such fairy town as exists in the pages of Grimm or Hans Andersen; and, half ashamed, one peers curiously at the dwellers in this goblin town, as though expecting to find that they have pointed ears and narrow elfin feet. They never seem to move about, and, sitting at almost every doorstep, watch one intently from weird nooks and crannies. Hurry and bustle are here unknown, and though they will reply to you in the best of French, yet to each other the townsfolk speak a strange and uncouth tongue.

Once, rambling in the narrow alleys about the ancient church, we ventured through a gothic doorway along a broad passage that was guarded by a huge and ancient iron grille; and presently we found ourselves in a small courtyard paved with moss-grown cobbles. About it was a timbered gallery, roofed, once doubtless level, now gently and gracefully undulating so that it seemed about to fall from off the wall to which it was attached. But the walls had also subsided with the gallery, so that the whole still showed a symmetry that was pleasing to the eye. Above the gallery and across the front of the building had been painted the legend HOTEL DU LION D'OR, and a dim weatherbeaten shield above the doorway still bore the trace of a rampant lion. It seemed a large building, judging by the number of its windows, far larger than its present-day custom could possibly warrant.

The place was curiously still, for the noise of carts and footsteps could never penetrate into that silent court, and it must have been many years since chaise or horseman clattered across its now mossy pavé. The stillness was almost uncanny, forbidding, and we hesitated to cross the courtyard lest the sound of our footsteps should disturb the slumber of the ancient building. Presently a rat squealed somewhere along the gallery, and we heard a voice call out sharply within. The spell was broken, and entering the house we called for a 'petit verre' preparatory to finding out something of the inn's history.

Yes, it was very old, and madame had been born in it; but now that she was left alone with Jeanne it was very lonely, and there was little custom. Did they have many travellers there? Oh no, not for a long time, the house was not easy to find, and as the old customers died none came to fill their place. But sometimes Messieurs So and So came in of an evening and took a 'petit verre,' and then the neighbours were very friendly, so it was not so bad.

So the hostess prattled on, only too pleased to impart the news of her little world to a newcomer from the greater one, while all the time fantastic visions rose before us. We pictured old hidebound trunks that had been left behind by travellers who had never returned, trunks which, opened, would prove to contain priceless black-letter

books boxes, stored in attics and cellars and in concealed presses, which would contain ancient apparel with copies of the Pastissier' in the pockets: small travelling bags, tendered by needy scholars in lieu of payment, which we should find stuffed with rare Elzeviers: rusty iron-bound chests enclosing missals, books of hours and antiphonals in short to such heights did our imagination soar that we resolved to sojourn there till we had explored the old house from attic to cellar.

Then a rat squealed again, near at hand. Oh yes, they were everywhere, ever since Monsieur Gautier rented the left wing of the house to store grain in; and they were so tame and so large that Madame was obliged to keep miou-miou in her bedroom every night.

That decided us. Enthusiasm can be carried too far. Even the possibilities of a rich trover would not compensate for having rats running about one's bed at night. Moreover the vermin would surely have gnawed, if not devoured, any copies of the 'Pastissier' that might have been lying about, even if these were innocent of bacongrease stains. And so consoling ourselves, we took another 'petit verre' and departed, casting more than one regretful glance backwards at the old Lion d'Or.

'Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes: Where when all drownd in deadly sleepe he findes, He to his studie goes.'-SPENSER.

HAT magic there is for the booklover in that word 'library'! Does it not instantly conjure up a vision of happy solitude, a peaceful seclusion where we may lie hidden from our fellow-creatures, an absence of idle chatter to distract our thoughts, and countless books about us on either hand? No man with any pretensions to learning can possibly fail to be impressed when he enters an ancient library, older perhaps by generations than the art of printing itself.

'With awe, around these silent walks I tread,
These are the lasting mansions of the dead:
"The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply,
"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!"
Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime,
And laugh at all the little strife of time.'

They are delicious retreats, abodes of seasoned thought and peaceful meditation, these ancient homes of books. 'I no sooner come into the library,' wrote Heinz, that great literary counsellor of the Elzeviers, 'than I bolt the door, excluding Lust, Ambition, Avarice, and all such vices, whose nurse is Idleness, the mother of Ignorance and Melancholy. In the very lap of Eternity, among so many divine souls, I take my seat with so lofty a spirit and sweet content, that I pity all great men and rich to whom this happiness is unknown.'

Happy indeed are those days when the booklover has been accorded the freedom of some ancient library. A delicious feeling of tranquillity pervades him as he selects some nook and settles himself to read. Presently the mood takes him to explore, and he wanders about from case to case, now taking down some plump folio and glancing at the title-page and type, now counting the engravings of another and collating it in his mind, now comparing the condition of a third with the copy which he has at home, now searching through the text of some small duodecimo to see whether it contains the usual blanks or colophon. But presently he will chance upon some tome whose appeal is irresistible. So he retires with

it to his nook, and is soon absorbed once more with that tranquillity which is better than great riches.