Just then my eye was caught by the
pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was
scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of authors in
full cry after him. They were close upon his haunches; in a
twinkling off went his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment
was peeled away, until in a few moments, from his domineering
pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopp'd bald shot," and
made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his
back.
There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this
learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter,
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were
at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old
authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in
shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide
awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of hookworms gazing
at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but
my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave
sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to
electrify the fraternity.
The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a
card of admission.
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