fond of books. I envied authors, and thought them surely the happiest of men, and vowed within myself that if I ever could I would be one of them. And yet our books may be compared to the stars of heaven for multitude, and for the brilliancy of their lustre. The pages piled on pages which have been heaped together by one single active brain, and one industrious hand, are such as almost to surpass belief, and would indeed be perfectly incredible did we not hear of it on unquestionable authority, and frequently even see for ourselves the mighty monuments which have been reared by great intellects, and bequeathed to posterity.
But the books which I saw before me now far exceeded in grandeur all that I had ever seen before. Shelves were loaded, tables groaned, flying columns, like regiments manoeuvring in sham battle, were scattered through the room. Histories of all worlds, 'Geology of the Sun,' 'The Earth in its Antediluvian State,' 'Progress of Society in the Planet Saturn,' 'History of the Creation of the Star Sirius and his Companion Worlds,' Autobiographies of Angels, were within my reach. The room was a very large and lofty one, lighted from the roof, and surrounded with several tiers of galleries. Like the others, it was crowded with people, all appearing to be young, or, at most, middle aged; some were deeply engaged with books, others were busy writing letters. I noticed that when one of them had finished a letter, he looked up to the roof, and immediately a bird, of a kind I had never before seen, descended, took the letter, and flew off with it, as I supposed, to some central office. As I stood pondering on this, and other wonders, a soft rushing sound, without warning, swelling slowly into a loud vibration of the air as from a great trumpet, resounded through the palace. My master, and all within the room, rose from their seats, and stood for some moments in reverential silence. It was felt that an august and Divine
