In the library I found a table laid for two; my host was not there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment with inquiring eyes; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of all sizes and bindings; there were a globe or two, a couch, and an easy chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. Over the mantel-piece, the features staringly like, but so ridiculously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity—my sturdy host of the town.
I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself as I best could, when my friend entered; he seemed to have resumed his taciturnity—scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner was served, when he said, smiling, “I suppose it would be merely a compliment to ask you to partake?”
“I don’t know,” said I, seating myself; “your first course consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to be companionable.”
The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it from the circumstance of having already dined; the stranger also, though without
my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally unsuccessful.
And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the encomiums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to tie his tongue—but no! I endeavoured to tempt him by various topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and which I affirmed was a yew—but no, nothing that I said could induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity.
It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable. “I must presently be going,” I at last exclaimed.
At these words he gave a sudden start; “Going,” said he, “are you not my guest, and an honoured one?”
“You know best,” said I; “but I was apprehensive I was an intruder; to several of my questions you have returned no answer.”
“Ten thousand pardons!” he exclaimed, seizing me by the hand; “but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you about—there is one thing in particular—”