I was,
in fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library, an
immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read: one
of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature to which modern
authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure
English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of
thought.
Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner,
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one
lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently
constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be
purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed
upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his
table--but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large
fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was
his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that
exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much pondering over dry
works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine.
There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored clothes,
with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, who had all
the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller.
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