“No, Bunting; but they were written by one who, if I recollect right, set the Psalms to verse:—[Denham.] I hope they meet with your approbation?”
“Indeed, Sir, and no—since they ben’t in the Psalms, one has no right to think about ‘em at all.”
“And why, Mr. Critic?”
“‘Cause what’s the use of security, if one’s innocent, and does not mean to take advantage of it—baugh! One does not lock the door for nothing, your honour!”
“You shall enlarge on that honest doctrine of yours another time; meanwhile, call that shepherd, and ask the way to Mr. Elmore’s.”
The Corporal obeyed, and found that a clump of trees, at the farther corner of the waste land, was the grove that surrounded Mr. Elmore’s house; a short canter across the heath brought them to a white gate, and having passed this, a comfortable brick mansion of moderate size stood before them.
CHAPTER III.
A SCHOLAR, BUT OF A DIFFERENT MOULD FROM THE STUDENT OF
GRASSDALE.—NEW PARTICULARS CONCERNING GEOFFREY LESTER.—THE
JOURNEY RECOMMENCED.
Upon inquiring for Mr. Elmore, Walter was shown into a handsome library, that appeared well-stocked with books, of that good, old-fashioned size and solidity, which are now fast passing from the world, or at least shrinking into old shops and public collections. The time may come, when the mouldering remains of a folio will attract as much philosophical astonishment as the bones of the mammoth. For behold, the deluge of writers hath produced a new world of small octavo! and in the next generation, thanks to the popular libraries, we shall only vibrate between the duodecimo and the diamond edition. Nay, we foresee the time when a very handsome collection may be carried about in one’s waistcoat-pocket, and a whole library of the British Classics be neatly arranged in a well-compacted snuff-box.