T. Osborne."
I shall conclude with the following curious story told of him, in Mr. Nichols's Anecdotes of Bowyer the Printer. "Mr. David Papillon, a gentleman of fortune and literary taste, as well as a good antiquary (who died in 1762) contracted with Osborne to furnish him with an 100l. worth of books, at threepence a piece. The only conditions were, that they should be perfect, and that there should be no duplicate. Osborne was highly pleased with his bargain, and the first great purchase he made, he sent Mr. P. a large quantity; but in the next purchase, he found he could send but few, and the next, still fewer. Not willing, however, to give up, he sent books worth five shillings a piece; and, at last, was forced to go and beg to be let off the contract. Eight thousand books would have been wanted!"—See p. 101-2, note ‡‡.
Lis. Let us rise to pay him homage!
Phil. Lisardo is now fairly bewitched. He believes in the existence of the group!—Help, ho! Fetters and warder for—
Loren. Philemon loves to indulge his wit at his friend's expense. Is't not so, Lisardo?
Lis. I forgive him. 'Twas a "glorious fault." But, indeed, I would strip to the skin, if this said nobleman longed for my coat, waistcoat, small clothes, and shirt, to form him a cushion to sit upon! I have heard such wonderful things said of his library!—
Lysand. And not more wonderful than its reputation justifies. Well might Pope be enamoured of such a noble friend—and well might even Dr. Mead bow to the superior splendour of such a book-competitor! While the higher order of bibliomaniacs, reposing upon satin sofas, were quaffing burgundy out of Harley's curiously cut goblets, and listening to the captivating tale of Mead or Folkes, respecting a vellum Editio Princeps—the lower order, with Bagford at their head, were boisterously regaling themselves below, drinking ale round an oaken table, and toasting their patron, till the eye could no longer discover the glass, nor the tongue utter his name. Aloft, in mid air, sat the soothed spirits of Smith and North; pointing, with their thin, transparent fingers, to the apotheosis of Caxton and Aldus! Suddenly, a crowd of pipy fragrance involves the room: these ærial forms cease to be visible; and broken sounds, like the retiring tide beneath Dover cliff, die away into utter silence. Sleep succeeds: but short is the slumber of enthusiastic bibliomaniacs! The watchman rouses them from repose: and the annunciation of the hour of "two o'clock, and a moonlight morning," reminds them of their cotton night-caps and flock mattrasses. They start up, and sally forwards; chaunting, midst the deserted streets, and with eyes turned sapiently towards the moon, "Long life to the King of Book-Collectors, Harley, Earl of Oxford!"
Loren. A truce, Lysander! I entreat a truce!
Lysand. To what?
Loren. To this discourse. You must be exhausted.