While the plodding votary of _meaning_ is anxiously inquiring out the
sense of the oracle, his fellow-worshipper, remembering that our _eyes_
were not given us for nothing, is entranced in admiration of the stately
form or gorgeous vestment of the priest that utters it:--in plainer
terms, he stands exploring, without end, the type, of jetty black and
dazzling cut, that seems to float amidst a satin sea of cream--(it is
impossible to be watching after one's metaphors on such inspiring
occasions)--roves, in gazing ecstasy, from page to page, till here and
there arrested by the choice vignette or richly tinctured plate: at
length, 'lassatus, necdum satiatus' with the beauties of the interior,
he reverently closes the superbly-plated leaves; and, turning to the
sumptuous, silk-lined cover, marvels as he views the verdant, red, or
purple pride of Russia, Turkey, or Morocco, glittering, in every part,
with the mazy flourishes of golden decoration!--'Miror, immo etiam
stupeo!' is the language of his heart--if it cannot be of his
tongue.--J. BERESFORD. _Bibliosophia._