novels were there, but except Gulliver, which came in with the complete edition of Swift’s works in 1784, the only English novel Smith seems to have possessed was the Man of the World, by his friend Henry Mackenzie.  It is perhaps stranger that he ignored the novel than that he ignored theology, for the novel was then a very rising and popular literary form, and Smith began life as a professed literary critic.  His mind seems to have been too positive to care much for tales.  On the other hand, of the Greek and Latin classics he not unfrequently had several different editions.  He had eight, for example, of Horace, who seems to have been an especial favourite.

Like most men who are fond of books, he seems to have bound them well, and often elegantly.  Smellie, the printer, says that the first time he happened to be in Smith’s library he was “looking at the books with some degree of curiosity, and perhaps surprise, for most of the volumes were elegantly, and some of them superbly bound,” when Smith, observing him, said, “You must have remarked that I am a beau in nothing but my books."[286] M’Culloch, however, who had seen the books, doubts whether their condition warranted the account given of them by Smellie, and says that while they were neatly, and in some cases even elegantly bound, he saw few or none of which the binding could with propriety be called superb.

The Custom House was on the upper floors of the Royal Exchange, in Exchange Square, off the High Street; and Kay, standing in his shop over at the corner of the Parliament Close, must often have seen Smith walk past from his house to his office in the morning exactly as he has depicted him in one of his portraits,—­in a light-coloured coat, probably linen; knee-breeches, white silk stockings, buckle shoes, and flat broad-brimmed beaver hat; walking erect with a bunch of flowers in his left hand, and his cane, held by the middle, borne on his right shoulder, as Smellie tells us was Smith’s usual habit, “as a soldier carries his musket.”  When he walked his head always moved gently from side to side, and his body swayed, Smellie says, “vermicularly,” as if at each alternate step “he meant to alter his direction, or even to turn back.”  Often, moreover, his lips would be moving all the while, and smiling in rapt conversation with invisible companions.  A very noticeable figure he was as he went up and down the High Street, and he used to tell himself the observations of two market women about him as he marched past them one day.  “Hegh sirs!” said one, shaking her head significantly.  “And he’s weel put on too!” rejoined the other, surprised that one who appeared from his dress to be likely to have friends should be left by them to walk abroad alone.