I was in my library, making room upon the shelves for some books which
had just arrived from New England, removing to a less conspicuous station
others which were of less value and in worse dress, when Sir Thomas
entered. You are employed, said he, to your heart's content. Why,
Montesinos, with these books, and the delight you take in their constant
society, what have you to covet or desire?
_Montesinos_.--Nothing, except more books.
_Sir Thomas More_.--
"_Crescit_, _indulgens sibi_, _dirus hydrops_."
_Montesinos_.--Nay, nay, my ghostly monitor, this at least is no diseased
desire. If I covet more, it is for the want I feel and the use which I
should make of them. "Libraries," says my good old friend George Dyer, a
man as learned as he is benevolent, "libraries are the wardrobes of
literature, whence men, properly informed, might bring forth something
for ornament, much for curiosity, and more for use." These books of
mine, as you well know, are not drawn up here for display, however much
the pride of the eye may be gratified in beholding them, they are on
actual service. Whenever they may be dispersed, there is not one among
them that will ever be more comfortably lodged, or more highly prized by
its possessor; and generations may pass away before some of them will
again find a reader. It is well that we do not moralise too much upon
such subjects.
"For foresight is a melancholy gift,
Which bares the bald, and speeds the all-too-swift."