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begin with； only a sealed interval between the roof and attics； where
a spirit could not be accommodated； unless it were flattened out like
Ravel； Brother； after the millstone had fallen on him。 There was not
a nook or a corner in the whole horse fit to lodge any respectable
ghost； for every part was as open to observation as a literary man's
character and condition； his figure and estate； his coat and his
countenance； are to his （or her） Bohemian Majesty on a tour of
inspection through his （or her） subjects' keyholes。
Now the old house had wainscots； behind which the mice were always
scampering and squeaking and rattling down the plaster； and enacting
family scenes and parlor theatricals。 It had a cellar where the cold
slug clung to the walls； and the misanthropic spider withdrew from
the garish day； where the green mould loved to grow； and the long
white potato…shoots went feeling along the floor； if haply they might
find the daylight； it had great brick pillars； always in a cold sweat
with holding up the burden they had been aching under day and night
far a century and more； it had sepulchral arches closed by rough
doors that hung on hinges rotten with rust； behind which doors； if
there was not a heap of bones connected with a mysterious
disappearance of long ago； there well might have been； for it was
just the place to look for them。 It had a garret； very nearly such a
one as it seems to me one of us has described in one of his books；
but let us look at this one as I can reproduce it from memory。 It
has a flooring of laths with ridges of mortar squeezed up between
them； which if you tread on you will go tothe Lord have mercy on
you！ where will you go to？the same being crossed by narrow bridges
of boards； on which you may put your feet； but with fear and
trembling。 Above you and around you are beams and joists； on some of
which you may see； when the light is let in； the marks of the
conchoidal clippings of the broadaxe； showing the rude way in which
the timber was shaped as it came； full of sap； from the neighboring
forest。 It is a realm of darkness and thick dust； and shroud…like
cobwebs and dead things they wrap in their gray folds。 For a garret
is like a seashore； where wrecks are thrown up and slowly go to
pieces。 There is the cradle which the old man you just remember was
rocked in； there is the ruin of the bedstead he died on； that ugly
slanting contrivance used to be put under his pillow in the days when
his breath came hard； there is his old chair with both arms gone；
symbol of the desolate time when he had nothing earthly left to lean
on； there is the large wooden reel which the blear…eyed old deacon
sent the minister's lady； who thanked him graciously； and twirled it
smilingly； and in fitting season bowed it out decently to the limbo
of troublesome conveniences。 And there are old leather portmanteaus；
like stranded porpoises； their mouths gaping in gaunt hunger for the
food with which they used to be gorged to bulging repletion； and old
brass andirons； waiting until time shall revenge them on their paltry
substitutes； and they shall have their own again； and bring with them
the fore…stick and the back…log of ancient days； and the empty churn；
with its idle dasher； which the Nancys and Phoebes； who have left
their comfortable places to the Bridgets and Norahs； used to handle
to good purpose； and the brown； shaky old spinning…wheel； which was
running； it may be； in the days when they were hinging the Salem
witches。
Under the dark and haunted garret were attic chambers which
themselves had histories。 On a pane in the northeastern chamber may
be read these names：
〃John Tracy；〃 〃Robert Roberts；〃 〃Thomas Prince 〃； 〃Stultus〃 another
hand had added。 When I found these names a few years ago （wrong side
up； for the window had been reversed）； I looked at once in the
Triennial to find them； for the epithet showed that they were
probably students。 I found them all under the years 1771 and 1773。
Does it please their thin ghosts thus to be dragged to the light of
day？ Has 〃Stultus 〃 forgiven the indignity of being thus
characterized？
The southeast chamber was the Library Hospital。 Every scholar should
have a book infirmary attached his library。 There should find a
peaceable refuge the many books； invalids from their birth； which are
sent 〃with the best regards of the Author〃； the respected； but
unpresentable cripples which have lost cover； the odd volumes of
honored sets which go mourning all their days for their lost brother；
the school…books which have been so often the subjects of assault and
battery； that they look as if the police must know them by heart；
these and still more the pictured story…books； beginning with Mother
Goose （which a dear old friend of mine has just been amusing his
philosophic leisure with turning most ingeniously and happily into
the tongues of Virgil and Homer）； will be precious mementos by and
by； when children and grandchildren come along。 What would I not
give for that dear little paper…bound quarto； in large and most
legible type； on certain pages of which the tender hand that was the
shield of my infancy had crossed out with deep black marks something
awful； probably about BEARS； such as once tare two…and…forty of us
little folks for making faces； and the very name of which made us
hide our heads under the bedclothes。
I made strange acquaintances in that book infirmary up in the
southeast attic。 The 〃Negro Plot〃 at New York helped to implant a
feeling in me which it took Mr。 Garrison a good many years to root
out。 〃Thinks I to Myself；〃 an old novel； which has been attributed
to a famous statesman； introduced me to a world of fiction which was
not represented on the shelves of the library proper； unless perhaps
by Coelebs in Search of a Wife； or allegories of the bitter tonic
class； as the young doctor that sits on the other side of the table
would probably call them。 I always； from an early age； had a keen
eye for a story with a moral sticking out of it； and gave it a wide
berth； though in my later years I have myself written a couple of
〃medicated novels；〃 as one of my dearest and pleasantest old friends
wickedly called them； when somebody asked her if she had read the
last of my printed performances。 I forgave the satire for the
charming esprit of the epithet。 Besides the works I have mentioned；
there was an old； old Latin alchemy book； with the manuscript
annotations of some ancient Rosicrucian； in the pages of which I had
a vague notion that I might find the mighty secret of the Lapis
Philosophorum； otherwise called Chaos； the Dragon； the Green Lion；
the Quinta Essentia； the Soap of Sages； the Vinegar of Philosophers；
the Dew of Heavenly Grace； the Egg； the Old Man； the Sun； the Moon；
and by all manner of odd aliases； as I am assured by the plethoric
little book before me； in parchment covers browned like a meerschaum
with the smoke of furnaces and the thumbing of dead gold seekers； and
the fingering of bony…handed book…misers； and the long intervals of
dusty slumber on the shelves of the bouquiniste； for next year it
will be three centuries old； and it had