LOREN. A truce, Lysander! I entreat a truce!

LYSAND. To what?

LOREN. To this discourse. You must be exhausted.

PHIL. Indeed I agree with Lorenzo: for Lysander has surpassed, in prolixity, the reputation of any orator within St. Stephen's chapel.

It only remains to eclipse, in a similar manner, the speeches which were delivered at Hardy's trial--and then he may be called the _Nonpareil_ of orators!

LYSAND. If you banter me, I am dumb. Nor did I know that there was any thing of eloquence in my chit-chat. If Lisardo had had my experience, we might _then_ have witnessed some glittering exhibitions of imagination in the book-way!

LIS. My most excellent friend, I will strive to obtain this experience, since you are pleased to compliment me upon what I was not conscious of possessing--But, in truth, Lysander, our obligations to you are infinite.

LYSAND. No more; unless you are weary of this discourse--

PHIL. LIS. Weary!?

LOREN. Let me here exercise my undeniable authority. A _sandwich_, like the evening rain after a parching day, will recruit Lysander's exhausted strength. What say you?

LYSAND. "I shall in all things obey your high command." But hark--I hear the outer gate bell ring! The ladies are arrived: and you know my bashfulness in female society. Adieu, BIBLIOMANIA! 'till the morrow.

LOREN. Nay, you are drawing too dismal conclusions. My sisters are not sworn enemies to this kind of discourse.

The arrival of ALMANSA and BELINDA, the sisters of Lorenzo put a stop to the conversation. So abrupt a silence disconcerted the ladies; who, in a sudden, but, it must be confessed, rather taunting, strain--asked whether they should order their bed-chamber candlesticks, and retire to rest?

LIS. Not if you are disposed to listen to the most engaging book-anecdote orator in his majesty's united realms!

ALMAN. Well, this may be a sufficient inducement for us to remain. But why so suddenly silent, gentlemen?

LOREN. The conversation had ceased before you arrived. We were thinking of a _hung-beef sandwich_ and a glass of madeira to recruit Lysander's exhausted powers. He has been discoursing ever since dinner.

BELIND. I will be his attendant and cup-bearer too, if he promises to resume his discourse. But you have probably dispatched the most interesting part.

LYSAND. Not exactly so, I would hope, fair Lady! Your brother's hospitality will add fresh energy to my spirit; and, like the renewed oil in an exhausted lamp, will cause the flame to break forth with fresh splendour.

BELIND. Sir, I perceive your ingenuity, at least, has not forsaken you--in whatever state your memory may be!--

Here the _sandwiches_ made their appearance: and Lorenzo seated his guests, with his sisters, near him, round a small circular table. The repast was quickly over: and Philemon, stirring the sugar within a goblet of hot madeira wine and water, promised them all a romantic book-story, if the ladies would only lend a gracious ear. Such a request was, of course, immediately complied with.

PHIL. The story is short--

LIS. And sweet, I ween.

PHIL. That remains to be proved. But listen.

You all know my worthy friend, FERDINAND: a very _Helluo Librorum_. It was on a warm evening in summer--about an hour after sunset--that Ferdinand made his way towards a small inn, or rather village alehouse, that stood on a gentle eminence, skirted by a luxuriant wood. He entered, oppressed with heat and fatigue; but observed, on walking up to the porch "smothered with honey-suckles" (as I think Cowper expresses it), that every thing around bore the character of neatness and simplicity. The holy-oaks were tall and finely variegated in blossom: the pinks were carefully tied up: and roses of all colours and fragrance stood around, in a compacted form, like a body-guard, forbidding the rude foot of trespasser to intrude. Within, Ferdinand found corresponding simplicity and comfort.

The "gude" man of the house was spending the evening with a neighbour; but poached eggs and a rasher of bacon, accompanied with a flagon of sparkling ale, gave our guest no occasion to doubt the hospitality of the house, on account of the absence of its master. A little past ten, after reading some dozen pages in a volume of Sir Egerton Brydges's _Censura Literaria_, which he happened to carry about him, and partaking pretty largely of the aforesaid eggs and ale, Ferdinand called for his candle, and retired to repose. His bed-room was small, but neat and airy: at one end, and almost facing the window, there was a pretty large closet, with the door open: but Ferdinand was too fatigued to indulge any curiosity about what it might contain.

