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XXXVI. The Library. I PROMISED to give a dialogue between my soul and the other. But there are some chapters which elude me, as it were, or rather, there are others which flow from my pen nolens volens and derange my plans. Among these is one about my library; and I will make it as short as I can. Our forty-two days will soon be ended; and even were it not so, a similar period would not suffice to complete the description of the rich country in which I travel so pleasantly.
My library, then, is composed of novels, if I must make the confession; of novels and a few choice poets. As if I had not troubles enough of my
