imes cunningly painted canvases
representing landscapes and marines corresponding to the most whimsical
fancy.

In the dead of winter, the doctor often has a desire to look out upon a
cheery landscape; thereupon, by a simple manipulation of a keyboard,
there is unrolled a panorama of velvety hillsides and flowery meads, of
grazing sheep, and of piping rustics; so natural is the spectacle that
one can almost hear the music of the reeds, and fancy himself in
Arcadia. If in midsummer the heat is oppressive and life seems
burthensome, forthwith another canvas is outspread, and the glories of
the Alps appear, or a stretch of blue sea, or a corner of a primeval
forest.

So there is an outlook for every mood, and I doubt not that this
ingenious provision contributes potently towards promoting bibliomaniac
harmony and prosperity in my friend's household. It is true that I
myself am not susceptible to external influences when once I am
surrounded by books; I do not care a fig whether my library overlooks a
garden or a desert; give me my dear companions in their dress of
leather, cloth, or boards, and it matters not to me whether God sends
storm or sunshine, flowers or hail, light or darkness, noise or calm.
Yet I know and admit that environment means much to most people, and I
do most heartily applaud Dr. O'Rell's versatile device.

I have always thought that De Quincey's workshop would have given me
great delight. The particular thing that excited De Quincey's choler
was interference with his books and manuscripts, which he piled atop of
one another upon the floor and over his desk, until at last there would
be but a narrow little pathway from the desk to the fireplace and from
the fireplace to the door; and his writing-table--gracious! what a
Pelion upon Ossa of confusion it must have been!

Yet De Quincey insisted that he knew "just where everything was," and
he merely exacted that the servants attempt no such vandalism as
"cleaning up" in his workshop. Of course there would presently come a
time when there was no more room on the table and when the little
pathway to the fireplace and the door would be no longer visible; then,
with a sigh, De Quincey would lock the door of that room and betake
himself to other quarters, which in turn would eventually become quite
as littered up, cluttered up, and impassable as the first rooms.

From all that can be gathered upon the subject it would appear that De
Quincey was carele