He was decidedly of a kindly nature: fond of his family, genial to excess, recognisant of his friends. He was probably spoiled by falling into the worst habits of college life, instead of the best.
Nothing that I have written would offend his shade. He was proud intellectually, but he abandoned position, and, I really believe, purposely exhibited himself as poor, when he would walk home with a cabbage balanced upon his arm. It was meant as a reproach to the world, on which he had so decided a claim.
One day Latham called on me and brought Mr. Theodore Watts with him, an old friend of his, and the son of a yet older friend. Watts and I came into concord on the same octave, and we soon attuned ourselves in friendly duets.
Later on, George Borrow turned up while Watts was there, and we went through a pleasant trio, in which Borrow, as was his wont, took the first fiddle. The reader must not here take metaphor for music. Borrow made himself very agreeable to Watts, recited a fairy tale in the best style to him, and liked him.
This was not their only meeting, for both came often to my house, from which we strolled for an hour or two into the park—strolls deserving of remembrance, as shown in sonnet form by me in my “New Day.”
Latham wanted much to meet Borrow at my table; I told him it would not do. He said he would be on his best behaviour, and promised to say nothing that could offend the most sensitive.
I proposed it to Borrow; he was willing, and they met.
All, like most things else that are planned, began well. But with Latham life was a game of show. He had to put forth all his knowledge of subjects in which he deemed Borrow an adept. He began with horse-racing. Borrow quietly assented. He showed off all he knew of the ring. Borrow freely responded. He had to show what he knew of publishers, instancing the Longmans. Borrow said, “I suppose you dine with your publishers sometimes?” It was Latham’s opportunity; he could not resist it, and replied, “Never; I hope I should never do anything so low. You do not dine with John Murray, I presume?” “Indeed, I do,” said Borrow emotionally. “He is a most kind friend. When I have had sickness in my house, he has been unfailing in his goodness towards me. There is no man I value more.”
Latham’s conversation was fast falling under the influence of wine; with this his better taste departed from him. “I have heard,” he said, “that you are a brave man over a bottle of good wine. Now, how many bottles can you get through at a sitting?”
Borrow saw what the other was; he was resolved not to take offence at what was only impertinent and self-asserting, so he said, “When I was in Madrid, I knew a priest who would sit down alone to his two bottles.”