Alman. Have you recovered, Sir, the immense fatigue you must have sustained from the exertions of yesterday? My brother has no mercy upon a thoroughly-versed book guest!
Lysand. I am indeed quite hearty: yet, if any thing heavy and indigested hung about me, would not the contemplation of such a landscape, and such a day, restore every thing to its wonted ardour?! You cannot conceive how such a scene affects me: even to shedding tears of pleasure—from the reflections to which it gives rise.
Belin. How strangely and how cruelly has the character of a bibliographer been aspersed! Last night you convinced me of the ardour of your enthusiasm, and of the eloquence of your expression, in regard to your favourite subject of discussion!—but, this morning, I find that you can talk in an equally impassioned manner respecting garden and woodland scenery?
Lysand. Yes, Madam: and if I possessed such a domain as does your brother, I think I could even improve it a little—especially the interior of the Alcove! I don't know that I could attach to the house a more appropriate library than he has done; even if I adopted the octagonal form of the Hafod Library;[426] which, considered with reference to its local situation, is, I think, almost unequalled:—but it strikes me that the interior of this Alcove might be somewhat improved.
[426] Hafod, in Cardiganshire, South Wales, is the residence of Thomas Johnes, Esq., M.P., and Lord Lieutenant of the county. Mr. Malkin, in his Scenery, Antiquities, and Biography, of South Wales, 1804, 4to., and Dr. Smith, in his Tour to Hafod, 1810, folio, have made us pretty well acquainted with the local scenery of Hafod:—yet can any pen or pencil do this
—Paradise, open'd in the wild,
perfect justice! I have seen Mr. Stothard's numerous little sketches of the pleasure-grounds and surrounding country, which are at once faithful and picturesque. But what were this "Paridise" of rocks, waterfalls, streams, woods, copses, dells, grottos, and mountains, without the hospitable spirit of the owner—which seems to preside in, and to animate, every summer-house and alcove. The book-loving world is well acquainted with the Chronicles of Froissart, Joinville, De Brocquiere, and Monstrelet, which have issued from the Hafod Press; and have long deplored the loss, from fire, which their author, Mr. Johnes, experienced in the demolition of the greater part of his house and library. The former has been rebuilt, and the latter replenished: yet no Phœnix spirit can revivify the ashes of those volumes which contained the romances notified by the renowned Don Quixote! But I am rambling too wildly among the Hafod rocks—I hasten, therefore to return and take the reader with me into the interior of Mr. Johnes's largest library, which is terminated by a Conservatory of upwards of 150 feet. As the ancient little books for children [hight Lac Puerorum!] used to express it—"Look, here it is."
Loren. What defects do you discover here, Lysander?
Lysand. They are rather omissions to be supplied than errors to be corrected. You have warmed the interior by a Grecian-shaped stove, and you do right; but I think a few small busts in yonder recesses would not be out of character. Milton, Shakespeare, and Locke, would produce a sort of inspiration which might accord with that degree of feeling excited by the contemplation of these external objects.