Joshua has said, a stranger would, from its individuality, know to be a likeness. He was one of those who wish to be regarded as an original thinker; and like the unfortunate juror in Joe Miller, who always met the eleven most obstinate men in the world, he soon found himself differing from all around him. He was a sceptic in religion, a republican in politics, a Pythagorean in diet; and he published, or rather printed, for nobody, we suppose, either bought or read it, a work of his own, to show that the theories and discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton were all founded in mistake. He was, however, a keen, and, we may add, an unscrupu lous man of business. This personage received our young author with some show of kindness; but when he talked of publishing, looked dark and stern. "The Ancient Songs of Denmark," with notes philological, critical, and historical, and to which poor Borrow looked for profit and for fame, were thus disposed of;-" Sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you were to give them to the world to-morrow." The translations from Ab Gwilym, the Welch bard, the sheet-anchor of his hopes, were treated with "Pass on; what else?" The publisher quite understood that the stranger possessed some literary talents, which he desired to draw out, and at the same time engage them on his own terins. He proposed an evangelical novel, but this young Borrow declined. He then intimated that he could afford as much as ten pounds for a well-written tale, in the style of the "Dairyman's Daugh

ter."

a

"That is the kind of literature, sir, that sells at the present. It is not the Miller of the Black Valley:" no, sir; nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste. The evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir; the canting scoundrels.

Mr. Borrow found himself but little qualified for a tale of this description; and, folding up the rejected translations, returned to his lodgings, disappointed, sorrowful, and anxious. It

Не

was manifest that employment of some sort must be had; and he therefore sought another interview with Phillips, when they came to terms. On this occasion the publisher showed his knowledge of business and of men. talked no more of evangelical novels or religious tales, but at once proposed to employ our author in compiling Newgate lives and trials. The terms of the contract were somewhat hard.

"I expect, you, sir," said he, "to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each volume to contain, by no manner of means, less than one thousand pages. The remuneration which you will receive when the work is completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers, and manuscripts necessary for the compilation."

The agreement was accepted; and Borrow was besides enlisted as an attaché to a new Review, which, however, never reached a second number. In addition to these labours, another, with more of the badge of Egyptian bondage, was enjoined him; that was, to translate into German a work on philosophy, by the sceptical, republican, Pythagorean publisher himself. To this was added the pleasant condition, that if the speculation was profitable, he was to have "some remuneration." How long these occupations engaged him we are not enabled to say. They, at all events, left him, after days and nights of toil, as poor as when he began. The denouément of his connexion with Phillips was brought about by the work on philosophy. This was the hardest of all his tasks. Borrow could easily render English into German; but how to make intelligible in any language what was inconceivable in his own, was, as he found, a serious difficulty. He took what appears to have been the only practicable course, that of dashingly translating on, on chance. When the first chapter was submitted to some Germans, and pronounced by them to be unintelligible, the wrath of the city knight waxed so sublime, that no one who was not, like Mr. Borrow, six feet three, and a good pugilist, could abide

his presence. Our young author was now as poor, as friendless, but not near so strong, as when he first went up to town. No parts of these volumes have interested us so much as those which describe his struggles in London, the determination with which he toiled for bread, and the integrity which made him instantly reject what, to a person of such peculiar tastes, must have been very pressing temptations; these were offers of immediate provision, in strange modes of life, and on easy though somewhat questionable terms. These traits are incidentally, and certainly unostentatiously given. There can hardly, we think, be a doubt of their truth; but even if fictitious, they deserve our praise. One evening, soon after his rupture with Phillips, as he was retuning to his lonely lodging and spare meal of bread and water, he ob. served, fixed to a window at a respectable bookseller's, a paper, on which was written, "A Novel or Tale is much wanted." At that time he had but eighteen pence in the world; and he doubted whether he could maintain himself on this while he tried to write the tale.

"It was true, there was my lodging to pay for; but up to the present time

I owed nothing, and, perhaps, by the time that the people in the house asked me for money, I should nave written a tale, or a novel, which would bring me in money; I had paper, pens, and ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all paid for, to light me during my night-work. Enough; I would go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel."-Vol. ii p. 246.

