Nature. In Spain, it is true, he gave way to declamatory descriptions of
grandeur and desolation: in England, where he saw nothing of the kind, he
wrote little description, and the impression of the country through which
he is passing is that of an inarticulate outdoor man, strong and sincere
but vague. Here, again, he has something in common with the eighteenth-
century man, who liked the country, but would probably agree that one
green field was like another. He writes like the man who desired a
gentle wife, an Arabic book, the haunch of a buck, and Madeira old. He
reminds us of an even older or simpler type when he apostrophises the
retired pugilist:

"'Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy 'public' in Holborn
way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. 'Tis Friday
night, and nine by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of
his long room, surrounded by his friends: glasses are filled, and a song
is the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place; it finds an echo
in every heart--fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the portraits of
the mightly fighting men of yore, Broughton, and Slack, and Ben, which
adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, whilst many a manly
voice joins in the bold chorus:

'Here's a health to old honest John Bull,
When he's gone we shan't find such another,
And with hearts and with glasses brim full,
We will drink to old England, his mother.'"

There is little doubt of the immortality of this good old style, and it
testifies to the full heart and perhaps the full glass also of George
Borrow; but it was not this passage in particular that made Whitwell
Elwin call his writing "almost affectedly simple."