the recess of the bow window), of treatises de re magica, both of these being (I am told, and can well believe), in their several ways, collections of the rarest curiosity.  My cicerone pointed out, in one corner, a magnificent set of Mountfaucon, ten volumes folio, bound in the richest manner in scarlet, and stamped with the royal arms, the gift of his present majesty.  There are few living authors of whose works presentation copies are not to be found here.  My friend showed me inscriptions of that sort in, I believe, every European dialect extant.  The books are all in prime condition, and bindings that would satisfy Mr. Dibdin.  The only picture is Sir Walter’s eldest son, in hussar uniform, and holding his horse, by Allan of Edinburgh, a noble portrait, over the fireplace; and the only bust is that of Shakspeare, from the Avon monument, in a small niche in the centre of the east side.  On a rich stand of porphyry, in one corner, reposes a tall silver urn, filled with bones from the Piraeus, and bearing the inscription, “Given by George Gordon, Lord Byron, to Sir Walter Scott, Bart.”  It contained the letter which accompanied the gift till lately:  it has disappeared; no one guesses who took it, but whoever he was, as my guide observed, he must have been a thief for thieving’s sake truly, as he durst no more exhibit his autograph than tip himself a bare bodkin.  Sad, infamous tourist, indeed!  Although I saw abundance of comfortable-looking desks and arm chairs, yet this room seemed rather too large and fine for work, and I found accordingly, after passing a double pair of doors, that there was a sanctum within and beyond this library.  And here you may believe, was not to me the least interesting, though by no means the most splendid, part of the suite.

The lion’s own den proper, then, is a room of about five-and-twenty feet square by twenty feet high, containing of what is properly called furniture nothing but a small writing-table in the centre, a plain arm-chair covered with black leather—­a very comfortable one though, for I tried it—­and a single chair besides, plain symptoms that this is no place for company.  On either side of the fireplace there are shelves filled with duodecimos and books of reference, chiefly, of course, folios; but except these there are no books save the contents of a light gallery which runs round three sides of the room, and is reached by a hanging stair of carved oak in one corner.  You have been both at the Elisee Bourbon and Malmaison, and remember the library at one or other of those places, I forget which; this gallery is much in the same style.  There are only two portraits, an original of the beautiful and melancholy head of Claverhouse, and a small full length of Rob Roy.  Various little antique cabinets stand round about, each having a bust on it:  Stothard’s Canterbury Pilgrims are on the mantelpiece; and in one corner I saw a collection of really useful weapons, those of the forest-craft,