The Enemies of Books | Page 9

of course
the keys of office had but distant acquaintance with the lock. At last I
was rewarded with success, and politely, but mutely, conducted by the
librarian into his kingdom of dust and silence. The dark portraits of past
benefactors looked after us from their dusty old frames in dim
astonishment as we passed, evidently wondering whether we meant
"work"; book-decay--that peculiar flavour which haunts certain
libraries--was heavy in the air, the floor was dusty, making the
sunbeams as we passed bright with atoms; the shelves were dusty, the
"stands" in the middle were thick with dust, the old leather table in the
bow window, and the chairs on either side, were very dusty. Replying
to a question, my conductor thought there was a manuscript catalogue
of the Library somewhere, but thought, also, that it was not easy to find
any books by it, and he knew not at the minute where to put his hand
upon it. The Library, he said, was of little use now, as the Fellows had
their own books and very seldom required 17th and 18th century
editions, and no new books had been added to the collection for a long
time.
We passed down a few steps into an inner library where piles of early

folios were wasting away on the ground. Beneath an old ebony table
were two long carved oak chests. I lifted the lid of one, and at the top
was a once-white surplice covered with dust, and beneath was a mass
of tracts-- Commonwealth quartos, unbound--a prey to worms and
decay. All was neglect. The outer door of this room, which was open,
was nearly on a level with the Quadrangle; some coats, and trousers,
and boots were upon the ebony table, and a "gyp" was brushing away at
them just within the door--in wet weather he performed these functions
entirely within the library--as innocent of the incongruity of his
position as my guide himself. Oh! Richard of Bury, I sighed, for a
sharp stone from your sling to pierce with indignant sarcasm the mental
armour of these College dullards.
Happily, things are altered now, and the disgrace of such neglect no
longer hangs on the College. Let us hope, in these days of revived
respect for antiquity, no other College library is in a similar plight.
Not Englishmen alone are guilty, however, of such unloving treatment
of their bibliographical treasures. The following is translated from an
interesting work just published in Paris,[1] and shows how, even at this
very time, and in the centre of the literary activity of France, books
meet their fate.
[1] Le luxe des Livres par L. Derome. 8vo, Paris, 1879.
M. Derome loquitur:--
"Let us now enter the communal library of some large provincial town.
The interior has a lamentable appearance; dust and disorder have made
it their home. It has a librarian, but he has the consideration of a porter
only, and goes but once a week to see the state of the books committed
to his care; they are in a bad state, piled in heaps and perishing in
corners for want of attention and binding. At this present time (1879)
more than one public library in Paris could be mentioned in which
thousands of books are received annually, all of which will have
disappeared in the course of 50 years or so for want of binding; there
are rare books, impossible to replace, falling to pieces because no care
is given to them, that is to say, they are left unbound, a prey to dust and

the worm, and cannot be touched without dismemberment."
All history shows that this neglect belongs not to any particular age or
nation. I extract the following story from Edmond Werdet's Histoire du
Livre."[1]
[1] "Histoire du Livre en France," par E. Werdet. 8vo, Paris, 1851.
"The Poet Boccaccio, when travelling in Apulia, was anxious to visit
the celebrated Convent of Mount Cassin, especially to see its library, of
which he had heard much. He accosted, with great courtesy, one of the
monks whose countenance attracted him, and begged him to have the
kindness to show him the library. `See for yourself,' said the monk,
brusquely, pointing at the same time to an old stone staircase, broken
with age. Boccaccio hastily mounted in great joy at the prospect of a
grand bibliographical treat. Soon he reached the room, which was
without key or even door as protection to its treasures. What was his
astonishment to see that the grass growing in the window-sills actually
darkened the room, and that all the books and seats were an inch thick
in dust. In utter astonishment he lifted one book after another. All were
manuscripts of extreme antiquity, but all were dreadfully dilapidated.
Many had lost whole sections which had