The next observation which he had occasion to make was, that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing, than to achieve, or even to commence it. After much meditation, and many failures, his views assumed enough of form to enable him to work them out into a narrative, which he entitled, "The Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller." It is often stated, that Johnson wrote "Rassellas" in a single night, for the purpose of gaining money enough to cover the expenses of his mother's funeral. No one who knows anything of even the mechanical part of the labour of writing, will think this possible. Borrow's brochure was, probably, not even so long, and it took him five whole days of incessant and feverish toil. Having left the manuscript with the bookseller for perusal, he was directed to call next day, when

LINES TO SIX FOOT THREE.

"A lad who twenty tongues can talk,
And sixty miles a-day can walk,
Drink at a draught a pint of rum,
And then be neither sick nor dumb;
Can tune a song, and make a verse,
And deeds of northern kings rehearse ;
Who never will forsake his friend,
While he his bony fist can bend ;
And, though averse to brawl and strife,
Will fight a Dutchman with a knife;-
O, that is just the lad for me.-
And such is honest Six Foot Three.

"A braver being ne'er had birth,

Since God first kneaded man from earth.
O, I have cause to know him well,
As Ferroe's blacken'd rocks can tell.
Who was it did at Suderöe
The deed no other dar'd to do?
Who was it when the Boff had burst,
And whelm'd me in its womb accurst-
Who was it dash'd amid the wave,
With frantic zeal my life to save?
Who was it flung the rope to me?
O, who but honest Six Foot Three!

"Who was it taught my willing tongue
The songs that Braga fram'd and sung?
Who was it op'd to me the store
Of dark unearthly Runic lore,
And taught me to beguile my time

With Denmark's aged and witching rhyme,

To rest in thought in Elvir shades,
And hear the song of fairy maids,

Or climb the top of Dovrefeld,

Where magic knights their muster held?
Who was it did all this for me?
O, who but honest Six Foot Three!

"Wherever fate shall bid me roam,

Far, far from social joy and home,
'Mid burning Afric's desert sands,
Or wild Kamschatka's frozen lands;
Bit by the poison-loaded breeze,
Or blasts which clog with ice the seas;
In lowly cot or lordly hall,

In beggars' rags or robes of pall;
'Mong robber bands or honest men,
In crowded town or forest den,

I never will unmindful be

Of what I owe to Six Foot Three.

"That form which moves with giant grace-
That wild, though not unhandsome face;
That voice which sometimes in its tone
Is softer than the wood-dove's moan;
At others, louder than the storm
Which beats the side of old Cairn Gorm;
That hand, as white as falling snow,
Which yet can fell the stoutest for:
And, last of all, that noble heart,
Which ne'er from honour's path would start,
Shall never be forgot by me-

So farewell honest Six Foot Three."

he was physiognomist enough to see that the impression was in his favour. Five pounds, however, was the sum offered; Borrow, with desperate firmness, asked five-and-twenty, and the negotiation terminated with his receiving twenty. This was, probably, but a fraction of its value, yet the bookseller, whoever he was, seems entitled to the praise of having perceived the talent which the tale, no doubt, possessed.

Ill in health, and worn with toil, young Borrow yearned for the country, and, with bundle in hand, walked out of London. He had no fixed object, so placing himself and his fortunes on the top of the first mail-coach, which overtook him, he was let down in the neighbourhood of Salisbury plain. There an incident occurred which, as it led him into an altogether novel course, we think it right to notice. He came to a road-side inn, with a huge oak before it, "under the shade of which stood a little pony and a cart" :

:

"I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, on one side of a long white table; the other side, which was nearest to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in faded velveteens,and wearing a leather apron; a rather pretty-looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two ragged children, a boy and girl about four or five years old. The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next him, sat quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more

disconsolate family I had never seen; a mug, which when filled, might contain half-a-pint, stood empty before them; a very disconsolate party indeed."

