The Enemies of Books | Page 8

Minorite friars who had all their lives
collected books, died. In accordance with popular belief, they were at
once conducted before the heavenly tribunal to hear their doom, taking
with them two asses laden with books. At Heaven's gate the porter
demanded, `Whence came ye?' The Minorites replied `From a
monastery of St. Francis.' `Oh!' said the porter, `then St. Francis shall
be your judge.' So that saint was summoned, and at sight of the friars
and their burden demanded who they were, and why they had brought
so many books with them. `We are Minorites,' they humbly replied,
`and we have brought these few books with us as a solatium in the new
Jerusalem.' `And you, when on earth, practised the good they teach?'
sternly demanded the saint, who read their characters at a glance. Their
faltering reply was sufficient, and the blessed saint at once passed
judgment as follows:--`Insomuch as, seduced by a foolish vanity, and
against your vows of poverty, you have amassed this multitude of
books and thereby and therefor have neglected the duties and broken
the rules of your Order, you are now sentenced to read your books for
ever and ever in the fires of Hell.' Immediately, a roaring noise filled
the air, and a flaming chasm opened in which friars, and asses and
books were suddenly engulphed."

CHAPTER IV.

DUST AND NEGLECT.
DUST upon Books to any extent points to neglect, and neglect means
more or less slow Decay.
A well-gilt top to a book is a great preventive against damage by dust,
while to leave books with rough tops and unprotected is sure to produce
stains and dirty margins.
In olden times, when few persons had private collections of books, the
collegiate and corporate libraries were of great use to students. The
librarians' duties were then no sinecure, and there was little opportunity
for dust to find a resting-place. The Nineteenth Century and the Steam
Press ushered in a new era. By degrees the libraries which were
unendowed fell behind the age, and were consequently neglected. No
new works found their way in, and the obsolete old books were left
uncared for and unvisited. I have seen many old libraries, the doors of
which remained unopened from week's end to week's end; where you
inhaled the dust of paper-decay with every breath, and could not take
up a book without sneezing; where old boxes, full of older literature,
served as preserves for the bookworm, without even an autumn
"battue" to thin the breed. Occasionally these libraries were (I speak of
thirty years ago) put even to vile uses, such as would have shocked all
ideas of propriety could our ancestors have foreseen their fate.
I recall vividly a bright summer morning many years ago, when, in
search of Caxtons, I entered the inner quadrangle of a certain wealthy
College in one of our learned Universities. The buildings around were
charming in their grey tones and shady nooks. They had a noble history,
too, and their scholarly sons were (and are) not unworthy successors of
their ancestral renown. The sun shone warmly, and most of the
casements were open. From one came curling a whiff of tobacco; from
another the hum of conversation; from a third the tones of a piano. A
couple of undergraduates sauntered on the shady side, arm in arm, with
broken caps and torn gowns--proud insignia of their last term. The grey
stone walls were covered with ivy, except where an old dial with its
antiquated Latin inscription kept count of the sun's ascent. The chapel
on one side, only distinguishable from the "rooms" by the shape of its

windows, seemed to keep watch over the morality of the foundation,
just as the dining-hall opposite, from whence issued a white-aproned
cook, did of its worldly prosperity. As you trod the level pavement, you
passed comfortable--nay, dainty--apartments, where lace curtains at the
windows, antimacassars on the chairs, the silver biscuit-box and the
thin-stemmed wine-glass moderated academic toils. Gilt-backed books
on gilded shelf or table caught the eye, and as you turned your glance
from the luxurious interiors to the well-shorn lawn in the Quad., with
its classic fountain also gilded by sunbeams, the mental vision saw
plainly written over the whole "The Union of Luxury and Learning."
Surely here, thought I, if anywhere, the old world literature will be
valued and nursed with gracious care; so with a pleasing sense of the
general congruity of all around me, I enquired for the rooms of the
librarian. Nobody seemed to be quite sure of his name, or upon whom
the bibliographical mantle had descended. His post, it seemed, was
honorary and a sinecure, being imposed, as a rule, upon the youngest
"Fellow." No one cared for the appointment, and as a matter