one or two as a douceur; in the shape a present, settled my account with Mr. Stoeger ... and returned to my lodging more and more confirmed in the truth of the position of “not taking that for granted which remained to be proved.”  The whole of this transaction was, if I may so speak, in the naughty vanity of my heart, a sort of octodecimo illustration of the “VENI, VIDI, VICI” of a certain illustrious character of antiquity.

Of a very different character from this Aldine bibliopolist is a bookseller of the name of VON FISCHHEIM:  the simplest, the merriest, the most artless of his fraternity.  It was my good friend Mr. Hess (of whom I shall presently speak somewhat more at large) who gave me information of his residence.  “You will find there (added he) all sorts of old books, old drawings, pictures, and curiosities.”  What a provocative for an immediate and incessant attack!  I took my valet with me—­for I was told that Mr. Von Fischheim could not speak a word of French—­and within twenty minutes of receiving the information, found myself in the dark and dreary premises of this same bibliopolist.  He lives on the first floor; but the way thither is almost perilous.  Mr. Fischheim’s cabinet of curiosities was crammed even to suffocation; and it seemed as if a century had elapsed since a vent-hole had been opened for the circulation of fresh air.  I requested the favour of a pinch of snuff from Mr. Fischheim’s box, to counteract all unpleasant sensations arising from effluvia of a variety of description—­but I recommend English visitors in general to smoke a segar while they rummage among the curiosities of Mr. Fischheim’s cabinet!  Old Tom Hearne might here, in a few minutes, have fancied himself ... any thing he pleased!

The owner of these miscellaneous treasures wore one unvarying smile upon his countenance during the whole time of my remaining with him.  He saw me reject this, and select that; cry “pish” upon one article, and “bravo” upon another—­with the same settled complacency of countenance.  His responses were short and pithy, and I must add, pleasant:  for, having entirely given up all hopes of securing any thing in the shape of a good picture, a good bust, or a genuine illumination from a rich old MS., I confined myself strictly to printed books—­and obtained some very rare, precious, and beautifully-conditioned volumes upon most reasonable and acceptable terms.[69] Having completed my purchase, the books were sent to the hotel by a shopman, in the sorriest possible garb, but who wore, nevertheless, a mark of military distinction in his button-hole.  From henceforth I can neither think, nor speak, but with kindness of Paul Ludwig Von Fischheim, the simplest, the merriest, and most artless of his fraternity.