Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own delight, never took up any book however the Baronetage; there he discovered occupation for an inert hour, and comfort in an upset one; there his resources were animated into deference and regard, by pondering the restricted leftover of the soonest licenses; there any unwanted sensations, emerging from homegrown undertakings changed normally into pity and hatred as he turned over the practically unlimited manifestations of the only remaining century; and there, if each other leaf were weak, he could peruse his own history with an intrigue which never fizzled
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