ruth, I do
not grieve at all--at the dismantling of Strawberry Hill, or at the sale
of the Roxburghe library; but at the vendition of Samuel Johnson's dusty
and dearly loved books (they were sold by Mr. Christie, "at his Great
Room in Pall-Mall," on Wednesday, February 16, 1785) I own to being a
trifle sad and sentimental. For Walpole, with all his cleverness, is a
man one cannot love; and as for the bibliographical Duke, he evidently
thought more of a rare edition or a unique copy than of all the charms
of wit, poetry, or eloquence. I suspect that a splendid binding would
please him more than a splendid passage. Whereas Johnson (he was never
without a book in his pocket to read at by-times when he had nothing
else to do) had a scholar's love for books, and liked them for what they
contained, and not merely because they were rare and costly.

Neither can I think unmoved of the dispersion "under the hammer" of the
fine library at Greta Hall, which Southey had taken so much pains and
pleasure in collecting, and which was, as his son has observed, the
pride of his eyes and the joy of his heart,--a library which contained
many a "monarch folio," and many a fine old quarto, and thousands of
small, but precious volumes of ancient lore, and which was particularly
rich in rare old Spanish and Portuguese books. Many of the old volumes
in this library had seen such hard service, and had been so roughly
handled by former owners, that they were in a very ragged condition when
they came into Southey's possession; and as he could not afford to have
them equipped in serviceable leather, his daughters and female friends
comfortably and neatly clothed them in colored cotton prints. The twelve
or fourteen hundred volumes thus bound filled an entire room, which the
poet designated as the "Cottonian Library." I saw, a year or two ago,
among the costly and valuable works upon the shelves of a Boston
bookstore, two or three volumes of this "Cottonian Library." They are
not there now. Perhaps the lucky purchaser of them may be a reader of
this article. If so, let me congratulate him upon possessing such rare
and interesting memorials of the famous and immortal biographer of
Doctor Daniel Dove of Doncaster.

And sure I am that no gentle reader can contemplate the fate of Charles
Lamb's library without becoming a prey to

"Mild-eyed melancholy."

Elia's books,--his "midnight darlings," his "folios," his "huge
Switzer-like tomes of choic