y a luxuriant
wood. He entered, oppressed with heat and fatigue; but observed, on
walking up to the porch "smothered with honey-suckles" (as I think
Cowper expresses it), that every thing around bore the character of
neatness and simplicity. The holy-oaks were tall and finely variegated
in blossom: the pinks were carefully tied up: and roses of all colours
and fragrance stood around, in a compacted form, like a body-guard,
forbidding the rude foot of trespasser to intrude. Within, Ferdinand
found corresponding simplicity and comfort.

The "gude" man of the house was spending the evening with a neighbour;
but poached eggs and a rasher of bacon, accompanied with a flagon of
sparkling ale, gave our guest no occasion to doubt the hospitality of
the house, on account of the absence of its master. A little past ten,
after reading some dozen pages in a volume of Sir Egerton Brydges's
_Censura Literaria_, which he happened to carry about him, and
partaking pretty largely of the aforesaid eggs and ale, Ferdinand
called for his candle, and retired to repose. His bed-room was small,
but neat and airy: at one end, and almost facing the window, there was
a pretty large closet, with the door open: but Ferdinand was too
fatigued to indulge any curiosity about what it might contain.

He extinguished his candle, and sank upon his bed to rest. The heat of
the evening seemed to increase. He became restless; and, throwing off
his quilt, and drawing his curtain aside, turned towards the window,
to inhale the last breeze which yet might be wafted from the
neighbouring heath. But no zephyr was stirring. On a sudden, a broad
white flash of lightning--(nothing more than summer heat) made our
bibliomaniac lay his head upon his pillow, and turn his eyes in an
opposite direction. The lightning increased--and one flash, more vivid
than the rest, illuminated the interior of the closet, and made
manifest--_an old mahogany Book-Case_, STORED WITH BOOKS. Up started
Ferdinand, and put his phosphoric treasures into action. He lit his
match, and trimmed his candle, and rushed into the closet--no longer
mindful of the heavens--which now were in a blaze with the summer
heat.

The book-case was guarded both with glass and brass wires--and the
key--no where to be found! Hapless man!--for, to his astonishment, he
saw _Morte d'Arthur_, printed by _Caxton_--_Richard Coeur de Lyon_,
by _W. de Worde_--_The Widow Edyth_, by _Pynson_--and, towering above
the res