Let us therefore assume that the spectacled young gentleman already several times celebrated in this treatise has, without acquiring more sense, got married, and perhaps thereby acquired a sufficient competency to warrant his establishing a library. Let us begin our survey of his books with the shelves of poetry. Where is there a good basis for comparison? Ah, here we have it--here is Milton in the efficient library, and here the long-winded old gentleman is found again in my own! Is any comparison between these volumes possible? Would any real bibliophile hesitate a moment in making his choice between the two? The efficient Milton is a tall, sombre-looking volume with a long biographical preface by a man who used to be a poet before he became a college professor, a preface which proves that Milton never went blind, lived in Wales rather than in England, had only one daughter and knew no Latin. At the foot of every page there is a thick sprinkling of notes conveying unnecessary information. There is an appendix of variant readings and an exhaustive, monumental bibliography. Could anything be more depressing? The only illustration in the book is John himself, in a black cloak, with what seems to be a baby’s bib under his chin, and this picture can scarcely be called a decoration. My “Milton’s Poetical Works,” which was published in New York in 1857 and purchased by me from a stall on Twenty-third Street for a quarter, is more entertaining in every respect. In the first place, it has no notes--which alone makes it worth the price of admission. In the second place, the only biographical introduction is “The Life of Milton, by His Nephew, Edward Philips,” a most estimable piece of writing, which begins, “Of all the several parts of history, that which sets forth the lives, and commemorates the most remarkable actions, sayings or writings of famous and illustrious persons, whether in war or peace--whether many together, or any one in particular--as it is not the least useful in itself, so it is in the highest vogue and esteem among the studious and reading part of mankind.” Doesn’t a biography of this sort promise more flavours and exciting things than one written by a college professor, and beginning, “John Milton was born in London, England, December 9th, 1608”?