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 Cœur 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!