You observe, I have dated my letter from a different quarter.  In fact, the distance of my former residence from the Bibliotheque du Roi—­coupled with the oppressive heat of the weather—­rendered my morning excursions thither rather uncomfortable; and instead of going to work with elastic spirits, and an untired frame, both Mr. Lewis and myself felt jaded and oppressed upon our arrival.  We are now, on the contrary, scarcely fifty yards from the grand door of entrance into the library.  But this is only tantalizing you.  To the LIBRARY, therefore, at once let us go.  The exterior and interior, as to architectural appearance, are rather of a sorry description:  heavy; comparatively low, without ornament, and of a dark and dingy tint.  Towards the street, it has the melancholy air of a workhouse.  But none of the apartments, in which the books are contained, look into this street; so that, consequently, little inconvenience is experienced from the incessant motion and rattling of carts and carriages—­the Rue de Richelieu being probably the most frequented in Paris.  Yet, repulsive as may be this exterior, it was observed to me—­on my suggesting what a fine situation the quadrangle of the Louvre would make for the reception of the royal library—­that, it might be questioned whether even that quadrangle were large enough to contain it;—­and that the present building, however heavy and ungracious of aspect, was better calculated for its present purpose than probably any other in Paris.  In the centre of the edifice—­for it is a square, or rather a parallelogram-shaped building—­stands a bronze naked figure of Diana; stiff and meagre both in design and execution.  It is of the size of life; but surely a statue of Minerva would have been a little more appropriate?  On entering the principal door, in the street just mentioned, you turn to the right, and mount a large stone staircase—­after attending to the request, printed in large characters, of “Essuyez vos Souliers”—­as fixed against the wall.  This entrance goes directly to the collection of PRINTED BOOKS.  On reaching the first floor, you go straight forward, within folding doors; and the first room, of considerable extent, immediately receives you.  The light is uniformly admitted by large windows, to the right, looking into the quadrangle before mentioned.

You pass through this room—­where scarcely any body lingers—­and enter the second, where are placed the EDITIONES PRINCIPES, and other volumes printed in the fifteenth century.  To an experienced eye, the first view of the contents of this second room is absolutely magical; Such copies of such rare, precious, magnificent, and long-sought after impressions!...  It is fairy-land throughout.  There stands the first Homer, unshorn by the binder; a little above, is the first Roman edition of Eustathius’s Commentary upon that poet, in gorgeous red morocco, but printed UPON VELLUM!  A Budaeus Greek Lexicon (Francis I.’s