stingly; especially if the cover be
all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis betweene every
syllable.

--_Mico-Cosmographie_, 1638.

The Squire receives great sympathy and support, in his antiquated
humours, from the parson, of whom I made some mention on my former
visit to the Hall, and who acts as a kind of family chaplain. He has
been cherished by the Squire almost constantly, since the time that
they were fellow-students at Oxford; for it is one of the peculiar
advantages of these great universities, that they often link the poor
scholar to the rich patron, by early and heart-felt ties, that last
through life, without the usual humiliations of dependence and
patronage. Under the fostering protection of the Squire, therefore,
the little parson has pursued his studies in peace. 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_.

His brain seems absolutely haunted with love-sick dreams about
gorgeous old works in "silk linings, triple gold bands, and tinted
leather, locked up in wire cases, and secured from the