This implies either (like Aladdin’s old lamps for new) that he wishes to give new books in exchange for old ones, or that he can smarten up old ones by binding, or otherwise, and give them a renovated appearance.  But the solution is immaterial:  the inscription being as above.  The interior of the younger Manoury’s book repository almost appalled me.  His front shop, and a corridor communicating with the back part of the house, are rank with moisture; and his books are consequently rotting apace.  Upon my making as pitiable a statement as I was able of this melancholy state of things—­and pleading with all my energies against the inevitable destruction which threatened the dear books—­the obdurate bibliopolist displayed not one scintillation of sympathy.  He was absolutely indifferent to the whole concern.  In the back parlour, almost impervious to day-light, his daughter, and a stout and handsome bourgeoise, with rather an unusually elevated cauchoise, were regaling themselves with soup and herbs at dinner.  I hurried through, in my way to the upper regions, with apologies for the intrusion; but was told that none were necessary—­that I might go where, and stay as long, as I pleased—­and that any explanation would be given to my interrogatories in the way of business.  I expressed my obligations for such civility; and gaining an upper room, by the help of a chair, made a survey of its contents.  What piles of interminable rubbish!  I selected, as the only rational or desirable volume—­half rotted with moisture—­Belon’s Marine Fishes, 1551, 4to; and placing six francs (the price demanded) upon the table, hurried back, through this sable and dismal territory, with a sort of precipitancy amounting to horrour.  What struck me, as productive of a very extraordinary effect—­was the cheerfulness and gaiete de coeur of these females, in the midst of this region of darkness and desolation.  Manoury told me that the Revolution had deprived him of the opportunity of having the finest bookselling stock in France!  His own carelessness and utter apathy are likely to prove yet more destructive enemies.

But let us touch a more “spirit-stirring” chord in the book theme.  Let us leave the Bouquiniste for the PUBLIC LIBRARY:  and I invite you most earnestly to accompany me thither, and to hear matters of especial import.  This library occupies the upper part of a fine large stone building, devoted to the public offices of government.  The plan of the library is exceedingly striking; in the shape of a cross.  It measures one hundred and thirty-four, by eighty, French feet; and is supposed, apparently with justice, to contain 20,000 volumes.  It is proportionably wide and lofty.  M. HEBERT is the present chief librarian, having succeeded the late M. Moysant, his uncle.  Among the more eminent benefactors and Bibliomaniacs, attached to this library, the name of FRANCOIS MARTIN is singularly conspicuous.  He was, from all accounts, and especially from the