[C] “M.  Crapelet, en sa qualite de critique, a mis ici du raffinement; car je soupconne qu’il y a eu au moins vingt cinq exemplaires tires sur papier velin.  C’est ainsi qu’il sait dorer sa pillule, pour la rendre plus presentable aux dignes amis de l’auteur, les bibliophiles de Paris.  Mais ces Messieurs ont trop bon gout pour l’accepter.

LETTER VIII.

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LATE ABBE RIVE.  BOOKSELLERS.  PRINTERS.  BOOK-BINDERS.

I make no doubt that the conclusion of my last letter has led you to expect a renewal of the BOOK THEME:  but rather, I should hope, as connected with those Bibliographers, Booksellers, and Printers, who have for so many years shed a sort of lustre upon Parisian Literature.  It will therefore be no unappropriate continuation of this subject, if I commence by furnishing you with some particulars respecting a Bibliographer who was considered, in his life time, as the terror of his acquaintance, and the pride of his patron:  and who seems to have never walked abroad, or sat at home, without a scourge in one hand, and a looking-glass in the other.  Droll combination!—­ you will exclaim.  But it is of the ABBE RIVE of whom I now speak; the very Ajax flagellifer of the bibliographical tribe, and at the same time the vainest and most self-sufficient.  He seems, amidst all the controversy in which he delighted to be involved, to have always had one never-failing source of consolation left:—­that of seeing himself favourably reflected—­ from the recollection of his past performances—­in the mirror of his own conceit!  I have before[121] descanted somewhat upon probably the most splendid of his projected performances, and now hasten to a more particular account of the man himself.

It was early one morning—­before I had even commenced my breakfast—­that a stranger was announced to me.  And who, think you, should that stranger turn out to be?  Nothing less than the Nephew of the late Abbe Rive.  His name was MORENAS.  His countenance was somewhat like that which Sir Thomas More describes the hero of his Utopia to have had.  It was hard, swarthy, and severe.  He seemed in every respect to be “a travelled man.”  But his manners and voice were mild and conciliating.  “Some one had told him that I had written about the Abbe Rive, and that I was partial to his work.  Would I do him the favour of a visit? when I might see, at his house, (Rue du Vieux Colombier, pres St. Sulpice) the whole of the Abbe’s MSS. and all his projected works for the press.  They were for sale.  Possibly I might wish to possess them?” I thanked the stranger for his intelligence, and promised I would call that same morning.