Altogether, I never met with a
man, before or since, who had spent so long a life in a secluded
and not impressive country, with ever-increasing delight in the
daily and yearly change of season and beauty.
When he and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready in the
kitchen--for so I suppose the room ought to be called, as there
were oak dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the side of
the fireplace, and only a small Turkey carpet in the middle of the
flag-floor. The room might have been easily made into a handsome
dark oak dining-parlour by removing the oven and a few other
appurtenances of a kitchen, which were evidently never used, the
real cooking-place being at some distance. The room in which we
were expected to sit was a stiffly-furnished, ugly apartment; but
that in which we did sit was what Mr Holbrook called the counting-
house, where he paid his labourers their weekly wages at a great
desk near the door. The rest of the pretty sitting-room--looking
into the orchard, and all covered over with dancing tree-shadows--
was filled with books. They lay on the ground, they covered the
walls, they strewed the table. He was evidently half ashamed and
half proud of his extravagance in this respect. They were of all
kinds--poetry and wild weird tales prevailing.
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