the matter of the Bayeux Tapestry.”  From the open windows of this hermitage, into which the branches absolutely thrust themselves, I essayed, but in vain, to survey the surrounding country; and concluded a visit of nearly two hours, in a manner the most gratifying imaginable to honest feelings.  A melancholy, mysterious air, seemed yet, however, to mark this amiable stranger, which had not been quite cleared up by the account he had given of himself.  “Be assured (said he, at parting) that I will see you again, and that every facility shall be afforded you in the examination of the Bayeux Tapestry.  I have an uncle who is an efficient member of the corporation.”

On my way homeward from this ramble, I called again upon M. Pluquet, an apothecary by profession, but a book lover and a book vender[142] in his heart.  The scene was rather singular.  Below, was his Pharmacopeia; above were his bed-room and books; with a broken antique or two, in the court-yard, and in the passage leading to it.  My first visit had been hasty, and only as a whetter to the second.  Yet I contrived to see from a visitor, who was present, the desirable MS. of the vulgar poetry of OLIVIER BASSELIN, of which I made mention to M.——.  The same stranger was again present.  We all quietly left the drugs below for drugs of a different description above—­books being called by the ancients, you know, the “MEDICINE OF THE SOUL.”  We mounted into the bed-room.  M. Pluquet now opened his bibliomaniacal battery upon us.  “Gentlemen you see, in this room, all the treasures in the world I possess:  my wife—­my child—­my books—­my antiquities.  “Yes, gentlemen, these are my treasures.  I am enthusiastic, even to madness, in the respective pursuits into which the latter branch out; but my means are slender—­and my aversion to my business is just about in proportion to my fondness for books.  Examine, gentlemen, and try your fortunes.”

I scarcely needed such a rhetorical incitement:  but alas! the treasures of M. Pluquet were not of a nature quite to make one’s fortune.  I contrived, with great difficulty, to pick out something of a recherche kind; and expended a napoleon upon some scarce little grammatical tracts, chiefly Greek, printed by Stephen at Paris, and by Hervagius at Basil:  among the latter was the Bellum grammaticale of E. Hessus.  M. Pluquet wondered at my rejecting the folios, and sticking so closely to the duodecimos; but had he shewn me a good Verard Romance or a Eustace Froissart, he would have found me as alert in running away with the one as the other.  I think he is really the most enthusiastic book-lover I have ever seen:  certainly as a Bibliopolist.  We concluded a very animated conversation on all sides:  and upon the whole, this was one of the most variously and satisfactorily spent days of my “voyage bibliographique.”