Judge Methuen has a copy of Bishop Percy’s ``Reliques of Ancient English Poetry’’ that he prizes highly.  It is the first edition of this noble work, and was originally presented by Percy to Dr. Birch of the British Museum.  The Judge found these three volumes exposed for sale in a London book stall, and he comprehended them without delay—­a great bargain, you will admit, when I tell you that they cost the Judge but three shillings!  How came these precious volumes into that book stall I shall not presume to say.

Strange indeed are the vicissitudes which befall books, stranger even than the happenings in human life.  All men are not as considerate of books as I am; I wish they were.  Many times I have felt the deepest compassion for noble volumes in the possession of persons wholly incapable of appreciating them.  The helpless books seemed to appeal to me to rescue them, and too many times I have been tempted to snatch them from their inhospitable shelves, and march them away to a pleasant refuge beneath my own comfortable roof tree.

Too few people seem to realize that books have feelings.  But if I know one thing better than another I know this, that my books know me and love me.  When of a morning I awaken I cast my eyes about my room to see how fare my beloved treasures, and as I cry cheerily to them, ``Good-day to you, sweet friends!’’ how lovingly they beam upon me, and how glad they are that my repose has been unbroken.  When I take them from their places, how tenderly do they respond to the caresses of my hands, and with what exultation do they respond unto my call for sympathy!

Laughter for my gayer moods, distraction for my cares, solace for my griefs, gossip for my idler moments, tears for my sorrows, counsel for my doubts, and assurance against my fears—­these things my books give me with a promptness and a certainty and a cheerfulness which are more than human; so that I were less than human did I not love these comforters and bear eternal gratitude to them.

Judge Methuen read me once a little poem which I fancy mightily; it is entitled ``Winfreda,’’ and you will find it in your Percy, if you have one.  The last stanza, as I recall it, runs in this wise: 

  And when by envy time transported
  Shall seek to rob us of our joys,
  You’ll in our girls again be courted
  And I’ll go wooing in our boys.

``Now who was the author of those lines?’’ asked the Judge.

``Undoubtedly Oliver Wendell Holmes,’’ said I. ``They have the flavor peculiar to our Autocrat; none but he could have done up so much sweetness in such a quaint little bundle.’’

``You are wrong,’’ said the Judge, ``but the mistake is a natural one.  The whole poem is such a one as Holmes might have written, but it saw the light long before our dear doctor’s day:  what a pity that its authorship is not known!’’