"Oh dear, oh
dear," he says, "there is such a comfort in one's old coat and
old shoes, one's armchair and own fireside, one's own writing-
desk and own library--with a little girl climbing up my neck, and
saying, 'Don't go to London, papa--you must stay with Edith'; and
a little boy, whom I have taught to speak the language of cats,
dogs, cuckoos, and jackasses, etc., before he can articulate a
word of his own; there is such a comfort in all these things, the
transportation to London for four or five weeks seems a heavier
punishment than any sins of mine deserve."
And so we see him spending long hours, long years, among his
books, hoping for lasting fame from his poems, and meantime
earning with his prose food for hungry little mouths, shoes for
nimble little feet, with just a trifle over for books, and still
more books. For Southey loved books, and his big library was
lined with them. There were thousands there, many in beautiful
bindings, glowing in soft coloring, gleaming with pale gold, for
he loved to clothe his treasures in fitting garments.
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