uble the circulating libraries much, or pester the
booksellers for mail-coach copies of standard periodical publications. I
cannot say that I am greatly addicted to black-letter, but I profess
myself well versed in the marble bindings of Andrew Millar, in the middle
of the last century; nor does my taste revolt at Thurloe's State Papers,
in Russia leather; or an ample impression of Sir William Temple's Essays,
with a portrait after Sir Godfrey Kneller in front. I do not think
altogether the worse of a book for having survived the author a generation
or two. I have more confidence in the dead than the living. Contemporary
writers may generally be divided into two classes--one's friends or one's
foes. Of the first we are compelled to think too well, and of the last we
are disposed to think too ill, to receive much genuine pleasure from the
perusal, or to judge fairly of the merits of either. One candidate for
literary fame, who happens to be of our acquaintance, writes finely, and
like a man of genius; but unfortunately has a foolish face, which spoils a
delicate passage:--another inspires us with the highest respect for his
personal talents and character, but does not quite come up to our
expectations in print. All these contradictions and petty details
interrupt the calm current of our reflections. If you want to know what
any of the authors were who lived before our time, and are still objects
of anxious inquiry, you have only to look into their works. But the dust
and smoke and noise of modern literature have nothing in common with the
pure, silent air of immortality.

When I take up a work that I have read before (the oftener the better) I
know what I have to expect. The satisfaction is not lessened by being
anticipated. When the entertainment is altogether new, I sit down to it as
I should to a strange dish,--turn and pick out a bit here and there, and
am in doubt what to think of the composition. There is a want of
confidence and security to second appetite. New-fangled books are also
like made-dishes in this respect, that they are generally little else than
hashes and _rifaccimentos_ of what has been served up entire and in a more
natural state at other times. Besides, in thus turning to a well-known
author, there is not only an assurance that my time will not be thrown
away, or my palate nauseated with the most insipid or vilest trash,--but I
shake hands with, and look an old, tried, and valued friend in the
face,