that--elevating one of his skulls
in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman
that--of a certain class--waving her shawl. Whether any one observed
them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but
nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so
excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in
order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could
accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and,
turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me."

On this very day, in his account, he first met the "fiery, enthusiastic
and open-hearted," pleasure-loving young Irishman, whom he calls Francis
Ardry, who took him to the theatre and to "the strange and eccentric
places of London," and no doubt helped to give him the feeling of "a
regular Arabian Nights' entertainment." C. G. Leland {87} tells a story
told to him by one who might have been the original of Ardry. The story
is the only independent evidence of Borrow's London life. This "old
gentleman" had been in youth for a long time the most intimate friend of
George Borrow, who was, he said, a very wild and eccentric youth. "One
night, when skylarking about London, Borrow was pursued by the police, as
he wished to be, even as Panurge so planned as to be chased by the night-
watch. He was very tall and strong in those days, a trained shoulder-
hitter, and could run like a deer. He was hunted to the Thames, and
there they thought they had him. But the Romany Rye made for the edge,
and leaping into the wan water, like the Squyre in the old ballad, swam
to the other side, and escaped."

It is no wonder he "did not like reviewing at all," especially as he
"never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of merit do
not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no
praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they require
no killing." He forgot "The Dairyman's Daughter," and he could not
foresee the early fate of "Lavengro" itself. He preferred manlier crime
and riskier deception to reviewing. As he read over the tales of rogues,
he says, he became again what he had been as a boy, a necessitarian, and
could not "imagine how, taking all circumstances into consideration,
these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have been anything else than
highwaymen and pickpockets."