Borrow as a Christian is very conspicuous in this book. He cannot speak of Sir Henry Morgan without calling him "a scourge of God on the cruel Spaniards of the New World. . . . On which account God prospered and favoured him, permitting him to attain the noble age of ninety." He was fond of discovering the hand of God, for example, in changing a nunnery--"a place devoted to gorgeous idolatry and obscene lust"--into a quiet old barn: "Surely," he asks, "the hand of God is visible here?" and the respectful mower answers: "It is so, sir." In the same way, when he has told a man called Dafydd Tibbot, that he is a Frenchman--"Dearie me, sir, am I indeed?" says the man, very pleased--he supposes the man a descendant of a proud, cruel, violent Norman, for the descendants of proud, cruel and violent men "are doomed by God to come to the dogs." He tells us that he comforted himself, after thinking that his wife and daughter and himself would before long be dead, by the reflection that "such is the will of Heaven, and that Heaven is good." He showed his respect for Sunday by going to church and hesitating to go to Plynlimmon--"It is really not good to travel on the Sunday without going into a place of worship." He wished, as he passed Gwynfe, which means Paradise,--or _Gwynfa_ does; but no matter,--that he had never read Tom Payne, who "thinks there's not such a place as Paradise." He lectures a poet's mistress for not staying with her hunchbacked old husband and making him comfortable: he expresses satisfaction at the poet's late repentance. After praising Dafydd as the Welsh Ovid and Horace and Martial, he says: "Finally, he was something more; he was what not one of the great Latin poets was, a Christian; that is, in his latter days, when he began to feel the vanity of all human pursuits, when his nerves began to be unstrung, his hair to fall off, and his teeth to drop out, and he then composed sacred pieces entitling him to rank with--we were going to say Caedmon--had we done so we should have done wrong; no uninspired poet ever handled sacred subjects like the grand Saxon Skald--but which entitle him to be called a great religious poet, inferior to none but the _protege_ of Hilda." (Here, by the way, he omits to correct the plural unity of the "Quarterly Reviewer.")