ur as individual as that of some wines. A characteristic
of this kind probably accompanies the romantic _ethos_ more commonly
than superficial judges both of life and literature are apt to suppose;
but the conjunction is nowhere seen better than in Borrow. Whether
humour can or cannot exist without a disposition to satire co-existing,
is one of those abstract points of criticism for which the public of the
present day has little appetite. It is certain (and that is what chiefly
concerns us for the present) that the two were not dissociated in
Borrow. His purely satirical faculty was very strong indeed, and
probably if he had lived a less retired life it would have found fuller
exercise. At present the most remarkable instance of it which exists is
the inimitable portrait-caricature of the learned Unitarian, generally
known as "Taylor of Norwich." I have somewhere (I think it was in Miss
Martineau's _Autobiography_) seen this reflected on as a flagrant
instance of ingratitude and ill-nature. The good Harriet, among whose
numerous gifts nature had not included any great sense of humour,
naturally did not perceive the artistic justification of the sketch,
which I do not hesitate to call one of the most masterly things of the
kind in literature.

Another Taylor, the well-known French baron of that name, is much more
mildly treated, though with little less skill of portraiture. As for
"the publisher" of _Lavengro_, the portrait there, though very clever,
is spoilt by rather too much evidence of personal animus, and by the
absence of redeeming strokes; but it shows the same satiric power as
the sketch of the worthy student of German who has had the singular
ill-fortune to have his books quizzed by Carlyle, and himself quizzed by
Borrow. It is a strong evidence of Borrow's abstraction from general
society that with this satiric gift, and evidently with a total freedom
from scruple as to its application, he should have left hardly anything
else of the kind. It is indeed impossible to ascertain how much of the
abundant character-drawing in his four chief books (all of which, be it
remembered, are autobiographic and professedly historical) is fact and
how much fancy. It is almost impossible to open them anywhere without
coming upon personal sketches, more or less elaborate, in which the
satiric touch is rarely wanting. The official admirer of "the grand
Baintham" at remote Corcubion, the end of all the European world; the
treasur