He orders these poor people to be supplied with ale, which leads to their better acquaintance :

that no one can be higher in scholarship than a schoolmaster; do you call his a pleasant life? I don't; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a schoolmaster. Only conceive him, in blessed weather like this, in his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, Evil communication corrupts good manners, or You cannot touch pitch without defilement,' or to spell out of Abecedariums,' or to read out of Jack Smith,' or Sandford and Merton.' Only conceive him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, without any rational employment but to beat the children. Would you compare such a dog's life as that with your own, the happiest under heaven, true Eden-life, as the Germans would say, pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-rows, listening to the song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread by the wholesome sweat of your brow, making ten holes; hey, what's this? what's the man crying for?'

;

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and began to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress the breast of his wife was beaved with emotion; even the children were agitated, the youngest began to roar.

66

Myself. What's the matter with you? What are you all crying about?' Tinker.- (uncovering his face)— 'Lord, why to hear you talk; isn't that enough to make anybody cry-even the poor babes? Yes, you said right, 'tis life in the garden of Eden-the tinker's; I see so now, that I am about to give it up.'

64

Myself. Give it up! You must not think of such a thing.'

"Tinker.-"No, I can't bear to think of it; and yet I must. What is to be done? How hard to be frightened to death; to be driven off the roads.'

Myself. roads?' "Tinker.

Who has driven you off the

Who! the Flaming Tinman.' "Myself. Who is he?'

"Tinker.-The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or he would not have served me as he has done. I'll tell you all about it,'" &c.

This introduces the tinker's tale, which is full of character and interest, but too long to be given here. It appears that no "beat" will support two tinkers, and that the Flaming Tinman—a “Hercules,” and a first-rate pugilistcompelled our poor friend to fight him for the "beat," and, on beating him, made him take an oath on his wife's Bible that he would never again prac

tise in these parts. Hence the sympathy evinced in our author's eulogy on the trade; hence the flowing tears. The issue of the conference is, that Borrow, partly from a desire to improve himself in the mending of kettles, partly from a liking for a life not greatly at variance with some of his antecedents, and very much, we are sure, from a wish to assist this troubled family, purchases their pony, cart, and stock in trade, and, providing himself with a waggoner's frock, takes to the roads himself. He subsequently meets with the dreadful tinman, who, recognising the cart, at once assails him; but, after a hard-fought contest, is obliged to yield, and leaves our hero master of the beat. Whoever has seen our author's athletic form, or heard of his skill in pugilism, will regard this as a very credible achievement; and it is highly probable that a longing for the encounter had its influence in inducing him to adopt his new pursuit.

The adventures connected with this al fresco life form the subjects of the third volume, which closes about the year 1828-9, leaving Lavengro still a tinker, and in the twenty-second or twenty-third year of his age. The decade which followed between that period and the tour in Spain, was passed in distant travel, hinted at in other works, but never yet described. In that brief interval he paced the snowclad steppes of Russia and the burning deserts of Morocco, lived in Tartar tents, wandered by the banks of the Danube, and over the hills, and through the woods of Hungary; where else, we know not. Let him but give us the incidents of his experience in these journeys, without mixture of the marvellous, or alloy of fiction, and we may well promise one who can make so much of the nothings in these volumes, a celebrity as extensive as that which his "Zincali" and his book on Spain won for him before.

WHAT can any body find to say that is either new or interesting about one on whom so many volumes have been already exhausted? To which may be added-and respecting whom so little is accurately known. The last observation goes a good way towards answering the first. We may fail in making discoveries, although they are still to be made, but if we can rectify even a few mistakes, which may pass as authentic because undisturbed, we do more good than by adding to an enormous mass of fanciful notes and obscure explanations. There have been above 150 collected editions of Shrakspeare in various languages. Five are at this moment in course of publication in London alone, and all we believe are profitable to the speculators. From this it would appear there is a mania for reading and studying Shakspeare, however little may be the desire of seeing his plays acted. A well-known

writer, who has been thought by some a good Shaksperean critic, expresses himself as follows:

