[156]Tous les jours la malice augmente, Il y a tres-peu de religion; La jeunesse est trop petulante, Les enfans jurent le saint Nom.  Et comment s’etonneroit-on Si tant de fleaux nous tourmentent?  Et si l’on voit tant de malheurs, C’est Dieu qui punit les pecheurs.

Souvent on assiste a l’Office, C’est comme une maniere d’acquit, Sans penser au saint Sacrifice; Ou s’est immole Jesus Christ.  On parle avec ses amis, De ses affaires temporelles, Sans faire aucune attention Aux mysteres de la religion.

Reflechissez bien, peres et meres, Sur ces morales et verites:  C’est la loi de Dieu notre Pere; C’est lui qui nous les a dictees:  Il faut les suivre et les pratiquer, Tant que nous serons sur la terre.  N’oublions point qu’apres la mort, Nos ames existeront encore.

The day was beginning to wear away fast, and I had not yet accomplished the favourite and indispensable object of visiting the PUBLIC LIBRARY.  I made two unsuccessful attempts; but the third was fortunate.  I had no letter of introduction, and every body was busied in receiving the visits of their country friends.  I was much indebted to the polite attention of a stranger:  who accompanied me to the house of the public librarian, his friend, who, not being at home, undertook the office of shewing me the books.  The room in which they are contained—­wholly detached—­and indeed at a considerable distance from the cathedral—­is about sixty English feet long, low, and rather narrow.  It is absolutely crammed with books, in the most shameful state of confusion.  I saw, for the first time in Normandy, and with absolute gladness of heart, a copy of the Complutensian Polyglot Bible; of which the four latter volumes, in vellum binding, were tall and good:  the earlier ones, in calf, not so desirable.  For the first time too, since treading Norman soil, I saw a tolerably good sprinkle of Italian books.  But the collection stands in dreadful need of weeding.  Indeed, this observation may apply to the greater number of public collections throughout Normandy.  I thanked my attendant for his patient and truly friendly attention, and took my leave.

In my way homewards, I stopped at M. Joubert’s, the principal bookseller, and “beat about the bush” for bibliographical game.  But my pursuit was not crowned with success.  M.J. told me, in reply to black-letter enquiries, that a Monsieur A——­, a stout burly man, whom he called “un gros papa”—­was in the habit of paying yearly visits from Jersey, for the acquisition of the same black-letter treasures; and that he swept away every thing in the shape of an ancient and equivocal volume, in his annual rounds.  I learnt pretty nearly the same thing from Manoury at Caen.  M. Joubert is a very sensible and respectable man; and is not only “Seul Imprimeur de Monseigneur l’Eveque" (PIERRE DUPONT-POURSAT), but is in fact almost the only bookseller worth consulting in the place.  I bought of him