ed Tressilian; “only let us travel at a sharper pace, for my time is somewhat of the shortest.”
“Well, sir,” resumed Erasmus Holiday, with the most provoking perseverance, “I will not say that this same Demetrius, for so he wrote himself when in foreign parts, was an actual conjurer, but certain it is, that he professed to be a brother of the mystical Order of the Rosy Cross, a disciple of Geber (ex nomine cujus venit verbum vernaculum, gibberish.) He cured wounds by salving the weapon instead of the sore—told fortunes by palmistry—discovered stolen goods by the sieve and shears—gathered the right maddow and the male fern seed, through use of which men walk invisible—pretended some advances towards the panacea, or universal elixir, and affected to convert good lead into sorry silver.”
“In other words,” said Tressilian, “he was a quacksalver and common cheat; but what has all this to do with my nag, and the shoe which he has lost?”
“With your worshipful patience,” replied the diffusive man of letters, “you shall understand that presently—patientia then, right worshipful, which word, according to our Marcus Tullius, is ‘difficilium rerum diurna perpessio.’ This same Demetrius Doboobie, after dealing with the country, as I have told you, began to acquire fame inter magnates, among the prime men of the land, and there is likelihood he might have aspired to great matters, had not, according to vulgar fame, (for I aver not the thing as according with my certain knowledge,) the devil claimed his right, one dark night, and flown
