Crosses him, what a contrast!  Grim, savage Shelton, who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody.  Hard!  One blow given with the proper play of his athletic arm will unsense a giant.  Yonder individual, who strolls about with his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, undersized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the light-weights, so-called—­Randall!  The terrible Randall, who has Irish blood in his veins; not the better for that, nor the worse; and not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, perhaps, right, for it was a near thing.  But how shall I name them all?  They were there by dozens, and all tremendous in their way.  There was Bulldog Hudson, and fearless Scroggins, who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew.  There was Black Richmond—­no, he was not there, but I knew him well; he was the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh.  There was Purcell, who could never conquer until all seemed over with him.  There was—­what! shall I name thee last?  Ay, why not?  I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above the sod, where mayst thou long continue—­true piece of English stuff—­Tom of Bedford.  Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may please thee to be called, Spring or Winter!  Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scotland’s King, his clans and chivalry.  Hail to thee, last of English bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved—­true English victories, unbought by yellow gold.”

Those are words from the heart.  Long may it be before we lose the fighting blood which has come to us from of old!  In a world of peace we shall at last be able to root it from our natures.  In a world which is armed to the teeth it is the last and only guarantee of our future.  Neither our numbers, nor our wealth, nor the waters which guard us can hold us safe if once the old iron passes from our spirit.  Barbarous, perhaps—­but there are possibilities for barbarism, and none in this wide world for effeminacy.

Borrow’s views of literature and of literary men were curious.  Publisher and brother author, he hated them with a fine comprehensive hatred.  In all his books I cannot recall a word of commendation to any living writer, nor has he posthumous praise for those of the generation immediately preceding.  Southey, indeed, he commends with what most would regard as exaggerated warmth, but for the rest he who lived when Dickens, Thackeray, and Tennyson were all in their glorious prime, looks fixedly past them at some obscure Dane or forgotten Welshman.  The reason was, I expect, that his proud soul was bitterly wounded by his own early failures and slow recognition.  He knew himself to be a chief in the clan, and when the clan heeded him not he withdrew in haughty disdain.  Look at his proud, sensitive face and you hold the key to his life.