第58章 THE SKETCH BOOK(3)

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed oglingseveral mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He sooncontrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the oldfathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, endeavoredto look exceedingly wise; but the smirking commonplace of hiscountenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. Onesickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garmentwith gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reignof Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently froman illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culledfrom "The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and having put Sir PhilipSidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisiteair of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, hadbolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscuretracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front; but he waslamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched hissmall-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author.

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who onlyhelped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their ownornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplatethe costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principlesof taste, and to catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say, thattoo many were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the patchworkmanner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius, indrab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violentpropensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had beenconfined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudesof the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbonsfrom all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side,went about with a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, "babbling aboutgreen fields." But the personage that most struck my attention was apragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkablylarge and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing andpuffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdyself-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto,clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away in aformidable frizzled wig.

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenlyresounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I looked, and lo!

the portraits about the wall became animated! The old authors thrustout, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked downcuriously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and thendescended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. Thescene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description.

The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with theirplunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping amodern professor; on another, there was sad devastation carried intothe ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side byside, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy BenJonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army inFlanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned sometime since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors asHarlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants abouthim, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see manymen, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe andreverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover theirnakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical oldgentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in soreaffright with half a score of authors in full cry after him! They wereclose upon his haunches: in a twinkling off went his wig; at everyturn some strip of raiment was peeled away; until in a few moments,from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, "choppedbald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags flutteringat his back.

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of thislearned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, whichbroke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end.

The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunkback into their picture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity alongthe walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, withthe whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with astonishment.

Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a soundnever before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to theears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity.

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had acard of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon foundthat the library was a kind of literary "preserve," subject togame-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there withoutspecial license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted ofbeing an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat,lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me.

THE END

.

1819-20