46 



A NEW LIBRARY PEST* 



BY DB. H. A. HAGEN, CAMBEIDGE, MASS. 



Everybody now-a-days has books, even if he never reads them. It has become an 

 acknowledged fashion — the more books the larger the wisdom, the finer the culture. The 

 climax is reached in France, where you can buy as decoration for fine rooms large libra- 

 ries, where all the prominent classic authors are represented only by the handsomely 

 lettered backs of the volumes, stored in cabinets with glass doors. The key of the 

 cabinets is invariably mislaid ; in fact, the cabinets do not open at all. But even where 

 book-cases contain real volumes, it is interesting to observe which authors are never taken 

 out. In German private libraries, the binding of Klopstok's masterpiece, the Messiah, is 

 almost invariably as fresh as possible, and in England and here I have often seen Paradise 

 Lost in a very fine condition. As an instance of the contrary, when I was a young man, 

 an older prominent naturalist singled out a volume from my library in a condition best 

 to be described by book and binding in tatters, and then exclaimed : " That is just how I 

 like to see books." It was on bugs, and my scientific digestive organs were at that time 

 in excellent condition. Later I was always interested in picking out books in similar 

 condition in libraries, in order to have an idea of the taste and favorite studies of the 

 patrons. I should state that the first prize could be given to a copy of Peppy's Memoirs, 

 in the truest Billingsgate condition, greasy as candles. It was in a library intended for 

 the culture of the young. 



Let that be as it is ; but certainly no owner of books likes to have his property 

 destroyed except by himself. I had believed until recently that the most obnoxious 

 enemies of books were my special friends, the insects. But I see now that I was decidedly 

 wrong. A most interesting publication, " The Enemies of Books," by William Blades, in 

 London, which has gone through three editions during the past five years, shows 

 conclusively that men are far greater enemies of books, at least in old England. Mr. 

 Blades describes everything injuring books — fire, water, gas, heat, dust, neglect and 

 ignorance. Then come two short chapters on the book-worm and other vermin, followed 

 by chapters on bookbinders and collectors. The small volume contains facts which will 

 be read with virtuous astonishment and disgust. A rich shoemaker, John Bagford, one 

 of the founders of the Antiquarian Society, in the beginning of the last century, went 

 from library to library, tearing away title pages from rare books of all sizes. These he 

 sorted out according to nationalities and towns, and so formed over a hundred folio 

 volumes now preserved in the British Museum. Others collect initials on vellum, all rich 

 in gold and colors, floral decorations ranging from the 12th to the 15th century, all nicely 

 mounted on stout cardboard. A Mr. Proeme collects only title pages, to follow a sense- 

 less kind of classification. One of his volumes contains coarse or quaint titles, showing 

 how idiotic or conceited some authors have been : " Bowels Opened in Diverse Sermons," 

 " Die and be Damned," and many others too coarse to be quoted. Certainly it is sure that 

 the poor bugs cannot compete with such rivals, except some more enterprising ones, 

 apparently bound west, and going straight through eighty folios of patristic works, making 

 them look like a spy glass, in a fashion never dreamed of by Ohrysostomus and his 

 partners. 



Nearly six years ago, I was invited to make a communication about library pests, at 

 the meeting of the librarians in Boston. After a review of the literature then at my 

 command, I came to the conclusion that only two insects were to be considered very 

 dangerous and obnoxious in North America, the Anobium and the White Ants. The 

 Anobium is a small beetle, which is also very destructive to old furniture and old 

 picture frames. All who have the infirmity to indulge in the love for old furniture, will 

 have often observed with disgust small round openings in their treasures, out of which a 

 fine mealy dust falls in little heaps on the floor. I observed myself such a case long ago, 

 when I was a boy, but I confess that the remembrance of this case is always accompanied 



* Read before the Boston Thursday Club. 



