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Pensees de M. PASCAL (Wolfganck, 1672)," which some sober Dutchman

has left with a fair allowance of margin, an inch "taller" in its

vellum coat than its neighbour in morocco.  Here once more, is "LES

FASCHEUX, Comedie de I. B. P. MOLIERE, Representee sur Le Theatre du

Palais Royal.  A Paris, Chez GABRIEL QUINET, au Palais, dans la

Galerie des Prisonniers, a l'Ange Gabriel, M.DCLXIII.  Avec

privilege du Roy."  What a crowd of pleasant memories the

bibliophile, and he only, finds in these dry words of the title.

Quinet, the bookseller, lived "au Palais," in that pretty old arcade

where Corneille cast the scene of his comedy, "La Galerie du

Palais."  In the Geneva edition of Corneille, 1774, you can see

Gravelot's engraving of the place; it is a print full of exquisite

charm (engraved by Le Mure in 1762).  Here is the long arcade, in

shape exactly like the galleries of the Bodleian Library at Oxford.

The bookseller's booth is arched over, and is open at front and

side.  Dorimant and Cleante are looking out; one leans on the books

on the window-sill, the other lounges at the door, and they watch

the pretty Hippolyte who is chaffering with the lace-seller at the

opposite shop.  "Ce visage vaut mieux que toutes vos chansons," says

Dorimant to the bookseller.  So they loitered, and bought books, and

flirted in their lace ruffles, and ribbons, and flowing locks, and

wide canons, when Moliere was young, and when this little old book

was new, and lying on the shelves of honest Quinet in the Palace

Gallery.  The very title-page, and pagination, not of this second

edition, but of the first of "Les Fascheux," had their own fortunes,

for the dedication to Fouquet was perforce withdrawn.  That

favourite entertained La Valliere and the King with the comedy at

his house of Vaux, and then instantly fell from power and favour,

and, losing his place and his freedom, naturally lost the flattery

of a dedication.  But retombons a nos coches, as Montaigne says.

This pleasant little copy of the play, which is a kind of relic of

Moliere and his old world, has been ruthlessly bound up with a

treatise, "Des Pierres Precieuses," published by Didot in 1776.  Now

the play is naturally a larger book than the treatise on precious

stones, so the binder has cut down the margins to the size of those

of the work on amethysts and rubies.  As the Italian tyrant chained

the dead and the living together, as Procrustes maimed his victims

on his cruel bed, so a hard-hearted French binder has tied up, and

mutilated, and spoiled the old play, which otherwise would have had

considerable value as well as interest.

We have tried to teach the beginner how to keep his books neat and

clean; what men and monsters he should avoid; how he should guard

himself against borrowers, book-worms, damp, and dirt.  But we are

sometimes compelled to buy books already dirty and dingy, foxed, or

spotted with red, worn by greasy hands, stained with ink spots, or

covered with MS. notes.  The art of man has found a remedy for these

defects.  I have never myself tried to wash a book, and this care is

best left to professional hands.  But the French and English writers

give various recipes for cleaning old books, which the amateur may

try on any old rubbish out of the fourpenny box of a bookstall, till

he finds that he can trust his own manipulations.  There are "fat

stains" on books, as thumb marks, traces of oil (the midnight oil),

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