V.

It is a long jump from Samuel Pepys to George Borrow—­from one pole of the human character to the other—­and yet they are in contact on the shelf of my favourite authors.  There is something wonderful, I think, about the land of Cornwall.  That long peninsula extending out into the ocean has caught all sorts of strange floating things, and has held them there in isolation until they have woven themselves into the texture of the Cornish race.  What is this strange strain which lurks down yonder and every now and then throws up a great man with singular un-English ways and features for all the world to marvel at?  It is not Celtic, nor is it the dark old Iberian.  Further and deeper lie the springs.  Is it not Semitic, Phoenician, the roving men of Tyre, with noble Southern faces and Oriental imaginations, who have in far-off days forgotten their blue Mediterranean and settled on the granite shores of the Northern Sea?

Whence came the wonderful face and great personality of Henry Irving?  How strong, how beautiful, how un-Saxon it was!  I only know that his mother was a Cornish woman.  Whence came the intense glowing imagination of the Brontes—­so unlike the Miss-Austen-like calm of their predecessors?  Again, I only know that their mother was a Cornish woman.  Whence came this huge elfin creature, George Borrow, with his eagle head perched on his rocklike shoulders, brown-faced, white-headed, a king among men?  Where did he get that remarkable face, those strange mental gifts, which place him by himself in literature?  Once more, his father was a Cornishman.  Yes, there is something strange, and weird, and great, lurking down yonder in the great peninsula which juts into the western sea.  Borrow may, if he so pleases, call himself an East Anglian—­“an English Englishman,” as he loved to term it—­but is it a coincidence that the one East Anglian born of Cornish blood was the one who showed these strange qualities?  The birth was accidental.  The qualities throw back to the twilight of the world.

There are some authors from whom I shrink because they are so voluminous that I feel that, do what I may, I can never hope to be well read in their works.  Therefore, and very weakly, I avoid them altogether.  There is Balzac, for example, with his hundred odd volumes.  I am told that some of them are masterpieces and the rest pot-boilers, but that no one is agreed which is which.  Such an author makes an undue claim upon the little span of mortal years.  Because he asks too much one is inclined to give him nothing at all.  Dumas, too!  I stand on the edge of him, and look at that huge crop, and content myself with a sample here and there.  But no one could raise this objection to Borrow.  A month’s reading—­even for a leisurely reader—­will master all that he has written.  There are “Lavengro,” “The Bible in Spain,” “Romany Rye,” and, finally, if you wish to go further, “Wild Wales.”  Only four books—­not much to found a great reputation upon—­but, then, there are no other four books quite like them in the language.