There is a book-binder of the name of LESNE—­just now occupied, as I learn, in writing a poem upon his Art[155]—­who is also talked of as an artist of respectable skill.  They say, however, that he writes better than he binds.  So much the worse for his little ones, if he be married.  Indeed several very sensible and impartial collectors, with whom I have discoursed, also seem to think that the art of book-binding in France is just now, if not retrograding, at least stationary—­and apparently incapable of being carried to a higher pitch of excellence.  I doubt this very much.  They can do what they have done before.  And no such great conjuration is required in going even far beyond it.  Let Thouvenin and Simier, and even the Poet himself, examine carefully the choice of tools, and manner of gilding, used by our more celebrated binders, and they need not despair of rivalling them.  Above all, let them look well to the management of the backs of their books, and especially to the headbands.  The latter are in general heavy and inelegant.  Let them also avoid too much choking and beating, (I use technical words—–­ which you understand as well as any French or English bookbinder) and especially to be square, even, and delicate in the bands; and the “Saturnia regna” of book-binding in France may speedily return.

[121] Bibliomania; p. 79. Bibliographical Decameron; vol. i.
    p. xxii.

[122] See the Bibliographical Decameron; vol. ii. p. 20.

[123] [Consistently with the plan intended to be pursued in this edition, I
    annex a fac-simile of their autograph.]

    [Illustration]

[124] [Madame Debure died a few years ago at an advanced age.]

[125] [Mr. Hibbert obtained this volume from me, which will be sold at the
    sale of his Library in the course of this season.]

[126] [Nothing can be more perfectly ridiculous and absurd than the manner
    in which M. Crapelet flies out at the above expression!  He taunts us,
    poor English, with always drawing comparisons against other nations,
    in favour of the splendour and opulence of our own Hospitals and
    Charitable Foundations—­a thought, that never possessed me while
    writing the above, and which would require the peculiar obliquity, or
    perversity of talents, of my translator to detect.  I once thought of
    dissecting his petulant and unprovoked note—­but it is not worth
    blunting the edge of one’s pen in the attempt.]

[127] [In a few years afterwards, the body of the husband of Madame
    Treuttel was consigned to this, its last earthly resting-place.  M.
    JEAN-GEORGE TREUTTEL, died on the 14th Dec. 1825, not long after the
    completion of his 82d year:  full of years, full of reputation, and
    credit, and of every sublunary comfort, to soothe those who survived