I obeyed the summons in an instant, and followed Rohfritsch up stairs.  There, on the first floor, a middle-aged monk received me, and accompanied me to the chamber of the President.  On rapping at the door with his knuckles, a hollow but deep-toned voice commanded the visitor to enter.  I was introduced with some little ceremony, but was compelled, most reluctantly, to have recourse to Latin, in conversing with the Principal.  He rose to receive me very graciously; and I think I never before witnessed a countenance which seemed to tell of so much hard fagging and meditation.  He must have read every Father, in the editio princeps of his works.  His figure and physiognomical expression bespoke a rapid approach to the grand climacteric of human life.  The deeply-sunk, but large and black, beaming eye—­the wan and shrivelled cheek—­the nose, somewhat aquiline, with nostrils having all the severity of sculpture—­sharp, thin lips—­an indented chin—­and a highly raised forehead, surmounted by a little black silk cap—­(which was taken off on the first salutation) all, added to the gloom of the place, and the novelty of the costume, impressed me in a manner not easily to be forgotten.  My visit was very short, as I wished it to be; and it was concluded with an assurance, on the part of the Principal, that the librarian would be at home on the following day, and ready to attend me to the library:—­but, added the Principal, on parting, “we have nothing worthy of the inspection of a traveller who has visited the libraries of Paris and Munich.  At Moelk, you will see fine books, and a fine apartment for their reception.”

For the sake of keeping, in the order of my narrative, I proceed to give you an account of the visit to the library, which took place on the morrow, immediately after breakfast.  It had rained the whole of the preceding night, and every hill and mountain about Salzburg was obscured by a continuation of the rain on the following day.  I began to think the postilion spoke but too true, when he said “it always rains at Salzburg.”  Yet the air was oppressive; and huge volumes of steam, as from a cauldron, rose up from the earth, and mingled with the descending rain.  In five minutes, I was within the cloisters of the monastery, and recognised some of the skittling young monks—­whom I had seen the day before.  One of them addressed me very civilly, in the French language, and on telling him the object of my visit, he said he would instantly conduct me to Mr. GAERTNER, the librarian.  On reaching the landing place, I observed a long corridore—­where a somewhat venerable Benedictin was walking, apparently to and fro, with a bunch of keys in one hand, and a thick embossed-quarto under his other arm.  The very sight of him reminded me of good Michael Neander, the abbot of the monastery of St. Ildefonso—­the friend of Budaeus[86]—­of whom (as you may remember) there is a print in the Rerum Germanicarum Scriptores, published in 1707, folio.