raits of authors for Mr. John Murray. Henry
Phillips was never an R.A. A letter from Phillips to Borrow in my
possession shows that he visited the latter at Oulton. The portrait of
Borrow is pronounced by Henry Dalrymple, his schoolfellow, from whose
manuscript we have already quoted, to be 'very like him.' This fact is
the more remarkable as the only photograph of Borrow that is known, one
taken in a group with Mrs. Simms Reeve of Norwich in 1848--five years
later--has many points of difference. The reader will here be able to
compare the two portraits in this book. A third portrait of Borrow--a
crude painting by his brother John taken in his early years, is now in
the London National Portrait Gallery.

[231] _Life of Frances Power Cobbe as told by Herself_. With Additions
by the Writer and Introduction by Blanche Atkinson. 2 vols., 1904.
Frances Power Cobbe was born in Dublin in 1822, and died at Hengwrt in
1904.

[232] Miss Lloyd, who was a Welshwoman. Miss Cobbe lived with her and
was doubtless a jealous woman. There are many kindly letters from Miss
Lloyd to Borrow in my collection. She seems always to be anxious to
invite him to her house.

[233] About three months before her death Miss Cobbe replied to an
inquiry made by Mr. James Hooper of Norwich concerning her estimate of
Borrow. As it is all but certain that Borrow was never intoxicated in
his life, we may find the letter of interest only as giving a point of
view:

'HENGWRT, DOLGELLEY, N. WALES, _Jan_. 26, 1904.

'I can have no objection to your asking me if my little sketch of George
Borrow in my _Life_ is my _dernier mot_ about him. If I were to give my
_dernier mot_, it would be much more to his disadvantage than anything I
liked to insert in my biography. I see his American biographer has
accused me of 'bitterness.' I do not think that what is contained in my
book is 'bitter' at all. But if I were to have told my last interview
with him,--when I was driven practically to drive him out of our house,
more or less drunk, or mad with some opiate--the charge might have had
some colour. He was not a good man, and not a true or honourable one, by
any manner of means.'

Here assuredly we miss the fine charity which led Goethe's friend, the
Duchess of Weimar, to urge that there was a special moral law for poets.
Not for one moment does it occur to Miss Cobbe that her neighbour was a
man of genius who had written four imperishable contributi