Feb. 14, 1863.]
ONCE A WEEK.
197
It certainly is a very comfortable place. The cushion on my chair is luxuriously padded. The table before me is just the right height for writing. That elaborate and intricate contrivance, all pad and hinge and snap and rest, that comes down with such a startling bang and clatter, is the very thing for fat folios and unwieldy lexicons. I sit in a room of which I am sure Aladdin, had he ever seen it, would have built a duplicate in his mushroom palace, so spacious its area—so vast its cærulean dome. I enjoy all Selkirk’s boundless dominion, with none of that solitary monarch’s boundless discomfort. There is wealth at my command that Crœsus, though he was no fool, could never dream of. I have but to rub my lamp—I beg pardon—to sign a voucher, and one of the patient and courteous Jinns who wait to perform my behests, will deposit before me whatever portion I choose to demand of the glorious treasure that the mind of man has stored in books. This stately hall is built for me. I walk in and take my place like a master in his home. Anyone else must keep silence that I may read in peace. No one can disturb my privacy. It is really very
