quent groan, and he is
certainly once guilty of calling fish the "finny tribe." He believed
himself to be animated by an intense hatred of the Church of Rome, and
disfigures many of his pages by Lawrence-Boythorn-like tirades against
that institution; but no Catholic of sense need on this account deny
himself the pleasure of reading Borrow, whose one dominating passion was
_camaraderie_, and who hob-a-nobbed in the friendliest spirit with
priest and gipsy in a fashion as far beyond praise as it is beyond
description by any pen other than his own. Hail to thee, George Borrow!
Cervantes himself, 'Gil Bias,' do not more effectually carry their
readers into the land of the Cid than does this miraculous agent of the
Bible Society, by favor of whose pleasantness we can, any hour of the
week, enter Villafranca by night, or ride into Galicia on an Andalusian
stallion (which proved to be a foolish thing to do), without costing
anybody a _peseta_, and at no risk whatever to our necks--be they
long or short.

Cooks, warriors, and authors must be judged by the effects they produce:
toothsome dishes, glorious victories, pleasant books--these are our
demands. We have nothing to do with ingredients, tactics, or methods. We
have no desire to be admitted into the kitchen, the council, or the
study. The cook may clean her saucepans how she pleases--the warrior
place his men as he likes--the author handle his material or weave his
plot as best he can--when the dish is served we only ask, Is it good?
when the battle has been fought, Who won? when the book comes out,
Does it read?

Authors ought not to be above being reminded that it is their first duty
to write agreeably; some very disagreeable ones have succeeded in doing
so, and there is therefore no need for any one to despair. Every author,
be he grave or gay, should try to make his book as ingratiating as
possible. Reading is not a duty, and has consequently no business to be
made disagreeable. Nobody is under any obligation to read any other
man's book.

Literature exists to please,--to lighten the burden of men's lives; to
make them for a short while forget their sorrows and their sins, their
silenced hearths, their disappointed hopes, their grim futures--and
those men of letters are the best loved who have best performed
literature's truest office. Their name is happily legion, and I will
conclude these disjointed remarks by quoting from one of them, as honest
a parson as ever