"I humbly beg your pardon，"I answered："I believe you were once the librarian of our house，but more WHO I do not know.""Why do you beg my pardon？"
"Because I took you for a raven，"I said--seeing him before me as plainly a raven as bird or man could look.
"You did me no wrong，"he returned."Calling me a raven，or thinking me one，you allowed me existence，which is the sum of what one can demand of his fellow-beings.Therefore，in return，I will give you a lesson：--No one can say he is himself，until first he knows that he IS，and then what HIMSELF is.In fact，nobody is himself，and himself is nobody.There is more in it than you can see now，but not more than you need to see.You have，I fear，got into this region too soon，but none the less you must get to be at home in it；for home，as you may or may not know，is the only place where you can go out and in.There are places you can go into，and places you can go out of；but the one place，if you do but find it，where you may go out and in both，is home."He turned to walk away，and again I saw the librarian.He did not appear to have changed，only to have taken up his shadow.I know this seems nonsense，but I cannot help it.
I gazed after him until I saw him no more；but whether distance hid him，or he disappeared among the heather，I cannot tell.
Could it be that I was dead，I thought，and did not know it？Was I in what we used to call the world beyond the grave？and must Iwander about seeking my place in it？How was I to find myself at home？The raven said I must do something：what could I do here？--And would that make me somebody？for now，alas，I was nobody！
I took the way Mr.Raven had gone，and went slowly after him.
Presently I saw a wood of tall slender pine-trees，and turned toward it.The odour of it met me on my way，and I made haste to bury myself in it.
Plunged at length in its twilight glooms，I spied before me something with a shine，standing between two of the stems.It had no colour，but was like the translucent trembling of the hot air that rises，in a radiant summer noon，from the sun-baked ground，vibrant like the smitten chords of a musical instrument.What it was grew no plainer as I went nearer，and when I came close up，Iceased to see it，only the form and colour of the trees beyond seemed strangely uncertain.I would have passed between the stems，but received a slight shock，stumbled，and fell.When I rose，Isaw before me the wooden wall of the garret chamber.I turned，and there was the mirror，on whose top the black eagle seemed but that moment to have perched.
Terror seized me，and I fled.Outside the chamber the wide garret spaces had an UNCANNY look.They seemed to have long been waiting for something；it had come，and they were waiting again！A shudder went through me on the winding stair：the house had grown strange to me！something was about to leap upon me from behind！I darted down the spiral，struck against the wall and fell，rose and ran.On the next floor I lost my way，and had gone through several passages a second time ere I found the head of the stair.At the top of the great stair I had come to myself a little，and in a few moments Isat recovering my breath in the library.
Nothing should ever again make me go up that last terrible stair！
The garret at the top of it pervaded the whole house！It sat upon it，threatening to crush me out of it！The brooding brain of the building，it was full of mysterious dwellers，one or other of whom might any moment appear in the library where I sat！I was nowhere safe！I would let，I would sell the dreadful place，in which an a雛ial portal stood ever open to creatures whose life was other than human！I would purchase a crag in Switzerland，and thereon build a wooden nest of one story with never a garret above it，guarded by some grand old peak that would send down nothing worse than a few tons of whelming rock！
I knew all the time that my thinking was foolish，and was even aware of a certain undertone of contemptuous humour in it；but suddenly it was checked，and I seemed again to hear the croak of the raven.
"If I know nothing of my own garret，"I thought，"what is there to secure me against my own brain？Can I tell what it is even now generating？--what thought it may present me the next moment，the next month，or a year away？What is at the heart of my brain？What is behind my THINK？Am I there at all？--Who，what am I？"I could no more answer the question now than when the raven put it to me in--at--"Where in？--where at？"I said，and gave myself up as knowing anything of myself or the universe.
I started to my feet，hurried across the room to the masked door，where the mutilated volume，sticking out from the flat of soulless，bodiless，non-existent books，appeared to beckon me，went down on my knees，and opened it as far as its position would permit，but could see nothing.I got up again，lighted a taper，and peeping as into a pair of reluctant jaws，perceived that the manuscript was verse.Further I could not carry discovery.Beginnings of lines were visible on the left-hand page，and ends of lines on the other；but I could not，of course，get at the beginning and end of a single line，and was unable，in what I could read，to make any guess at the sense.The mere words，however，woke in me feelings which to describe was，from their strangeness，impossible.Some dreams，some poems，some musical phrases，some pictures，wake feelings such as one never had before，new in colour and form--spiritual sensations，as it were，hitherto unproved：here，some of the phrases，some of the senseless half-lines，some even of the individual words affected me in similar fashion--as with the aroma of an idea，rousing in me a great longing to know what the poem or poems might，even yet in their mutilation，hold or suggest.
I copied out a few of the larger shreds attainable，and tried hard to complete some of the lines，but without the least success.The only thing I gained in the effort was so much weariness that，when I went to bed，I fell asleep at once and slept soundly.
In the morning all that horror of the empty garret spaces had left me.