mighty tree on the open lawn. My evenings were by-and-by spent
in a part of the palace, the account of which, and of my
adventures in connection with it, I must yet postpone for a
little.

The library was a mighty hall, lighted from the roof, which was
formed of something like glass, vaulted over in a single piece,
and stained throughout with a great mysterious picture in
gorgeous colouring.

The walls were lined from floor to roof with books and books:
most of them in ancient bindings, but some in strange new
fashions which I had never seen, and which, were I to make the
attempt, I could ill describe. All around the walls, in front of
the books, ran galleries in rows, communicating by stairs. These
galleries were built of all kinds of coloured stones; all sorts
of marble and granite, with porphyry, jasper, lapis lazuli,
agate, and various others, were ranged in wonderful melody of
successive colours. Although the material, then, of which these
galleries and stairs were built, rendered necessary a certain
degree of massiveness in the construction, yet such was the size
of the place, that they seemed to run along the walls like cords.

Over some parts of the library, descended curtains of silk of
various dyes, none of which I ever saw lifted while I was there;
and I felt somehow that it would be presumptuous in me to venture
to look within them. But the use of the other books seemed free;
and day after day I came to the library, threw myself on one of
the many sumptuous eastern carpets, which lay here and there on
the floor, and read, and read, until weary; if that can be