35 were new editions, and 10 were
translations from the French or German. The new American works thus
number only 690, and among them are included sermons, pamphlets, and
letters, whereas the reprints are in most cases _bona fide_ books."]

If the rule come ever to be thoroughly enforced, it will then come to
pass that of every book that is printed in Britain, good or bad, five
copies shall be preserved in the shelves of so many public libraries,
slumbering there in peace, or tossed about by impatient readers, as the
case may be. For the latter there need not perhaps be much anxiety; it
is for the sake of those addicted to slumbering in peaceful obscurity
that this refuge is valuable. There is thus at least a remnant saved
from the relentless trunk-maker. If the day of resuscitation from the
long slumber should arrive, we know where to find the book--in a
privileged library. The recollection just now occurs to me of a man of
unquestionable character and scholarship, who wrote a suitable and
intelligent book on an important subject, and at his own expense had it
brought into the world by a distinguished publisher, prudently
intimating on the title-page that he reserved the right of translation.
Giving the work all due time to find its way, he called at the Row,
exactly a year after the day of publication, to ascertain the result. He
was presented with a perfectly succinct account of charge and discharge,
in which he was credited with three copies sold. Now, he knew that his
family had bought two copies, but he never could find out who it was
that had bought the third. The one mind into which his thoughts had
thus passed, remained ever mysteriously undiscoverable. Whether or not
he consoled himself with the reflection that what might have been
diffused over many was concentrated in one, it is consolatory to others
to reflect that such a book stands on record in the privileged
libraries, to come forth to the world if it be wanted.

Nor is the resuscitation of a book unsuited to its own age, but suited
to another, entirely unexampled. That beautiful poem called Albania was
reprinted by Leyden, from a copy preserved somewhere: so utterly
friendless had it been in its obscurity, that the author's history, and
even his name, were unknown; and though it at once excited the high
admiration of Scott, no scrap of intelligence concerning it could be
discovered in any quarter contemporary with its first publication. The
Discourse