PHIL. Yes, in this bow-window--the glass of which was furnished full two hundred and fifty years ago, and which has recently been put into a sensible modern frame-work--thereby affording two hours longer light to the inhabitant--in this bow-window, you will see a great quantity of stained glass of the different arms of his own, and of his wife's, family; with other appropriate embellishments.[168] And when the evening sun-beams throw a chequered light throughout the room, 'tis pleasant to observe how Orlando enjoys the opening of an Aldine Greek Classic--the ample-margined leaves of which receive a mellower tint from the soft lustre that pervades the library. Every book, whether opened or closed, is benefited by this due portion of light; so that the eye, in wandering over the numerous shelves, is neither hurt by morning glare nor evening gloom. Of colours, in his furniture, he is very sparing: he considers white shelves, picked out with gold, as heretical--mahogany, wainscot, black, and red, are, what he calls, orthodox colours. He has a few busts and vases; and as his room is very lofty, he admits above, in black and gold frames, a few portraits of eminent literary characters; and whenever he gets a genuine Vandyke, or Velasquez, he congratulates himself exceedingly upon his good fortune. [Footnote 168: The reader, who is partial to the lucubrations of Thomas Hearne, may peruse a long gossipping note of his upon the importance of _stained glass windows_--in his account of Godstow nunnery. See his _Guil. Neubrig._, vol. ii., 768.] LIS. All this bespeaks a pretty correct taste. But I wish to know something of the man. PHIL. You shall, presently; and, in hearing what I am about to relate, only let us both strive, good Lisardo, so to regulate our studies and feelings that our old age may be like unto Orlando's. Last year I went with my uncle to pay him our annual visit. He appeared quite altered and shaken from the recent misfortune of losing his wife; who had survived the death of her children fifteen years; herself dying in the sixtieth of her own age. The eyes of Orlando were sunk deeply into his forehead, yet they retained their native brilliancy and quickness. His cheeks were wan, and a good deal withered. His step was cautious and infirm. When we were seated in his comfortable library chairs, he extended his right arm towards me, and squeezing my hand cordially within his own--"Philemon," said he, "you are not yet thirty, and have therefore sufficient ardour to enable you to gratify your favourite passion for books. Did you ever read the inscription over the outside of my library door--which I borrowed from Lomeir's account of one over a library at Parma?[169]" On my telling him that it had escaped me--"Go," said he, "and not only read, but remember it."--The inscription was as follows: INGREDERE MUSIS SACER, NAM ET HIC DII HABITANT. ITEM NULLUS AMICUS MAGIS LIBET, QUAM LIBER.