on, has written no less than four papers on one
whom he knew and admires personally, and of whom he insists that "his
idealizing powers, his romantic cast of mind, his force, his originality,
give him a title to a permanent place high in the ranks of English prose
writers."

All this is very interesting, but in literature as in life we have got to
work out our own destinies. We have not got to accept Borrow because
this or that critic tells us he is good. I have therefore no quarrel
with any one present who does not share my view that Borrow was one of
the greater glories of English literature. I only desire to state my
case for him.

To be a lover of Borrow, a Borrovian, in fact, it is not necessary to
know all his books. You may never have seen copies of the _Romantic
Ballads_ or of _Faustus_, of _Targum_ or of _The Turkish Jester_, of
Borrow's translation of _The Talisman_ of Pushkin. Your state may be
none the less gracious. To possess these books is largely a collector's
hobby. They are interesting, but they would not have made for the author
an undying reputation. Further, you may not care for _The Bible in
Spain_, you may be untouched by the _Gypsies in Spain_ and _Wild Wales_,
and even then I will not deny to you the title of a good Borrovian, if
only you pronounce _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_ to be among the
greatest books you know. I can admire the _Gypsies in Spain_ and _Wild
Wales_. I can read _The Bible in Spain_ with something of the enthusiasm
with which our fathers read it. It is a stirring narrative of travel and
much more. Robert Louis Stevenson did, indeed, rank it among his "dear
acquaintances" in bookland, "the _Pilgrim's Progress_ in the first rank,
_The Bible in Spain_ not far behind," he says. All the same, it has not,
none of these three books has, the distinctive mark of first class genius
that belongs to the other two in the five-volumed edition of Borrow's
Collected Works that many of us have read through more than once. Not
all clever people have thought _Lavengro_ and _The Romany Rye_ to be thus
great. A critic in the _Athenaeum_ declared _Lavengro_ when it was
published in 1851 to be "balderdash," while a critic writing just fifty
years afterwards and writing from Norfolk, alas! insisted that the author
of this book "was absolutely wanting in the power of invention" that he
(Borrow) could "only have drawn upon his memory," that he had "no sense
of humour." If all this w