decent binding, it had such charms for the
servants, that it was repeatedly, and with difficulty, recovered from
their clutches. It contains most of the pieces that were popular about
thirty years since, and I dare say many that could not now be procured for
any price."

It is odd to contrast the book-loving tastes of celebrated authors.
Southey cared for his books, but Coleridge would cut the leaves of a book
with a butter knife, and De Quincey's extraordinary treatment of books is
well described by Mr. Burton in the _Book Hunter_. Charles Lamb's loving
appreciation of his books is known to all readers of the delightful Elia.

Southey collected more than 14,000 volumes, which sold in 1844 for nearly
L3000. He began collecting as a boy, for his father had but few books. Mr.
Edwards enumerates these as follows: The _Spectator_, three or four
volumes of the _Oxford Magazine_, one volume of the _Freeholder's
Magazine_, and one of the _Town and Country Magazine_, Pomfret's _Poems_,
the _Death of Abel_, nine plays (including _Julius Caesar_, _The Indian
Queen_, and a translation of _Merope_), and a pamphlet.[12]

Southey was probably one of the most representative of literary men. His
feelings in his library are those of all book-lovers, although he could
express these feelings in language which few of them have at command:--

My days among the dead are passed;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedewed
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long-past years;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with a humble mind.

My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Mr. Henry Stevens read a paper or rather delivered an address at the
meeting of the Library Association held at Liverpool in 1883, containing
his recollections of Mr. James Lenox, the great American book collector. I
had the