At the foot of the heights flows a narrow and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the brightest green, beyond which spreads the city; the fine old city, perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genuine old English town.
Yes, there it spreads from north to south, with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was raised by human hands to serve as the grave-heap of an old heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand, and his gold and silver treasures about him.

There is a grey old castle upon the top of that mighty mound; and yonder, rising three hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, behold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs continually wheel their flight.

Now, who can wonder that the children of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her prosperity?
I myself, who was not born within her walls, offer up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry may never pollute her temples.
But at the very centre of Borrow's Norwich life was William Taylor, concerning whom we have already written much.

It was a Jew named Mousha, a quack it appears, who pretended to know German and Hebrew, and had but a smattering of either language, who first introduced Borrow to Taylor, and there is a fine dialogue between the two in _Lavengro_, of which this is the closing fragment: 'Are you happy ?' said the young man.
'Why, no! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions.

My life, upon the whole, I consider a failure; on which account, I would not counsel you, or anyone, to follow my example too closely.