lancholy_, vol. i., p. 126, edit. 1804. But our theme is
Bibliomania. Take, therefore, concerning the same author,
the following: and then hesitate, if thou canst, about his
being infected with the BOOK-DISEASE. "What a catalogue of
new books all this year, all this age (I say) have our
Frank-furt marts, our domestic marts, brought out! Twice a
year, 'Proferunt se nova ingenia et ostentant;' we stretch
our wits out! and set them to sale: 'Magno conatu nihil
agimus,' &c. 'Quis tam avidus librorum helluo,' who can read
them? As already, we shall have a vast chaos and confusion
of books; we are oppressed with them; our eyes ake with
reading, our fingers with turning," &c. This is painting _ad
vivum_--after the life. We see and feel every thing
described. Truly, none but a thorough master in
bibliomaniacal mysteries could have thus thought and
written! See "_Democritus to the Reader_," p. 10; perhaps
the most highly finished piece of dissection in the whole
_anatomical work_.]

About this period lived LORD LUMLEY; a nobleman of no mean reputation
as a bibliomaniac. But what shall we say to Lord Shaftesbury's
eccentric neighbour, HENRY HASTINGS? who, in spite of his hawks,
hounds, kittens, and oysters,[346] could not for [Transcriber's Note:
extraneous 'for'] forbear to indulge his book propensities though in a
moderate degree! Let us fancy we see him, in his eightieth year, just
alighted from the toils of the chase, and listening, after dinner,
with his "single glass" of ale by his side, to some old woman with
"spectacle on nose" who reads to him a choice passage out of John
Fox's _Book of Martyrs_! A rare old boy was this Hastings. But I
wander--and may forget another worthy, and yet more ardent,
bibliomaniac, called JOHN CLUNGEON, who left a press, and some books
carefully deposited in a stout chest, to the parish church at
Southampton. We have also evidence of this man's having _erected a
press_ within the same; but human villany has robbed us of every relic
of his books and printing furniture.[347] From Southampton, you must
excuse me if I take a leap to London; in order to introduce you into
the wine cellars of one JOHN WARD; where, I suppose, a few choice
copies of favourite authors were sometimes kept in a secret recess by
the side of the oldest bottle of hock. We are indebted to Hearne for a
brief, but not uninteresting, notice of