Having lived
almost entirely among books, and those, too, old books, he is quite
ignorant of the world, and his mind is as antiquated as the garden at
the Hall, where the flowers are all arranged in formal beds, and the
yew-trees clipped into urns and peacocks.
His taste for literary antiquities was first imbibed in the Bodleian
Library at Oxford; where, when a student, he passed many an hour
foraging among the old manuscripts. He has since, at different times,
visited most of the curious libraries in England, and has ransacked
many of the cathedrals. With all his quaint and curious learning, he
has nothing of arrogance or pedantry; but that unaffected earnestness
and guileless simplicity which seem to belong to the literary
antiquary.
He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dry in his manner; yet, on
his favourite theme, he kindles up, and at times is even eloquent. No
fox-hunter, recounting his last day's sport, could be more animated
than I have seen the worthy parson, when relating his search after a
curious document, which he had traced from library to library, until
he fairly unearthed it in the dusty chapter-house of a cathedral.
When, too, he describes some venerable manuscript, with its rich
illuminations, its thick creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odour
of the cloisters that seemed to exhale from it, he rivals the
enthusiasm of a Parisian epicure, expatiating on the merits of a
Perigord pie, or a _Patte de Strasbourg_.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116