--In the alcoves of another vast apartment
was arranged a splendid library, the volumes of which were
inestimable, because they consisted, not of actual performances, but
of the works which the authors only planned, without ever finding
the happy season to achieve them. To take familiar instances, here
were the untold tales of Chaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims; the
unwritten cantos of the Fairy Queen; the conclusion of Coleridge's
Christabel; and the whole of Dryden's projected epic on the subject
of King Arthur. The shelves were crowded; for it would not be too
much to affirm that every author has imagined and shaped out in his
thought more and far better works than those which actually
proceeded from his pen. And here, likewise, where the unrealized
conceptions of youthful poets who died of the very strength of their
own genius before the world had caught one inspired murmur from
their lips.
When the peculiarities of the library and statue-gallery were
explained to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infinitely
perplexed, and exclaimed, with more energy than usual, that he had
never heard of such a thing within his memory, and, moreover, did
not at all understand how it could be.
"But my brain, I think," said the good old gentleman, "is getting
not so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose, can see
your way through these strange matters. For my part, I give it up."
"And so do I," muttered the Old Harry.
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