rd Bridge, at which the
party from the Hall attended, and where George Borrow was one of the
speakers. After the meeting was over, all the speakers went back to
supper at Oulton Hall, and my friend among them, who, in the course of
the supper, found himself attacked very violently by the clergyman for
holding Calvinistic opinions. Naturally my friend replied that the
clergyman was bound to do the same. 'How do you make that out?' 'Why,
the Articles of your Church are Calvinistic, and to them you have sworn
assent.' 'Oh yes, but there is a way of explaining them away.' 'How
so?' said my friend. 'Oh,' replied the clergyman, 'we are not bound to
take the words in their natural sense.' My friend, an honest, blunt East
Anglian, intimated that he did not understand that way of evading the
difficulty; but he was then a young man, and did not like to continue the
discussion further. However, George Borrow, who had not said a word
hitherto, entered into the discussion, opening fire on the clergyman in a
very unexpected manner, and giving him such a setting down as the
hearers, at any rate, never forgot. All the sophistry about the
non-natural meaning of terms was held up by Borrow to ridicule, even
contempt; and the clergyman was beaten at every point. 'Never,' says my
friend, 'did I hear one man give another such a dressing as on that
occasion.' It was not always, however, that Borrow thus shone. In the
neighbourhood of Bungay lived a gentleman much given to collect around
him men of literary taste and culture. A lecture was to be given in the
neighbourhood, and all the men of light and leading around were invited.
George Borrow was one of the earliest arrivals, and seated himself before
the fire with a book in his hand, over which he nodded superciliously, as
the host brought up all his guests in succession to be introduced to the
lion of the town. At dinner which followed, which was rather a jovial
one, and at which the bottle went round freely, so loud and general was
the conversation that my friend, a clever lawyer, with remarkably good
ears, was quite unable to catch a sentence from the great author's lips.
Perhaps Borrow really did say nothing, or next to nothing. It is quite
as likely that he did as not, as I have already informed the reader that
'he was a funny-tempered man.'

'Catherine Gurney,' writes Caroline Fox, 'gave us a note to George
Borrow, so on him we called--a tall, ungainly man, with great p