You will find none of them in his works; but you will find “part of the secret, brother,” especially in the Dingle. For there Borrow is at his best, in the open air, among the gipsies—with Jasper, Pakomovna, Tawno, Ursula, the Man in Black, and Belle Berners, interlocutors in dialogues of the greenwood unrivalled since the heyday of the forest of Arden. Once more “Lavengro” badly belied the expectations of those who were looking out for another “Eothen”; and finally, apart the author’s objectionable and reactionary prejudices, there were other and obvious faults about the book (mainly of literary detail, style, and arrangement) which were abundantly manifest to the strenuous critics of 1851. What these gentry did not perceive was the unique character of the book—its truth, its reality, its open-air quality, its distinctive humour, its dramatic power, the genius which revealed to Borrow instinctively the literary form and the picaresque manner which formed the right, nay the inevitable, setting of the particular story that he had to tell. Borrow’s previous success only served to emphasize the bitterness of his defeat, for so he regarded the failure of his originality to carry his darling “Lavengro” through the breakers. He complained that he had “had the honour” of being rancorously abused by every unmanly scoundrel, every sycophantic lackey, and every political and religious renegade in the kingdom. His fury was that of an angry bull tormented by gnats. His worst passions were aroused, his most violent prejudices confirmed. But the abuse did not divert him by a hairbreadth from his preconceived plan. He proceeded with deliberation to carry on in “The Romany Rye” the story so abruptly suspended at the close of the hundredth chapter of “Lavengro.” The first chapters of “The Romany Rye” (which was not actually published until May, 1857) are quite equal to anything that Borrow ever wrote. The book falls off a little towards the close, which is, if possible, even more abrupt and inconclusive than that of “Lavengro” itself. In the appendix, the bigotries, hatreds, and centrifugal propensities which made up the George Borrow of 1850–57 were emphasized and underlined for the benefit of the flunkeys, vipers, and “yahoos” who had dared to asperse his autobiography. He never carried his story on from 1825 to 1832 or wrote the once projected “Bible in Russia”; perhaps he never meant to do so; but, even if he had, we more than doubt whether they would have approached in value the first 116 chapters of his immortal autobiography. His remaining work was the detailed journal of a vacation tour in “Wild Wales,” which was in no way inferior to its predecessors in literary value, though it is considerably below them in general interest. Wild people and old word-music, in its “native wood-notes wild,” were a passion with Borrow to the last, and helped to save him from himself. He suffered terribly from horror of