I have somehow a knack of running against men who, without being
notable, have still something in their composition which makes them
conspicuous among their fellows. Such a man was he from whom I obtained
the following story; for it was told me first by my informant _vivâ
voce_, and afterwards corrected by him, with an ancient quill pen,
which had a habit now and again of spattering the ink, after the
fashion of a pyrotechnic display, wherever there happened to be any
roughness of the paper. He loved the antique, and lived a long way in
rear of the times; quill pens were natural pens, he said, and he would
have nothing to do with the modern steel rubbish, as he disdainfully
termed our great up-to-date invention. His house, furniture, and
clothes were antique, and so were his very person, face, and figure.
He was short, thin, curved, and drab. I say drab, because no other
colour will so well describe his complexion, which was of a parchment
hue, and of the same leathery texture. Small slits of eyes, a hooked
nose, wide mouth with thin lips, hollow cheeks, and a broad and high
forehead; that was the facial appearance of my learned friend, the
antiquary.
I met him near Birmingham, whither he had been to purchase a bundle
of old books, with which he was wearily toiling onward to his village
home. He sat by the roadside on a grassy bank with his treasures, girt
about by a strong leathern strap, by his side.
Being a very hot day, the old man had a large red bandana handkerchief
in his hand, with which he patted his perspiring face. I asked him, by
way of obtaining an opening for a conversation, if I was on the right
road to Coventry, whereupon he informed me that he was walking to
Meridew, a distance of twelve miles along the road to Coventry, and if
I would give him a lift he would act as guide.
I obliged the old man, although I knew the road perfectly, having
travelled the district before, but, as I love companionship, I thought
it a good opportunity for indulging my hobby.
I found the old gentleman excellent company, and on arriving at
Meridew, discovered that he owned a very pretty, little, old-fashioned
house standing in its own grounds. Being both good talkers, and our
ideas running mainly in the same groove, my new friend invited me to
spend a few days with him, and I gladly availed myself of his kind
hospitality.
The story of “Robyn Hode in Winter” he had discovered at an old book
shop at Coventry, and was lucky enough to become owner of the precious
document, for the insignificant but handy coin yclept a shilling. He
had read and re-read the old parchment so many times, that he had quite
got it by heart, and so much had it engrossed his mind, that when I
put him to sleep one evening he reproduced it vocally, as if he were
reciting it to an audience.
He had at different times discovered other very curious documents,
copies of which he pressed upon me, and some of them I may, at a future
time, venture to inflict upon the indulgent public.