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The library of Samuel Seabrooke, as I have said, stood beside the set of Molière. It contained the works of Fielding and of Smollett and of Sterne, and several volumes of Defoe, a good deal of Voltaire, of Racine; Dryden, Calderón, Petrarch and Boccaccio; Pope's Essay on Man; Paradise Lost; Dr. Johnson's Shakespeare, and also the Doctor's Dictionary, the Portuguese poets, Cervantes, and Gil Blas, all mixed together in exactly the same order that he left them. Probably he had always meant, as most of us do, to read them and arrange them once he had the time. On the shelf below were the Iliad and the Odyssey, Xenophon and Thucydides. "He always admired to read Greek at sea," Aunt Sarah said. Then there was his Latin—Horace, Tacitus, Suetonius and Plautus, and two volumes of Plutarch's Lives. Beneath the classics was the shelf of books that I believe he read more frequently, a Bowditch, a Coast Pilot, a set of charts, The Ship Master's Assistant, Cook's Voyages, and some guidebooks of Mexico, Peru and Brazil, in Spanish and Portuguese.