board at home, which shut up like two thick
volumes, and was labelled with the title of
some standard author.

"All real books, my friend," replied my
guide.

I walked around the walls, looking up at
the titles of the volumes, while the old gentleman
sat at the desk and began to write. I
remember that I felt much inclined to take
down one of the volumes and open it; but
on turning round to glance at my conductor,
before asking his permission, he seemed to be
so much occupied, that I was afraid to disturb
him; so I continued to amuse myself with
reading the titles, walking slowly from place
to place on tiptoe. I looked round once, as
I ceased to hear the scratching of his pen upon
the paper, and then I saw him with his arm
supported on the desk, and his face resting on
his hand, looking very thoughtful. He was
tall and thin. His head was partially bald, and
his hair was brushed up from all sides of it,
to a point on the top of his head. He wore a
white cravat, and the collars of his coat and
waistcoat standing upright, and cut with
sharp angles over the chest, gave him the air
of a Quaker, though he did not speak like one.
I waited a long while, while he sat as motionless
as a portrait—his face still resting on his
hand. It was getting dusk, but I would not
make the slightest movement to call his attention
to me: indeed, there was something so
pleasing to me in the tranquillity of the place,
and the novelty of my situation, in the remotest
part of the old College about which I had so
often lingered, wondering what the interior
was like, that I felt at every moment a fear
lest he should come out of his reverie, and
lead me back to the outlet into the street. He
arose at last, and took me again into the
house, where he talked to me about the
College and about the library, and finally
dismissed me, bidding me come to see him again
one day.

Of the Warden's history, nothing was
known. There were few who could remember
his first coming there, and at that time they
had not felt sufficient interest in him to
inquire whence he came. He had no relation
or acquaintance in the city—or indeed
elsewhere, for anything that people knew. The
College was his home, and he seldom left it,
except now and then to pay a tradesman's bill
in the city, or to buy a few books at an old
Divinity bookseller's in the Cathedral yard.
It was not long before I presented myself
again at the College, according to his words
on leaving him. I found him this time even
more friendly towards me than before. He
questioned me, and learning that my mother
was a widow, asked how she lived, and what
she intended to make of me, and kindly offered
to employ me in the library, and partly in
assisting him in keeping the accounts of the
College. " I shall not want all your time,"
he said, " and you will have many
opportunities of acquiring knowledge, if you are
studious."  His offer was joyfully accepted,
both by my mother and me, and in a few days
I found myself installed in the library.

My duties were light, and my leisure time
was spent in reading. By degrees, I learned
to write labels for books in print letters, and
even in foreign characters; and sometimes
I employed myself in supplying title-pages,
or missing leaves: which I made from other
copies, and inserted in the books. In the
winter, we began to make a catalogue of all
the books in the library: which task my
employer finally left entirely to me. It occupied
me a long time; yet I was sorry when it was
finished. I had become so accustomed to my
daily task, alone among the old books, that I
scarcely knew how to employ my time when
I found myself less occupied. However, I
soon turned again to reading, with a greater
relish than before. The library contained many
theological books. I acquired a taste for the
writings of the old English Divines, whose
profuse imagery and poetic fervour awakened
in me, as I grew older, a calm enthusiasm
which brought my nature still more into
harmony with the tranquil life around me.
Within those old walls I seemed to be shut in,
and sheltered for ever from the changing
world without. I became familiar with old
dates, and obsolete languages, with old prints,
and other ancient things, until my acquaintance
with them, predominating over my
experience of actual life, the past became even
less strange and shadowy than that life of
change and motion beyond the little circle in
which I lived.

In this way I grew up to manhood. I had
no definite aim in the future. My mother's
wants were provided for; and the little salary
which I received was sufficient to keep me
free from those worldly cares which would
have aroused me from my inaction. Even
the vague notion, which I had entertained
at first, that the knowledge I was acquiring
would, one day, become the ladder by which
I should climb into a higher sphere,
entered my mind no longer. I came to love
learning only for itself, as the daily material of
my thoughts—the many-coloured yarn from
which I wove my dreams. In turning out of
the street into the enclosure of the College,  I
seemed to have found a shelter, which others
had overlooked, in their struggle onward. I
became more and more monkish. The
tranquillity about me had so driven my mind
inward to its centre, that no occurrence in my
daily life could draw me out of myself. Even
the death of a friend failed to leave in me any
permanent impression. I had no sympathies
with men, none of those affections which are
half the life of a mind not warped from its
natural development. But, one day, my life
began to be changed.

I remember that it was in the autumn of
the year; for I had been writing in the
library, until dusk, and straining my eyes to
finish what I was doing, before the light