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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
51
“My
cousin
might
make
a
drive,
I
think,”
said
Miss
Pole,
who
was
afraid
of
ear-ache,
and
had
only
her
cap
on.
“I
think
it
is
very
pretty,”
said
Miss
Matty,
with
a
soft
plaintiveness
in
her
voice,
and
almost
in
a
whisper,
for
just
then
Mr
Holbrook
appeared
at
the
door,
rubbing
his
hands
in
very
effervescence
of
hospitality.
He
looked
more
like
my
idea
of
Don
Quixote
than
ever,
and
yet
the
likeness
was
only
external.
His
respectable
housekeeper
stood
modestly
at
the
door
to
bid
us
welcome;
and,
while
she
led
the
elder
ladies
upstairs
to
a
bedroom,
I
begged
to
look
about
the
garden.
My
request
evidently
pleased
the
old
gentleman,
who
took
me
all
round
the
place
and
showed
me
his
six-and-twenty
cows,
named
after
the
different
letters
of
the
alphabet.
As
we
went
along,
he
surprised
me
occasionally
by
repeating
apt
and
beautiful
quotations
from
the
poets,
ranging
easily
from
Shakespeare
and
George
Herbert
to
those
of
our
own
day.
He
did
this
as
naturally
as
if
he
were
thinking
aloud,
and
their
true
and
beautiful
words
were
the
best
expression
he
could
find
for
what
he
was
thinking
or
feeling.
To
be
sure
he
called
Byron
“my
Lord
Byrron,”
and
pronounced
the
name
of
Goethe
strictly
in
accordance
with
the
English
sound
of
the
letters—
“As
Goethe
says,
‘Ye
ever-verdant
palaces,’”
&c.
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.
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