chanted palace was next shown us; it was not very big. It will be readily believed that we did not find in it
A heap of manuscripts most rare,
Which greedy bookworms seldom spare;
Nor on those shelves are ever found
Those writings which so much abound;
Writings by no man ever read,
The lumber of an author's head.
In person here the tuneful nine,
Their proper place to books assign;
To books where genius may be traced,
Combined with elegance of taste.
Most of the books there have passed through the hands of the muses, and been by them corrected. The work of Rabelais is to be seen there, reduced to less than half a quarter of its bulk.
Marot, whose only merit is his style, and who in the same taste, sings the Psalms of David, and the wonders of Alix, has but eight or ten leaves left. The pages of Voiture and Sarrasin together, do not exceed sixty in number.
The whole genius of Bayle, is to be found in a single volume, by his own acknowledgment; for that judicious philosopher, that enlightened judge of authors and sects, often declared that he would never have written more than one volume in folio, if he had not been employed by booksellers.
We were at last admitted into the innermost part of the sanctuary. There the mysteries of the God were unveiled; there I saw what may serve as an example to posterity: a small number of truly great
