Barnaby swirled back around from the shelf when he heard the words Faerie Queene, his expression considerably brighter. It was pleasing to be reminded that some good things had not faded away into the past, and that even a youth - and he was an odd gangly fellow, wasn’t he (but perhaps that also had something to do with the horror of modern fashions, making everyone’s shapeless-straight-legs seem stretched as if upon a rack) - knew the worthiness of Spenser.
And was perchance offering a visit with an epic poem without Barnaby having to prod him into it? (Literally, sometimes, with a harmless rapier lunge or two.) Barnaby’s expression brightened still further, into a beam; and if his body had been capable of it, he might have shaken this Greengrass by the shoulders in sheer inexpressible gratitude.
“Oh, would that I had!” Barnaby exclaimed, wide-eyed. He knew the name, had heard of was Milton in his death, had even glimpsed bits and pieces across the years, but had had to endure an incomplete knowledge of it and an incomplete existence since. “I have seen but snatches of it, a mere page here and there, and the last time near two centuries ago -” he said, with a mournful shake of his head. “- and that, I should say, is a sort of hell.”
But he was in a very good mood already, at the prospect of changing that. “And is your home far yonder?” Barnaby quizzed; he would have been halfway there already if he had known which way to go.
And was perchance offering a visit with an epic poem without Barnaby having to prod him into it? (Literally, sometimes, with a harmless rapier lunge or two.) Barnaby’s expression brightened still further, into a beam; and if his body had been capable of it, he might have shaken this Greengrass by the shoulders in sheer inexpressible gratitude.
“Oh, would that I had!” Barnaby exclaimed, wide-eyed. He knew the name, had heard of was Milton in his death, had even glimpsed bits and pieces across the years, but had had to endure an incomplete knowledge of it and an incomplete existence since. “I have seen but snatches of it, a mere page here and there, and the last time near two centuries ago -” he said, with a mournful shake of his head. “- and that, I should say, is a sort of hell.”
But he was in a very good mood already, at the prospect of changing that. “And is your home far yonder?” Barnaby quizzed; he would have been halfway there already if he had known which way to go.
