But no sooner had he deposited a piece of gold on the said stone, according to the usual manner in such ceremonies, but the earth fell in from one side of the foundation, and the scaffold that was thereon broke and fell with it; so that all those that were thereon, to the number of a hundred at least, namely, the Proctors, Principals of Halls, Masters, and some Bachelaurs, fell down all together, one upon another, into the foundation; among whom, the under butler of Exeter College had his shoulder broken or put out of joint, and a scholar's arm bruised." "The solemnity being thus concluded with such a sad catastrophe, the breach was soon after made up and the work going chearfully forward, was in four years space finished." Annals of the University of Oxford; vol. ii., pt. ii., p. 939. Gutch's edition. We will take leave of Sir Thomas Bodley, and of his noble institution, with the subjoined representation of the University's Arms—as painted upon the ceiling of the library, in innumerable compartments; hoping that the period is not very remote when a History of the Bodleian Library, more ample and complete than any thing which has preceded it, will appear prefixed to a Catalogue of the Books, like unto that which is hinted at [p. 74], ante, as "an urgent desideratum."
Lis. Alas, you bring to my mind those precious hours that are gone by, never to be recalled, which I wasted within this glorious palace of Bodley's erection! How I sauntered, and gazed, and sauntered again.—
Phil. Your case is by no means singular. But you promise, when you revisit the library, not to behave so naughtily again?
Lis. I was not then a convert to the Bibliomania! Now, I will certainly devote the leisure of six autumnal weeks to examine minutely some of the precious tomes which are contained in it.
Lysand. Very good. And pray favour us with the result of your profound researches: as one would like to have the most minute account of the treasures contained within those hitherto unnumbered volumes.
Phil. As every sweet in this world is balanced by its bitter, I wonder that these worthy characters were not lampooned by some sharp-set scribbler—whose only chance of getting perusers for his work, and thereby bread for his larder, was by the novelty and impudence of his attacks. Any thing new and preposterous is sure of drawing attention. Affirm that you see a man standing upon one leg, on the pinnacle of Saint Paul's[336]—or that the ghost of Inigo Jones had appeared to you, to give you the extraordinary information that Sir Christopher Wren had stolen the whole of the plan of that cathedral from a design of his own—and do you not think that you would have spectators and auditors enough around you?
[336] This is now oftentimes practised by some wag, in his "Walke in Powles." Whether the same anecdote is recorded in the little slim pamphlet published in 1604, 4to., under the same title—not having the work—(and indeed how should I? vide Bibl. Reed, no. 2225, cum pretiis!) I cannot take upon me to determine.
Lis. Yes, verily: and I warrant some half-starved scrivener of the Elizabethan period drew his envenomed dart to endeavour to perforate the cuticle of some worthy bibliomaniacal wight.
Lysand. You may indulge what conjectures you please; but I know of no anti-bibliomaniacal satirist of this period. Stubbes did what he could, in his "Anatomy of Abuses,"[337] to disturb every social and harmless amusement of the age. He was the forerunner of that snarling satirist, Prynne; but I ought not thus to cuff him, for fear of bringing upon me the united indignation of a host of black-letter critics and philologists. A large and clean copy of his sorrily printed work is among the choicest treasures of a Shakspearian virtuoso.