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 un