riotism Borrow is superficially more unsound
in "Wild Wales." At Birmingham railway station he "became a modern
Englishman, enthusiastically proud of modern England's science and
energy"; at the sight of Norman castles he felt no Norman enthusiasm, but
only hate for the Norman name, which he associated with "the deflowering
of helpless Englishwomen, the plundering of English homesteads, and the
tearing out of Englishmen's eyes"; but when he was asked on Snowdon if he
was a Breton, he replied: "I wish I was, or anything but what I am, one
of a nation amongst whom any knowledge save what relates to money-making
and over-reaching is looked upon as a disgrace. I am ashamed to say that
I am an Englishman." And at Gutter Fawr he gloomily expressed the
opinion that we were not going to beat the Russians--"the Russians are a
young nation and we are an old; they are coming on and we are going off;
every dog has its day." But this was mere refractoriness. England had
not asked his advice; she had moreover joined forces with her old enemy,
France: the patriot therefore hoped that she would perish to fulfil his
own prophecy that she must. And after the vaticination he sat down to a
large dish of veal cutlets, fried bacon and potatoes, with a jug of ale,
and "made one of the best suppers he ever made in his life," finally
"trifling" with some whisky and water. That is "the religion of every
sensible man," which is Lord Tennyson's phrase, I believe, but my
interpretation.

CHAPTER XXXI--"WILD WALES": STYLE

"Wild Wales" having been written from a tourist's note books is less
flowing than "The Bible in Spain" and less delicate than "Lavengro" and
"The Romany Rye." A man is often called an "individual," the sun is
called "the candle of God." A book just bought is "my late literary
acquisition." Facts such as "I returned to Llangollen by nearly the same
way by which I had come," abound. Sentences straight from his note book,
lacking either in subject or predicate, occur here and there. At times a
clause with no sort of value is admitted, as when, forgetting the name of
Kilvey Hill, he says that Swansea town and harbour "are overhung on the
side of the east by a lofty green mountain with a Welsh name, no doubt
exceedingly appropriate, but which I regret to say has escaped my
memory."

{picture: The Dolaucothy Arms. Photo: A. & G. Taylor, Swansea:
page302.jpg}

More than once his direct simplicity slips into what