"The representing the very finest of Shakspeare's plays on the stage, even by the best actors, is, we apprehend, an abuse of the genius of the poet. It is only the pantomime part of tragedy which is sure to tell, and tell completely, on the stage; those parts of the play on which the reader dwells the longest and with the highest relish in the perusal, are hurried through in the performance, while the most trifling and exceptionable are obtruded on his notice, and occupy as much time as the most important. Hence it is that the reader of the plays of Shakspeare is almost always disappointed in seeing them acted; and, for our own parts, we should never go to see them acted if we could help it. Shakspeare has embodied his characters so very distinctly that he stands in no need of the actor's assistance to make them more distinct."*

I confess myself unable to understand these sentences or follow their meaning; but I suppose it is that Shakspeare's plays are weakened by being acted, and ought to be entirely reserved for the closet. In short, that a thing ought not to be applied to the purpose for which it has been made. A startling position, and which would astonish the poet not a little if he was made aware of it. As he undoubtedly wrote his plays to be acted rather than read, for the stage in preference to the closet, I take it for granted he knew what he meant, and how to carry out his own conceptions for his own express purpose. But these commentators would fain persuade us they are much more deeply in his confidence, and can enter into the workings of his mind better than he does himself. If more people read Shakspeare than care to see him acted, other reasons must be sought for the preference than those assigned by the writer from whom I have quoted.

On the other hand it has been a thousand times repeated that the plays of Shakspeare are always attractive when adequately sustained. A thousand instances may be shown to the contrary. No doubt they have drawn large receipts at certain times, under peculiar excitements, and with the novelty of a great performer. But all this from time to time has gradually declined, like everything else, and they have had to be supported by something of inferior value, more acceptable to the taste, or rather the want of taste of the million. When Hamlet, Macbeth, or Othello fails to attract a full audience in modern days, we are told it is because the actors are far inferior to what they used to be. It may be so; but why then, we ask, did Garrick find it necessary to prop himself up in his best Shakspearean parts with ballets and spectacles? Why did John Kemble introduce horses to follow Mrs. Siddons's performances and his own in their most admired characters? And why, during his last season at Covent Garden in 1816, was Madame SACCHI appended to some of his plays which were considered weak, and nightly ran up from the stage to the two-shilling gallery, and then ran down again, as fast as her legs could carry her, amidst

the enthusiastic shouts of boxes, pit, and gallery? The treasurer must answer the question, and I am afraid he considered the lady the more classical star of the two.

To come nearer home. In 1827 Mr. Harris, then superintending the Dublin Theatre, and the most experienced manager in the three kingdoms, engaged Edmund Kean for sixteen nights at £30 per night, but fearful of the result, backed him up with "Il Diavolo Antonio," on the slack rope, at a large weekly salary. Whether the great representative of Shakspeare, or the great little devil, produced the largest share of the receipts, it is impossible now to determine, but the combination was very successful. In all these cases, and in many similar ones, if there is anything wrong in taste, or inconsistent in reality, the fault lies with the public rather than the manager. He is not likely to involve himself in questionable expedients, unless driven to them as a matter of commercial necessity. In one of Sir E. Bulwer's novels is a passage very applicable to the point we are now touching on, and though in a work of fancy, may be taken as an actual illustration :

"When I was a boy I went once to a theatre. The tragedy of Hamlet was performed,-a play full of the noblest thoughts, the subtlest morality that exists upon the stage. The audience listened with attention, with admiration, with applause. But now an Italian mountebank appeared upon the stagea man of extraordinary personal strength and sleight of hand. He performed a variety of juggling tricks, and distorted his body into a thousand surprising and unnatural postures. The audience were transported beyond themselves; if they had felt delight in Hamlet, they glowed with rapture at the mountebank. They had listened with attention to the lofty thought, but they were snatched from themselves by the marvel of the strange posture. Enough, said I; where is the glory of ruling men's minds and commanding their admiration, when a greater enthusiasm is excited by mere bodily agility than was kindled by the most wonderful emanations of a genius little less than divine?"*

A good many years ago I endeavoured to make a collection of