In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly
resounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves!" I looked, and
lo! the portraits about the walls became animated! The old
authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the
canvas, looked down curiously for an instant upon the motley
throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim
their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that
ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored
in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen
half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor; on another,
there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern
dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged
round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson
enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in
Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos mentioned
some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and
colors as harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of
claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was
grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up
with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to
cover their nakedness.
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