what earnestness I may, that these sacred sibylline books may be redeemed from perishing.
But again, I am checked, because I don't know how to speak to the persons who need to be spoken to in this matter.
Suppose I were sitting, where still, in much changed Oxford, I am happy to find myself, in one of the little latticed cells of the Bodleian Library:—and my kind and much loved friend, Mr. Coxe, were to come to me, with news that it was proposed to send nine hundred excursionists through the library every day, in three parties of three hundred each;—that it was intended they should elevate their minds by reading all the books they could lay hold of while they stayed;—and that practically scientific persons accompanying them were to look out for, and burn, all the manuscripts that had any gold in their illuminations, that the said gold might be made of practical service:—but that he, Mr. Coxe, could not, for his part, sympathize with the movement, and hoped I would write something in deprecation of it! As I should then feel, I feel now, at Mr. Somervell's request that I would write him a preface in defence of Helvellyn. What could I say for Mr. Coxe? Of course, that nine hundred people should see the Library daily, instead of one, is only fair to the nine hundred, and if there is gold in the books, is it not public property? If there is copper or slate in Helvellyn, shall not the public burn or ham-
