A bookish youth could not fail to be influenced by such associations, and it may well be that Borrow’s thoughts were first drawn into a literary groove by a knowledge of what certain of these Norwich celebrities were doing. The delight he had found in the pages of his book of Danish ballads, inspired him to turn his pen from the copying of deeds to the writing of verses. His “Romantic Ballads from the Danish,” printed by Simon Wilkins of Norwich, and consisting of translations from his prized volume, appeared in 1826. Dr. Jessop surmises that these translations must have brought him in a very respectable sum, but Mr. Augustus Birrell, in his own inimitable way, expresses his doubt on the point. “I hope it was so,” he writes, “but, as Dr. Johnson once said about the immortality of the soul, I should like more evidence of it.”
Borrow’s translations and linguistic pursuits, however, were not allowed to occupy all his spare hours in those early days. Norwich and its neighbourhood had too much to show him, and to move him to reflection and enthusiasm, to allow this to be the case. By degrees, he came to love the old city, as he never got to love any other place in after-life. Writing many years later, the memories of it flooded in upon his brain until he saw its castle and cathedral, its homes and hospitality, in such a rosy light as never glowed upon the scenes through which he journeyed in after years. “Who can wonder,” he asks, “that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples.”
The grey old castle and stately cathedral were a never-failing source of interest, worship and delight to him, as they have been to many who cannot claim East Anglia for their homeland. Often he would lie upon the grass in the sunlight and watch the rooks and choughs circle about their battlements and spires. As he said, he was not formed for an indoor student, and outdoor life had ever a greater charm for him than the library or the study. Often with rod and gun (he had an old Tower musket nearly eighty years old) he would go down amongst the marshes to angle or shoot as the fancy took him and the season gave him sport. Fortunately, the old fowling-piece was sound, although condemned on account of its age, and he never came to harm by it; indeed, if we may believe him in this matter—and it is always hard to put implicit faith in a solitary sportsman or angler—he did considerable execution amongst the birds of the Broadland.