nd anxious to take my departure to join my family. In
my solitude, dear Philemon, I have found these (pointing to his books)
to be what Cicero, and Seneca, and our own countryman De Bury,[170]
have so eloquently and truly described them to be--our friends, our
instructors, and our comforts. Without any affectation of hard
reading, great learning, or wonderful diligence, I think I may venture
to say that I have read more valuable books than it falls to the lot
of the generality of book-collectors to read; and I would fain believe
that I have profited by my studies. Although not of the profession of
the church, you know that I have always cherished a fondness for
sacred literature; and there is hardly a good edition of the Greek
Testament, or a commentator of repute upon the Bible, foreign or
domestic, but what you will find some reference to the same in my
interleaved copy of Bishop Wilson's edition of the Holy Scriptures. A
great number of these commentators themselves are in my library, as
well as every authoritative edition of the Greek Testament, from the
Complutensian to Griesbach's. Yet do not suppose that my theological
books are equal in measure to one fourth part of those in the Imperial
library at Paris.[171] My object has always been instruction and
improvement; and when these could be obtained from any writer, whether
Roman Catholic or Protestant, Arminian or Calvinistic, I have not
failed to thank him, and to respect him, too, if he has declared his
opinions with becoming diffidence and moderation. You know that
nothing so sorely grieves me as dogmatical arrogance, in a being who
will always be frail and capricious, let him think and act as he
please. On a Sunday evening I usually devote a few hours to my
theological studies--(if you will allow my sabbath-meditations to be
so called) and, almost every summer evening in the week, saunter
'midst yon thickets and meadows by the river side, with Collins, or
Thompson, or Cowper, in my hand. The beautiful sentiments and grand
imagery of Walter Scott are left to my in-door avocations; because I
love to read the curious books to which he refers in his notes, and
have always admired, what I find few critics have noticed, how
adroitly he has ingrafted fiction upon truth. As I thus perambulate,
with my book generally open, the villagers treat me as Sir Roger De
Coverley made his tenants treat the Spectator--by keeping at a
respectful distance--but when I shut up my volu