see not only the maturer members, but, alas, the youth and even
the babes and sucklings drinking freely and gratefully at the

fountain-head of thy delights!''
Dr. O'Rell's library is one of the most charming apartments I

know of. It looks out upon every variety of scenery, for Dr.
O'Rell has had constructed at considerable expense a light iron

framework from which are suspended at different times cunningly
painted canvases representing landscapes and marines

corresponding to the most whimsical fancy.
In the dead of winter, the doctor often has a desire to look out

upon a cheerylandscape; thereupon, by a simple manipulation of a
keyboard, there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and

flowery meads, of grazing sheep, and of piping rustics; so
natural is the spectacle that one can almost hear the music of

the reeds, and fancy himself in Arcadia. If in midsummer the
heat is oppressive and life seems burthensome, forthwith another

canvas is outspread, and the glories of the Alps appear, or a
stretch of blue sea, or a corner of a primeval forest.

So there is an outlook for every mood, and I doubt not that this
ingenious provision contributes potently towards promoting

bibliomaniac harmony and prosperity in my friend's household. It
is true that I myself am not susceptible to external influences

when once I am surrounded by books; I do not care a fig whether
my library overlooks a garden or a desert; give me my dear

companions in their dress of leather, cloth, or boards, and it
matters not to me whether God sends storm or sunshine, flowers or

hail, light or darkness, noise or calm. Yet I know and admit
that environment means much to most people, and I do most

heartily applaud Dr. O'Rell's versatile device.
I have always thought that De Quincey's workshop would have given

me great delight. The particular thing that excited De Quincey's
choler was interference with his books and manuscripts, which he

piled atop of one another upon the floor and over his desk, until
at last there would be but a narrow little pathway from the desk

to the fireplace and from the fireplace to the door; and his
writing-table--gracious! what a Pelion upon Ossa of confusion it

must have been!
Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew ``just where everything

was,'' and he merely exacted that the servants attempt no such
vandalism as ``cleaning up'' in his workshop. Of course there

would presently come a time when there was no more room on the
table and when the little pathway to the fireplace and the door

would be no longer visible; then, with a sigh, De Quincey would
lock the door of that room and betake himself to other quarters,

which in turn would eventually become quite as littered up,
cluttered up, and impassable as the first rooms.

From all that can be gathered upon the subject it would appear
that De Quincey was careless in his treatment of books; I have

read somewhere (but I forget where) that he used his forefinger
as a paper-cutter and that he did not hesitate to mutilate old

folios which he borrowed. But he was extraordinarily tender with
his manuscripts; and he was wont to carry in his pockets a soft

brush with which he used to dust off his manuscripts most
carefully before handing them to the publisher.

Sir Walter Scott was similarly careful with his books, and he
used, for purposes of dusting them, the end of a fox's tail set

in a handle of silver. Scott, was, however, particular and
systematic in the arrangement of his books, and his work-room,

with its choice bric-a-brac and its interesting collection of
pictures and framed letters, was a veritableparadise to the

visiting book-lover and curio- lover. He was as fond of early
rising as Francis Jeffrey was averse to it, and both these

eminent men were strongly attached to animal pets. Jeffrey
particularly affected an aged and garrulous parrot and an equally

disreputable little dog. Scott was so stanch a friend of dogs
that wherever he went he was accompanied by one or two--sometimes

by a whole kennel--of these faithful brutes.
In Mrs. Gordon's noble ``Memoirs'' we have a vivid picture of

Professor Wilson's workroom. All was confusion there: ``his room
was a strange mixture of what may be called order and untidiness,

for there was not a scrap of paper or a book that his hand could
not light upon in a moment, while to the casual eye, in search of

discovery, it would appear chaos.'' Wilson had no love for fine
furniture, and he seems to have crowded his books together

without regard to any system of classification. He had a habit
of mixing his books around with fishing-tackle, and his charming

biographer tells us it was no uncommon thing to find the ``Wealth
of Nations,'' ``Boxiana,'' the ``Faerie Queen,'' Jeremy Taylor,

and Ben Jonson occupying close quarters with fishing-rods,
boxing-gloves, and tins of barley-sugar.

Charles Lamb's favorite workshop was in an attic; upon the walls
of this room he and his sister pasted old prints and gay

pictures, and this resulted in giving the place a cheery aspect.
Lamb loved old books, old friends, old times; ``he evades the

present, he works at the future, and his affections revert to and
settle on the past,''--so says Hazlitt. His favorite books seem

to have been Bunyan's ``Holy War,'' Browne's ``Urn-Burial,''
Burton's ``Anatomy of Melancholy,'' Fuller's ``Worthies,'' and

Taylor's ``Holy Living and Dying.'' Thomas Westwood tells us
that there were few modern volumes in his library, it being his

custom to give away and throw away (as the same writer asserts)
presentation copies of contemporaneous literature. Says Barry

Cornwall: ``Lamb's pleasures lay amongst the books of the old
English writers,'' and Lamb himself uttered these memorable

words: ``I cannot sit and think--books think for me.''
Wordsworth, on the other hand, cared little for books; his

library was a small one, embracing hardly more than five hundred
volumes. He drew his inspiration not from books, but from

Nature. From all that I have heard of him I judge him to have
been a very dull man. Allibone relates of him that he once

remarked that he did not consider himself a witty poet.
``Indeed,'' quoth he, ``I don't think I ever was witty but once

in my life.''
His friends urged him to tell them about it. After some

hesitation, he said: ``Well, I will tell you. I was standing
some time ago at the entrance of Rydal Mount. A man accosted me

with the question: `Pray, sir, have you seen my wife pass by?'
Whereupon I retorted, `Why, my good friend, I didn't know till

this moment that you had a wife.' ''
Illustrative of Wordsworth's vanity, it is told that when it was

reported that the next Waverley novel was to be ``Rob Roy,'' the
poet took down his ``Ballads'' and read to the company ``Rob

Roy's Grave.'' Then he said gravely: ``I do not know what more
Mr. Scott can have to say on the subject.''

Wordsworth and Dickens disliked each other cordially. Having
been asked his opinion of the young novelist, Wordsworth

answered: ``Why, I'm not much given to turn critic on people I
meet; but, as you ask me, I will cordially avow that I thought

him a very talkative young person--but I dare say he may be very
clever. Mind, I don't want to say a word against him, for I have

never read a line he has written.''
The same inquirer subsequently asked Dickens how he liked

Wordsworth.
``Like him!'' roared Dickens, ``not at all; he is a dreadful Old

Ass!''
XIX

OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN
Where one has the time and the money to devote to the collection

of missals and illuminated books, the avocation must be a very
delightful one. I never look upon a missal or upon a bit of

antique illumination that I do not invest that object with a
certain poeticromance, and I picture to myself long lines of

monkish men bending over their tasks, and applying themselves
with pious enthusiasmthereto. We should not flatter ourselves

that the enjoyment of the delights of bibliomania was reserved to
one time and generation; a greater than any of us lived many

centuries ago, and went his bibliomaniacal way, gathering