He extinguished his candle, and sank upon his bed to rest. The heat of the evening seemed to increase. He became restless; and, throwing off his quilt, and drawing his curtain aside, turned towards the window, to inhale the last breeze which yet might be wafted from the neighbouring heath. But no zephyr was stirring. On a sudden, a broad white flash of lightning--(nothing more than summer heat) made our bibliomaniac lay his head upon his pillow, and turn his eyes in an opposite direction. The lightning increased--and one flash, more vivid than the rest, illuminated the interior of the closet, and made manifest--_an old mahogany Book-Case_, STORED WITH BOOKS. Up started Ferdinand, and put his phosphoric treasures into action. He lit his match, and trimmed his candle, and rushed into the closet--no longer mindful of the heavens--which now were in a blaze with the summer heat.

The book-case was guarded both with glass and brass wires--and the key--no where to be found! Hapless man!--for, to his astonishment, he saw _Morte d'Arthur_, printed by _Caxton_--_Richard Coeur de Lyon_, by _W. de Worde_--_The Widow Edyth_, by _Pynson_--and, towering above the rest, a LARGE PAPER copy of the original edition of _Prince's Worthies of Devon_; while, lying transversely at top, reposed _John Weever's Epigrams_, "The spirit of Captain Cox is here revived"--exclaimed Ferdinand--while, on looking above, he saw a curious set of old plays, with _Dido, Queen of Carthage_, at the head of them! What should he do? No key: no chance of handling such precious tomes--'till the morning light, with the landlord, returned! He moved backwards and forwards with a hurried step--prepared his pocket knife to cut out the panes of glass, and untwist the brazen wires--but a "_prick of conscience_" made him desist from carrying his wicked design into execution. Ferdinand then advanced towards the window; and throwing it open, and listening to the rich notes of a concert of nightingales, forgot the cause of his torments--'till, his situation reminding him of "_The Churl and the Bird_," he rushed with renewed madness into the cupboard--then searched for the bell--but, finding none, he made all sorts of strange noises. The landlady rose, and, conceiving robbers to have broken into the stranger's room, came and demanded the cause of the disturbance.

"Madam," said Ferdinand, "is there no possibility of inspecting the _books_ in the _cupboard_--where is the key?" "Alack, sir," rejoined the landlady, "what is there that thus disturbs you in the sight of those books? Let me shut the closet-door and take away the key of it, and you will then sleep in peace." "Sleep in _peace_!" resumed Ferdinand--"sleep in _wretchedness_, you mean! I can have no peace unless you indulge me with the key of the book-case. To whom do such gems belong?" "Sir, they are not stolen goods."--"Madam, I ask pardon--I did not mean to question their being honest property--but"--"Sir, they are not mine or my husband's." "Who, madam, who is the lucky owner?" "An elderly gentleman of the name of--Sir, I am not at liberty to mention his name--but they belong to an elderly gentleman." "Will he part with them--where does he live? Can you introduce me to him?"--The good woman soon answered all Ferdinand's rapid queries, but the result was by no means satisfactory to him.

He learnt that these uncommonly scarce and precious volumes belonged to an ancient gentleman, whose name was studiously concealed; but who was in the habit of coming once or twice a week, during the autumn, to smoke his pipe, and lounge over his books: sometimes making extracts from them, and sometimes making observations in the margin with a pencil. Whenever a very curious passage occurred, he would take out a small memorandum book, and put on a pair of large tortoise-shell spectacles, with powerful magnifying glasses, in order to insert this passage with particular care and neatness. He usually concluded his evening amusements by sleeping in the very bed in which Ferdinand had been lying.

Such intelligence only sharpened the curiosity, and increased the restlessness, of poor Ferdinand. He retired to this said bibliomaniacal bed, but not to repose. The morning sun-beams, which irradiated the book-case with complete effect, shone upon his pallid countenance and thoughtful brow. He rose at five: walked in the meadows till seven; returned and breakfasted--stole up stairs to take a farewell peep at his beloved _Morte d'Arthur_--sighed "three times and more"--paid his reckoning; apologised for the night's adventure; told the landlady he would shortly come and visit her again, and try to pay his respects to the anonymous old gentleman. "Meanwhile," said he, "I will leave no bookseller's shop in the neighbourhood unvisited, 'till I gain intelligence of his name and character." The landlady eyed him steadily; took a pinch of snuff with a significant air; and, returning, with a smile of triumph, to her kitchen, thanked her stars that she had got rid of such a madman!

Ladies and gentlemen, I have done.

LIS. And creditably done, too!

ALMAN. If this be a specimen of your previous conversation, we know not what we have lost by our absence. But I suspect, that the principal ingredient of poetry, fiction, has a little aided in the embellishment of your story.

BELIN. This is not very gallant or complimentary on your part, Almansa. I harbour no suspicion of its verity; for marvellous things have been told me, by my brother, of the whimsical phrensies of book-fanciers.

