in our tongue, upon the subject of old poetry; and was most anxious and inquisitive about the present state of cultivation of that branch of literature in England:  adding, that he himself meditated a work upon the French poetry of the XIIth and XIIIth centuries.  He said he thought his library might be worth about 25,000 francs:  nor did I consider such a valuation overcharged.  He talks rapidly, earnestly, and incessantly; but he talks well:  and spoke of the renown of a certain library in St. James’s Place, in a manner which could not fail to quicken the pulse and warm the blood of its Librarian.  I concluded an interview of nearly two hours, by his compliance with my wish to dine with me on the following day:  although he was quite urgent in bargaining for the previous measure of my tasting his potage and vol au vent.  But the shortness and constant occupation of my time would not allow me to accede to it.  M. de Larenaudiere then went to a cabinet-like cupboard, drew forth an uncut copy, stitched in blue spotted paper, of his beloved Vaudevires of OLIVIER BASSELIN:[162] and presenting it to me, added “Conservez le, pour l’amour de moi.”  You may be assured that I received such a present in the most gracious manner I was capable of—­but instantly and honestly added—­“permettez qu’il soit depose dans la bibliotheque de Milord S...?  “C’est la meme chose”—­rejoined he; and giving me the address of the public librarian, we separated in the most cordial manner till the morrow.

I posted back to Monsieur Adam, the printer and bookseller, and held aloft my blue-covered copy of the Vaudevires as an unquestionable proof of the successful result of my visit to Monsieur La Renaudiere.  Leaving the precious cargo with him, and telling him that I purposed immediately visiting the public library, he seemed astonished at my eagerness about books—­and asked me if I had ever published any thing bibliographical?  “Car enfin, Monsieur, la pluspart des Virois ne savent rien de la literature angloise”—­concluded he ...  But I had just witnessed a splendid exception to this sweeping clause of censure.  I then sought the residence of the Abbe Du MORTUEUX, the public librarian.  That gentleman was from home, at a dinner party.  I obtained information of the place where he might be found; and considering two o’clock to be rather too early an hour (even in France) to disturb a gentleman during the exercise of so important a function, I strolled in the neighbourhood of the street, where he was regaling, for a full hour and half:  when, at the expiration of that time, I ventured to knock at the door of a very respectable mansion, and to enquire for the bibliographical Abbe.  “He is here, Sir, and has just done dinner.  May I give him your name?” “I am a stranger:  an Englishman; who, on the recommendation of Monsieur Larenaudiere, wishes to see the public library.  But I will call again in about an hour.”