In fact, I look upon a library as a kind of mental chemist's shop filled with the crystals of all forms and hues which have come from the union of individual thought with local circumstances or universal principles.
When a man has worked out his special affinities in this way, there is an end of his genius as a real solvent.

No more effervescence and hissing tumult--as he pours his sharp thought on the world's biting alkaline unbeliefs! No more corrosion of the old monumental tablets covered with lies! No more taking up of dull earths, and turning them, first into clear solutions, and then into lustrous prisms! I, the Professor, am very much like other men: I shall not find out when I have used up my affinities.

What a blessed thing it is, that Nature, when she invented, manufactured, and patented her authors, contrived to make critics out of the chips that were left! Painful as the task is, they never fail to warn the author, in the most impressive manner, of the probabilities of failure in what he has undertaken.

Sad as the necessity is to their delicate sensibilities, they never hesitate to advertise him of the decline of his powers, and to press upon him the propriety of retiring before he sinks into imbecility.

Trusting to their kind offices, I shall endeavor to fulfil-- -- Bridget enters and begins clearing the table.
-- The following poem is my (The Professor's) only contribution to the great department of Ocean-Cable literature.