I there beheld, what might have thrown a real, genuine antiquary, into extasies, and raptures. For my own part, I confess, I was at first, appalled, and daunted. It was a bumper, brimful, and overflowing; while the enormous mass appeared to consist of papers, of every sort, and size: the surface of which was most respectably defended, by a deep, and venerable layer of literary dust. Summoning up resolution,
I bent
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat;[1]
and, drawing a chair to the side of the trunk, I sat down, with a full determination of thoroughly exploring its contents; and resolved, not to let a single scrap of paper pass without examination, and without satisfying myself, as to the nature of the manuscript in contained. The papers which I first met with, were generally bills, and receipts, bonds, leases, and parchment deeds; then, perhaps, a single letter, then the back of a letter, or other morsel of paper, with verses scrawled on it; mixed with these, single printed sheets, proclamations, pamphlets, and small volumes; till at last I came to whole packets of letters, and entire volumes of manuscript poetry; but the whole tumbled, and thrown together, and mixed with so much dirt and dust, as if the trunk had been destined to be the repository of all the rubbish, sweepings, and clearings of the library, the study, the steward's room, and every cabinet, and writing desk in the house.
Thus pursuing my way "through strait, rough, dense, or rare;"[2] whenever I met with a bill, a bond, or the like, I threw it on one
