it is not hard necessity) exposes books to the decomposing effects of gas; ignorance overlooks the need for ventilation; ignorance appraises a book by its exterior, and sacrifices, it may be the "o'erdusted gold" of a Caxton, or it may be a work of true genius in a cheap and ordinary edition. Mr. Blades, on the one hand, has rescued Pynsons on their way to the butter-shop; and we, on our part, have redeemed Emily Brontë's last verses—almost the noblest poem ever written by a woman in the English language—from a volume half torn up, because, forsooth, it had little to boast in the way of external appearance. There is another kind of ignorance, which perhaps operates towards the preservation of books—that fond conceit which leads a man to ascribe incredible rarity to a book of which none of his neighbours have heard, or vast antiquity to one no older than his grandfather. Numbers of books, especially in the United States, have owed their preservation to such amiable delusions; but unfortunately their preservation is in most cases a very small benefit.
Whether or no Mr. Blades' treatise might have been more comprehensive and philosophical, it is undoubtedly very practical, and all its precepts deserve respectful attention, especially those which have any reference to heat or ventilation. Bookworms in this favoured country are now nearly as extinct as wolves (we have seen some imported from Candia); and against book thieves there is no remedy but lock and key. The spiritual enemies of literature in this age accomplish their
