His library, though not abounding in Greek or Latin (which are the only
things to help some persons to an idea of literature), is anything but
superficial. The depths of philosophy and poetry are there, the
innermost passages of the human heart. It has some Latin too. It has
also a handsome contempt for appearance. It looks like what it is, a
selection made at precious intervals from the book-stalls; now a Chaucer
at nine and twopence; now a Montaigne or a Sir Thomas Browne at two
shillings; now a Jeremy Taylor; a Spinoza; an old English Dramatist,
Prior, and Sir Philip Sidney; and the books are 'neat as imported'. The
very perusal of the backs is a 'discipline of humanity'. There Mr.
Southey takes his place again with an old Radical friend: there Jeremy
Collier is at peace with Dryden: there the lion, Martin Luther, lies
down with the Quaker lamb, Sewell: there Guzman d'Alfarache thinks
himself fit company for Sir Charles Grandison, and has his claims
admitted. Even the 'high fantastical' Duchess of Newcastle, with her
laurel on her head, is received with grave honours, and not the less for
declining to trouble herself with the constitutions of her maids.--J. H.
LEIGH HUNT. _My Books._