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 £3000. 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 Cæsar, 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 pleasure of listening to that address, but I have read it in its finished form with even greater delight. It is not often that he who pleases you as a speaker also pleases you as writer, but Mr. Stevens succeeds in both. If more bibliographers could write their reminiscences with the same spirit that he does, we should hear less of the dullness of bibliography. I strongly recommend my readers to take an early opportunity of perusing this paper in the Liverpool volume of the Transactions of the Library Association.
Mr. Stevens, among his anecdotes of Mr. Lenox, records that he "often bought duplicates for immediate use, or to lend, rather than grope for the copies he knew to be in the stocks in some of his store rooms or chambers, notably Stirling's Artists of Spain, a high-priced book."