I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as is
often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's
table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre,
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide and
stood off from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a
rusty coat, with great skirts and pockets that would have held
the church Bible and prayer-book: and his small legs seemed still
smaller from being planted in large shoes decorated with enormous
buckles.
I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a
chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this living
shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a
complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work
printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and Wynkyn
de Worde were his delight, and he was indefatigable in his
researches after such old English writers as have fallen into
oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the
notions of Mr. Bracebridge he had made diligent investigations
into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times, and
had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon
coinpanion; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with
which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study,
merely because it is denominated learning; indifferent to its
intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or
of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity.
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