guidance.

There is no place in the world, perhaps, more distinguished for literary
eminence, in every part of art and science, than Paris. The literary
institutions of Paris, therefore, were the objects of my first visit.
Every capital has its theatres, public gardens, and palaces; but Paris
alone has its public libraries on a scale of equal utility and
magnificence. In Paris alone, science seems to be considered as an
object of importance to mankind, and therefore as a suitable object for
the protection of Government. In Paris alone, to say all in a word, the
poorest student, the most ragged philosopher, has all the treasures of
princes at his command; the National Library opens at his call, and the
most expensive books are delivered for his use.

On the morning following my arrival, Mr. Younge accompanied me to the
National Library. On entering it, we ascended a most superb staircase
painted by Pellegrine, by which we were led to the library on the first
floor. It consists of a suite of spacious and magnificent apartments,
extending round three sides of a quadrangle. The books are ranged around
the sides, according to the order of the respective subjects, and are
said to amount to nearly half a million. Each division has an attending
librarian, of whom every one may require the book he wishes, and which
is immediately delivered to him. Being themselves gentlemen, there is no
apprehension that they will accept any pecuniary remuneration; but there
is likewise a strict order that no money shall be given to any of the
inferior attendants. There are tables and chairs in numbers, and nothing
seemed neglected, which could conduce even to the comfort of the
readers.

The most complete department of the library is that of the manuscripts.
This collection amounts to nearly fifty thousand volumes, and amongst
them innumerable letters, and even treatises, by the early kings of
France. A manuscript is shewn as written by Louis the Fourteenth: it is
entitled, "Memoirs of his own Time, written by the King himself." I much
doubt, however, the authenticity of this production. Louis the
Fourteenth had other more immediate concerns than writing the history of
France. France is full of these literary forgeries. Every king of
France, if the titles of books may be received as a proof of their
authenticity, has not only written his life, but written it like a
philosopher and historian, candidly confessing his errors and abusing
his mi