ruel fishing." In Harriet Martineau's
_Autobiography_, which enjoyed its hour of fame when it was published
twenty-six years ago, there is a contemptuous reference to the disciple
of William Taylor, "this polyglot gentleman, who went through Spain
disseminating Bibles." If Miss Martineau were alive now she would hear
the works of "this polyglot gentleman" praised on every hand, and would
find that a cult had arisen which to her would certainly be quite
incomprehensible. In that large, dismal book--the _Life of James
Martineau_, again, there is but one mention of Dr. Martineau's famous
schoolfellow whose name has been linked with him only by a silly story.
Do not let it be thought that I am complaining of this neglect; the world
will always treat its greatest writers in precisely this fashion. Borrow
did not lack for fame of a kind, but he was, as I desire to show, praised
in his lifetime for the wrong thing, where he was praised at all.
Everyone in the fifties and sixties read _The Bible in Spain_, as they
read a hundred other books of that period, now forgotten. Many read it
who were deceived by its title. They expected a tract. Many read it as
we to-day read the latest novel or biography of the hour. Then a new
book arises and the momentary favourite is forgotten. We think for a
whole week that we are in contact with a well-nigh immortal work. A
little later we concern ourselves not at all whether the book is immortal
or not. We go on to something else. The critic is as much to blame as
the reader. Not one man in a hundred whose profession it is to come
between the author and the public, and to guide the reader to the best in
literature, has the least perception of what is good literature. It is
easy when a writer has captured the suffrages of the crowd for the critic
to tell the world that he is great. That happened to Carlyle, to
Tennyson, to many a popular author whose earliest books commanded little
attention: but, happily, these writers did not lose heart. They kept on
writing. Borrow was otherwise made. He wrote _The Bible in Spain_--a
book of travel of surprising merit. It sold largely on its title. Mr.
Augustine Birrell has told us that he knew a boy in a very strict
household who devoured the narrative on Sunday afternoons, the title
being thought to cover a conventional missionary journey. Well, when I
was a boy _The Bible in Spain_ had gone out of fashion and the public had
not taken up w