Unfortunately, I can speak from experience of the dire effect of gas in a confined space.  Some years ago when placing the shelves round the small room, which, by a euphemism, is called my library, I took the precaution of making two self-acting ventilators which communicated directly with the outer air just under the ceiling.  For economy of space as well as of temper (for lamps of all kinds are sore trials), I had a gasalier of three lights over the table.  The effect was to cause great heat in the upper regions, and in the course of a year or two the leather valance which hung from the window, as well as the fringe which dropped half-an-inch from each shelf to keep out the dust, was just like tinder, and in some parts actually fell to the ground by its own weight; while the backs of the books upon the top shelves were perished, and crumbled away when touched, being reduced to the consistency of Scotch snuff.  This was, of course, due to the sulphur in the gas fumes, which attack russia quickest, while calf and morocco suffer not quite so much.  I remember having a book some years ago from the top shelf in the library of the London Institution, where gas is used, and the whole of the back fell off in my hands, although the volume in other respects seemed quite uninjured.  Thousands more were in a similar plight.

As the paper of the volumes is uninjured, it might be objected that, after all, gas is not so much the enemy of the book itself as of its covering; but then, re-binding always leaves a book smaller, and often deprives it of leaves at the beginning or end, which the binder’s wisdom has thought useless.  Oh! the havoc I have seen committed by binders.  You may assume your most impressive aspect—­you may write down your instructions as if you were making your last will and testament—­you may swear you will not pay if your books are ploughed—­’tis all in vain—­the creed of a binder is very short, and comprised in a single article, and that article is the one vile word “Shavings.”  But not now will I follow this depressing subject; binders, as enemies of books, deserve, and shall have, a whole chapter to themselves.

It is much easier to decry gas than to find a remedy.  Sun lights require especial arrangements, and are very expensive on account of the quantity of gas consumed.  The library illumination of the future promises to be the electric light.  If only steady and moderate in price, it would be a great boon to public libraries, and perhaps the day is not far distant when it will replace gas, even in private houses.  That will, indeed, be a day of jubilee to the literary labourer.  The injury done by gas is so generally acknowledged by the heads of our national libraries, that it is strictly excluded from their domains, although the danger from explosion and fire, even if the results of combustion were innocuous, would be sufficient cause for its banishment.