through the long ages we call "dark," because so little is known of them,
had no fear of the bookworm before their eyes, for, ravenous as he is
and was, he loves not parchment, and at that time paper was not.
Whether at a still earlier period he attacked the papyrus, the paper of
the Egyptians, I know not--probably he did, as it was a purely vegetable
substance; and if so, it is quite possible that the worm of to-day,
in such evil repute with us, is the lineal descendant of ravenous ancestors
who plagued the sacred Priests of On in the time of Joseph's Pharaoh,
by destroying their title deeds and their books of Science.

Rare things and precious, as manuscripts were before the invention
of typography, are well preserved, but when the printing press was
invented and paper books were multiplied in the earth; when libraries
increased and readers were many, then familiarity bred contempt; books
were packed in out-of-the-way places and neglected, and the oft-quoted,
though seldom seen, bookworm became an acknowledged tenant of the library,
and the mortal enemy of the bibliophile.

Anathemas have been hurled against this pest in nearly every
European language, old and new, and classical scholars of bye-gone
centuries have thrown their spondees and dactyls at him.
Pierre Petit, in 1683, devoted a long Latin poem to his
dis-praise, and Parnell's charming Ode is well known.
Hear the poet lament:--

"Pene tu mihi passerem Catulli,
Pene tu mihi Lesbiam abstulisti."

and then--