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