“And here, I said, you write your books,—those books which have carried your name to all parts of the world, and will convey it down to posterity! Is this the desk at which you write? And is this the pen you write with?
“'It is the desk and the very pen,' he replied.
“He was pleased with my questions and my way of putting them. I took up the pen as reverentially as if it had been made of the feather which the angel I used to read about in Young's 'Night Thoughts' ought to have dropped, and did n't.
“Would you kindly write your autograph in my note-book, with that pen? I asked him. Yes, he would, with great pleasure.
“So I got out my note-book.
“It was a spick and span new one, bought on purpose for this interview. I admire your bookcases, said I. Can you tell me just how high they are?
“'They are about eight feet, with the cornice.'
“I should like to have some like those, if I ever get rich enough, said I. Eight feet,—eight feet, with the cornice. I must put that down.
“So I got out my pencil.
“I sat there with my pencil and note-book in my hand, all ready, but not using them as yet.