Next to Borrow's vagabondage, which, though I tremble to say it, has a decidedly literary flavour, and his delightful _camaraderie_ or willingness to hob-a-nob with everybody, I rank his eloquence. Great is plot, though Borrow has but little, and that little mechanical; delightful is incident, and Borrow is full of incident--e.g. the poisoning scene in Chapter LXXI., where will you match it, unless it be the very differently-treated scene of the robbers' cave in _The Heart of Midlothian_? and glorious, too, is motion, and Borrow never stagnates, never gathers moss or mould. But great also is eloquence. 'If a book be eloquent,' says Mr. Stevenson, that most distinguished writer, 'its words run thenceforward in our ears like the noise of breakers.' Eloquence is a little unfashionable just now. We are not allowed very much of it in our romances and travels. What are called 'situations' grow stronger every day, and language is strong too, but outbursts, apostrophes, rhapsodies no longer abound. Perhaps they are forbidden by Art. Nobody is ever eloquent in real life. A man's friends would not put up with it. But a really eloquent book is a great possession. Plots explode, and incidents, however varied and delightful, unless lit up by the occasional lightning-flash of true eloquence, must after a while lose their freshness. Borrow was not afraid to be eloquent, nor were other writers of his time. The first Lord Lytton is now a somewhat disparaged author, nor had Borrow any affection for him, considering him to belong to the kid-glove school; but Lytton's eloquence, though often playing him shabby tricks, now dashing his head against the rocks of bathos, now casting him to sprawl unbecomingly amongst the oozy weeds of sentiment, will keep him alive for many a long day. As I write, a passage in _The Caxtons_ comes to my mind, and as it illustrates my meaning, I will take down _The Caxtons_ and transcribe the passage, and let those laugh who may. I will likewise christen it 'By the Fireside':--