have been purchased cheap at the auction of some
college-professor's library.

But I found ample entertainment in a few choice old authors, whom I
stumbled upon in various parts of the ship, among the inferior
officers. One was "_Morgan's History of Algiers_," a famous old quarto,
abounding in picturesque narratives of corsairs, captives, dungeons,
and sea-fights; and making mention of a cruel old Dey, who, toward the
latter part of his life, was so filled with remorse for his cruelties
and crimes that he could not stay in bed after four o'clock in the
morning, but had to rise in great trepidation and walk off his bad
feelings till breakfast time. And another venerable octavo, containing
a certificate from Sir Christopher Wren to its authenticity, entitled
"_Knox's Captivity in Ceylon, 1681_"--abounding in stories about the
Devil, who was superstitiously supposed to tyrannise over that
unfortunate land: to mollify him, the priests offered up buttermilk,
red cocks, and sausages; and the Devil ran roaring about in the woods,
frightening travellers out of their wits; insomuch that the Islanders
bitterly lamented to Knox that their country was full of devils, and
consequently, there was no hope for their eventual well-being. Knox
swears that he himself heard the Devil roar, though he did not see his
horns; it was a terrible noise, he says, like the baying of a hungry
mastiff.

Then there was Walpole's Letters--very witty, pert, and polite--and
some odd volumes of plays, each of which was a precious casket of
jewels of good things, shaming the trash nowadays passed off for
dramas, containing "The Jew of Malta," "Old Fortunatus," "The City
Madam." "Volpone," "The Alchymist," and other glorious old dramas of
the age of Marlow and Jonson, and that literary Damon and Pythias, the
magnificent, mellow old Beaumont and Fletcher, who have sent the long
shadow of their reputation, side by side with Shakspeare's, far down
the endless vale of posterity. And may that shadow never be less! but
as for St. Shakspeare may his never be more, lest the commentators
arise, and settling upon his sacred text like unto locusts, devour it
clean up, leaving never a dot over an I.

I diversified this reading of mine, by borrowing Moore's "_Loves of the
Angels_" from Rose-water, who recommended it as "_de charmingest of
volumes;_" and a Negro Song-book, containing _Sittin' on a Rail_,
_Gumbo Squash_, and _Jim along Josey_, from Broadbit, a
sheet-a