He pointed out to Julião the “History of the Consulate and Empire,” the works of Delille, the “Dictionary of Conversation,” the pocket edition of the “Encyclopædia Roret,” and the “Lusitanian Parnassus.” He alluded to his own works, and said he would like to read, before persons so well-informed as his guests, the proofs which he had been just correcting of his new book, “A Description of the Principal Cities of the Kingdom, and their Institutions,” in order to hear their severe and impartial judgment of it.
“With pleasure.”
“Certainly, Counsellor, with pleasure.”
He chose, as best calculated to give an idea of the importance of the work, the passage relating to Coimbra. He rose, and standing in the middle of the apartment, holding the proof-sheets in his hand, he read, with sonorous voice and measured gesture:—
“Reclining peacefully on her verdurous hills, like an odalisque on her couch, is the learned Coimbra, the Portuguese Athens. The softly-flowing Mondego kisses her as he whispers to her tender secrets. In her groves the nightingale and other amorous birds warble their melancholy strains. As you approach the city by the road from Lisbon, with which it was formerly connected by a well-organized coach-mail, replaced to-day by the smoky locomotive, you can see it gleaming whitely, crowned by the imposing bulk of the University, that stronghold of wisdom.”
“Dinner is on the table,” said a robust girl in a white apron, from the door.
“Bravo! Counsellor, bravo!” exclaimed Savedra, of the “Seculo,” rising. “Admirable!”
“What is your opinion, my friend?” said the counsellor, in a low voice to Julião, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “Your impartial opinion, friend Zuzarte?”
“Senhor Counsellor,” said Julião, gravely, “I envy you—”
While he spoke his gaze was fixed intently, and with evident curiosity, on a corner of the room which was occupied by what seemed to be a large pile of books, judging from so much of it as was visible beneath the edges of the gray cloth that covered it. What could it be?