Yet my first impressions of the library were bewildering in the extreme. Not only was the building one of the largest I had seen (covering not less than five or six acres) but the volumes it harbored were amazing in their profusion and variety. My first surprise was at the discovery that there were no railings, fences or locked doors, as in all other libraries I had known. Here the visitor was admitted without question to every room and corridor; my second surprise--and a far greater one--was caused by the queer arrangement of the books. For the volumes were catalogued and stocked, not alphabetically, but chronologically; there was a gallery reserved for each century of Atlantean history, down to the seventh century B. S.; and within the galleries, the books were arranged by authors and subjects in a way that impressed me as utterly novel. In a niche among the books, for example, one would observe the bust of a stern-browed, bearded man; and, coming close, one would note that this was the poet Sargos; and just below the bust one would find the complete collection of the poet’s works, as well as the commentaries upon them. Or, in another corner of the room, one would pause to admire the painting of a crowded ancient seaport; and the inscription below the painting would tell one that this was the vanished maritime city of Therion; and just beneath this inscription would be the books wherein Therion was pictured and discussed. In a way, the building reminded me of a museum as much as of a library, for, in addition to the paintings and statues, each gallery was featured by furniture, rugs, vases, tapestries and decorations that corresponded with the original date of the books. The effect of oddity was enhanced by the fact that the volumes themselves, while in many cases modern reprints, were not infrequently bound in the style of their first editions; and the total impression was most curious and interesting, considering the contrasting sizes and the numberless shades and colors of the books, and the various grades of silk, parchment and artificial leather in which they were attired. Yet the appearance of the books was the least noteworthy fact about them. Their sheer abundance was a source of unceasing astonishment to me--it seemed as if every era in Atlantean history had been a literary one. As nearly as I could determine, there had been an average of several hundred books a year which had been thought worthy of preservation--and the high period of productivity had already endured for twenty-five centuries! Nor were the favored works merely stored up in dusty shelves where they might remain forever unnoticed--every book of the scores which I opened had been well thumbed, and the crowds constantly browsing along the alcoves and aisles gave evidence that literary interest was not purely a thing of the past.