Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place,
whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like
visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure
waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the
lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had
consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had
drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed
under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the
country. The good people of the vicinity thronged liked wreckers
to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on
shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might
imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption in the
regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and
contending for the possession of weapons which they could not
wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators,
debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and
illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense,
but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser
attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured.

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's
misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious
mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon
his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance
that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows
how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts
and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all
that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their