LOREN. If you will only listen a little to Lysander's _sequel_, you will hear almost equally marvellous things; which I suspect my liberally minded sister, Almansa, will put down to the score of poetical embellishment. But I see she is conscious of her treasonable aspersions of the noble character of bibliomaniacs, and is only anxious for Lysander to resume.

ALMAN. Sir, I entreat you to finish your HISTORY OF BIBLIOMANIACS.

Your friend, Philemon, has regaled us with an entertaining episode, and you have probably, by this time, recovered strength sufficient to proceed with the main story.

LYSAND. Madam, I am equally indebted to your brother for his care of the body, and to my friend for his recreation of the mind. The midnight hour, I fear, is swiftly approaching.

LOREN. It is yet at a considerable distance. We have nearly reached the middle of the eighteenth century, and you may surely carry on your reminiscential exertions to the close of the same. By that time, we may be disposed for our nightcaps.

LYSAND. Unheeded be the moments and hours which are devoted to the celebration of eminent BOOK-COLLECTORS! Let the sand roll down the glass as it will; let "the chirping on each thorn" remind us of Aurora's saucy face peering above the horizon! in such society, and with such a subject of discussion, who--

LIS. Lysander brightens as his story draws to a close: his colouring will be more vivid than ever.

BELIND. Tell me--are bibliographers usually thus eloquent? They have been described to me as a dry, technical race of mortals--quoting only title-pages and dates.

LYSAND. Madam, believe not the malicious evidence of book-heretics.

Let ladies, like yourself and your sister, only make their appearance with a choice set of bibliomaniacs, at this time of night, and if the most interesting conversation be not the result--I have very much under-rated the colloquial powers of my brethren. But you shall hear.

We left off with lauding the bibliomaniacal celebrity of Harley, Earl of Oxford. Before the dispersion of his grand collection, died JOHN BRIDGES,[378] a gentleman, a scholar, and a notorious book-collector.

The catalogue of his books is almost the first classically arranged one in the eighteenth century: and it must be confessed that the collection was both curious and valuable. Bridges was succeeded by ANTHONY COLLINS,[379] the Free Thinker; a character equally strange and unenviable. Book-fanciers now and then bid a few shillings, for a copy of the catalogue of his library; and some sly free-thinkers, of modern date, are not backward in shewing a sympathy in their predecessor's fame, by the readiness with which they bid a half-guinea, or more, for a _priced copy_ of it.

[Footnote 378: _Bibliothecae Bridgesianae Catalogus_: or a Catalogue of the Library of JOHN BRIDGES, Esq., consisting of above 4000 books and manuscripts in all Languages and Faculties; particularly in Classics and History; and especially the History and Antiquities of Great Britain and Ireland, &c., London, 1725, 8vo. Two different catalogues of this valuable collection of books were printed. The one was analysed, or a _catalogue raisonne_, to which was prefixed a print of a Grecian portico, &c., with ornaments and statues: the other (expressly for the sale) was an indigested and extremely confused one--to which was prefixed a print, designed and engraved by A. Motte, of an oak felled, with a number of men cutting down and carrying away its branches; illustrative of the following Greek Motto inscribed on a scroll above--[Greek: Dryos pesouses pas aner xyleuetai]; "An affecting momento (says Mr. Nichols, very justly, in his _Anecdotes of Bowyer_, p. 557) to the collectors of great libraries, who cannot, or do not, leave them to some public accessible repository." My friend, Dr. Gosset, was once so fortunate as to pick up for me a _large paper_ copy of the analysed catalogue, bound in old blue morocco, and ruled with red lines, for 4_s._!--"Happy day!"]

[Footnote 379: In the year 1730-1, there was sold by auction at St. Paul's Coffee House, in St. Paul's Church Yard (beginning every evening at five o'clock), the library of the celebrated Free Thinker, ANTHONY COLLINS, Esq.

"Containing a collection of several thousand volumes in Greek, Latin, English, French, and Spanish; in divinity, history, antiquity, philosophy, husbandry, and all polite literature: and especially many curious travels and voyages; and many rare and valuable pamphlets." This collection, which is divided into _two parts_ (the first containing 3451 articles, the second 3442), is well worthy of being consulted by the theologian who is writing upon any controverted point of divinity; as there are articles in it of the rarest occurrence. The singular character of its owner and of his works is well known: he was at once the friend and the opponent of Locke and Clarke, who both were anxious for the conversion of a character of such strong, but misguided, talents. The former, on his death-bed, wrote Collins a letter to be delivered to him after his decease, which was full of affection and good advice.]

We may here but slightly allude to the bibliographical reputation of MAITTAIRE, as so much was said of him the day before yesterday.[380]