which the tourist will
have already observed, and the interior of which presented, when I peeped
in, a far greater idea of comfort than did Oulton Cottage, the residence
of the late George Borrow. The picture one gets is rather a melancholy
one. 'He was a funny-tempered man'--that seems to have been the idea of
the few people around. Latterly he kept no company, and no one came to
see him. All who did call on him, however, tell me that he was well
dressed, but that all the interior of the house was dirty. Wel