The feast was spread fronde super viridi, as Oldbuck expressed himself, under a huge old tree called the Prior’s Oak, and the company, sitting down around it, did ample honour to the contents of the basket.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.
As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
With winged course, o’er hill and moory dale,
Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth
Had from his wakeful custody purloined
The guarded gold: So eagerly the Fiend—
Paradise Lost.
When their collation was ended, Sir Arthur resumed the account of the mysteries of the divining-rod, as a subject on which he had formerly conversed with Dousterswivel. “My friend Mr. Oldbuck will now be prepared, Mr. Dousterswivel, to listen with more respect to the stories you have told us of the late discoveries in Germany by the brethren of your association.”
“Ah, Sir Arthur, that was not a thing to speak to those gentlemans, because it is want of credulity—what you call faith—that spoils the great enterprise.”
“At least, however, let my daughter read the narrative she has taken down of the story of Martin Waldeck.”
“Ah! that was vary true story—but Miss Wardour, she is so sly and so witty, that she has made it just like one romance—as well as Goethe or Wieland could have done it, by mine honest wort.”
“To say the truth, Mr. Dousterswivel,” answered Miss Wardour, “the romantic predominated in the legend so much above the probable, that it was impossible for a lover of fairyland like me to avoid lending a few touches to make it perfect in its kind. But here it is, and if you do not incline to leave this shade till the heat of the day has somewhat declined, and will have sympathy with my bad composition, perhaps Sir Arthur or Mr. Oldbuck will read it to us.”
“Not I,” said Sir Arthur; “I was never fond of reading aloud.”