Taking an Old Friend to Bed

Opening to an essay called "My Books," I find the following:

"Sitting, last winter, among my books, and walled round with all the comfort and protection which they and my fireside could afford me; to wit, a table of high piled books at my back, my writing-desk on one side of me, some shelves on the other, and the feeling of the warm fire at my feet; I began to consider how I loved the authors of those books, -- how I loved them, too, not only for the imaginative pleasures they afforded me, but for their making me love the very books themselves, and delight to be in contact with them."

I love Leigh Hunt.  He makes me love the very books themselves, and delight to be in contact with them.  I'm taking my Essays of Leigh Hunt upstairs with me now, to read a bit more before I go to sleep.