The fact being so, Readers unfamiliar with the ‘blue-books’ will learn without surprise that a conversation between Mr. GRENVILLE and Mr. PANIZZI, in Hamilton Place, was the prelude to his noble public gift of 1846. That conversation took place in the autumn of 1845. [Sidenote: Ibid.; and comp. p. 780 of the _Minutes_ of 1849.] He, in the course of it, assured Mr. PANIZZI (by that time at the head of the Printed Book Department) of his settled purpose, and evinced a desire that his Library should be preserved apart from the mass of the National Collection. He then remarked, ‘You will have a great many duplicate books, and you will sell them,’ speaking in a tone of inquiry. ‘No,’ replied PANIZZI, the ‘Trustees will never sell books that are given to them.’ Mr. GRENVILLE rejoined with an evident relief of mind, ‘Well, so much the better.’ Long afterwards, when visiting Mr. PANIZZI in his private study, he asked the question—‘Where are you going to put my books? I see your rooms are already full.’ He was taken to the long, capacious, but certainly not very sightly, ‘slip,’ contrived by Sir R. SMIRKE on the eastern outskirt of the noble King’s Library. [Sidenote: See the Plan, hereafter.] ‘Well,’ was the Keeper’s reply, ‘if we can’t do better, we will put them _here_; and, as you see, my room is close by. Here, for a time, they will at least be under my own eye,’ The good and generous book-lover went away with a smile on his genial face, well assured that his books would be gratefully cared for. [Sidenote: THE RECEPTION AT THE MUSEUM OF THE GRENVILLE COLLECTION.] Mr. GRENVILLE died on the 17th of December, 1846. On the day of his death it chanced that the present writer was engaged on a review-article about the history of the Museum Library. Ere many days were past it was his pleasant task to add a paragraph—the first that was written on the subject—respecting the new gift to the Public. But an accident delayed the publication of that article until the following summer. Meanwhile, the final day of the reception of the books—a dreary, snowy day of the close of February—was, to us of the Museum Library, a sort of holiday within-doors. Very little work was done that day; but many choice rarities in literature, and some in art, were eagerly examined. All who survive will remember it as I do. To lovers of books, such a day was like a glimpse of summer sunshine interposed in the thick of winter.