or without, a silken cap upon his head.  He sits in a small room, sufficiently well filled with books.  “Is the Son at home?” “Open that door, Sir, you will find him in the next room.”  The door is immediately opened—­and there sits the son, surrounded by, and almost imprisoned in, papers and books.  His pen is in his hand:  his spectacles are upon his nose:  and he is transcribing or re-casting some precious little bit of bibliographical intelligence; while, on looking up and receiving you, he seems to be “full of the labouring God!” In short, he is just now deeply and unintermittingly engaged in a new and third edition of his Manuel.[139] The shelves of his room almost groan beneath the weight of those writers from whom he gathers his principal materials.  “Vous voila, Mons. Brunet, bien occupe!;” “Oui, Monsieur, cela me fait autant de plaisir que de peine.”

This is a very picture of the man....  “The labour we delight in physics pain,”—­said Lady Macbeth of old; and of a most extraordinary kind must the labour of Mons. Brunet be considered, when the pleasure in the prosecution of it balances the pain.  We talked much and variously at our first interview:  having previously interchanged many civilities by letter, and myself having been benefitted by such correspondence, in the possession of a large paper copy of his first edition—­of which he was pleased to make me a present, and of which only twenty copies were struck off.  I told him that I had given Charles Lewis a carte blanche for its binding, and that I would back his skill—­the result of such an order—­against any binding at that time visible in any quarter of Paris!  Mons. B. could not, in his heart, have considered any other binding superior.

He told me, somewhat to my astonishment, and much to my gratification, that, of the first edition of his Manuel, he had printed and sold two thousand copies.  This could never have been done in our country:  because, doubting whether it would have been so accurately printed, it could never have been published, in the same elegant manner, for the same price.  The charges of our printers would have been at least double.  In the typographical execution of it, M. Crapelet has almost outdone himself.  Reverting to the author, I must honestly declare that he has well merited all he has gained, and will well merit all the gains which are in store for him.  His application is severe, constant, and of long continuance.  He discards all ornament,[140] whether graphic or literary.  He is never therefore digressive; having only a simple tale to tell, and that tale being almost always well and truly told.[141] In his opinions, he is firm and rational, and sometimes a little pugnacious in the upholding of them.  But he loves only to breathe in a bibliographical element, and is never happier than when he has detected some error, or acquired some new information; especially if it relate to an Editio Princeps.[142] There is also something very naif and characteristic in his manner and conversation.  He copies no one; and may be said to be a citizen of the world.  In short, he has as little nationality in his opinions and conversation, as any Frenchman with whom I have yet conversed.