as porter, and to tell him to give the gentleman the key of the `book room,’ and to bring down any of the books he might pick out, and he `would sell ’em.’  I followed `Bill,’ and soon found myself in a charming nook of a library, full of books, mostly old divinity, but with a large number of the best miscellaneous literature of the sixteenth century, English and foreign.  A very short look over the shelves produced some thirty Black Letter books, three or four illuminated missals, and some book rarities of a more recent date. `Bill’ took them downstairs, and I wondered what would happen!  I was not long in doubt, for book by book, and in lots of two and three, my selection was knocked down in rapid succession, at prices varying from 1_s_. 6_d_. to 3_s_. 6_d_., this latter sum seeming to be the utmost limit to the speculative turn of my competitors.  The bonne bouche of the lot was, however, kept back by the auctioneer, because, as he said, it was `a pretty book,’ and I began to respect his critical judgment, for `a pretty book’ it was, being a large paper copy of Dibdin’s Bibliographical Decameron, three volumes, in the original binding.  Suffice it to say that, including this charming book, my purchases did not amount to L13, and I had pretty well a cart-load of books for my money—­more than I wanted much!  Having brought them home, I `weeded them out,’ and the `weeding’ realised four times what I gave for the whole, leaving me with some real book treasures.

“Some weeks afterwards I heard that the remainder of the books were literally treated as waste lumber, and carted off to the neighbouring town, and were to be had, any one of them, for sixpence, from a cobbler who had allowed his shop to be used as a store house for them.  The news of their being there reached the ears of an old bookseller in one of the large towns, and he, I think, cleared out the lot.  So curious an instance of the most total ignorance on the part of the sellers, and I may add on the part of the possible buyers also, I think is worth noting.”

How would the reader in this Year of Grace, 1887, like such an experience as that?

CONCLUSION.

IT is a great pity that there should be so many distinct enemies at work for the destruction of literature, and that they should so often be allowed to work out their sad end.  Looked at rightly, the possession of any old book is a sacred trust, which a conscientious owner or guardian would as soon think of ignoring as a parent would of neglecting his child.  An old book, whatever its subject or internal merits, is truly a portion of the national history; we may imitate it and print it in fac-simile, but we can never exactly reproduce it; and as an historical document it should be carefully preserved.