In the same neighbourhood he will find the admirable vignette of the old man who could read the inscription on Chinese crockery pots, but could not tell what's o'clock, and the life narratives of the jockey and of the inexpert thimble-rigger, Murtagh, who was imprisoned three years for interrupting the Pope's game at picquet, but finally won his way by card-sharping to the very threshold of the Cardinalate.

In the second half of the _Romany Rye_, too, he will find the noble apostrophes to youth, and ale, and England, "the true country for adventures," which he will compare, as examples of Borrovian eloquence, with the stirring description of embattled England in the third chapter of _Lavengro_, or the apostrophe to the Irish cob and the Author's first ride in chapter thirteen.
Borrow's is a wonderful book for one to lose one's _way_ in, among the dense undergrowth, but it is a still grander book for the reader to lose _himself_ in.

In the dingle, best of all, he can "forget his own troublesome personality as completely as if he were in the depths of the ancient forest along with Gurth and Wamba." Labyrinthine, however, as the autobiography may at first sight appear, the true lover of Borrow will soon have little difficulty in finding the patteran or gypsy trail (for indeed the Romany element runs persistently as a chorus-thread through the whole of the autobiographical writings), which serves as a clue to the delights of which his work is so rich a storehouse.

The question that really exercises Borrovians most is the relative merit of stories and sections of the narrative--the comparative excellence of the early 'life' in _Lavengro_ and of the later detached episodes in the _Romany Rye_.

Most are in some sort of agreement as to the supremacy of the dingle episode, which has this advantage: Borrow is always at his best when dealing with strange beings and abnormal experiences.