To disperse their collections would be, to these elect spirits, to resolve them back into their first elements—to scatter them in the air, or to mingle them with the dust.[1] Happily for mankind, these have been men to whom the perpetuity of their intellectual associations was a future existence. Conscious that their hands had fastened links in the unbroken chain of human inquiry, they left the legacy to the world. The creators of these collections have often betrayed their anxiety to preserve them distinct and entire. Confident I am that such was the real feeling of a recent celebrated collector. The rich and peculiar collection of manuscripts, and of rare and chosen volumes, of Francis Douce, from his earliest days had been the objects of his incessant cares. With means extremely restricted, but with a mind which no obstructions could swerve from its direct course, through many years he accomplished a glorious design. Our modest antiquary startled the most curious, not only of his countrymen but of foreigners, by his knowledge, diversified as his own unrivalled collections, in the recondite literature of the middle ages, and whatever exhibited the manners, the customs, and the arts of every people and of every age. Late in life he accidentally became the possessor of a considerable fortune, and having decided that this work of his life should be a public inheritance, he seemed at a loss where it might at once rest in security, and lie patent for the world. The idea of its dispersion was very painful, for he was aware that the singleness of design which had assembled such various matters together could never be resumed by another. He often regretted that in the great national repository of literature the collection would merge into the universal mass. It was about this time that we visited together the great library of Oxford. Douce contemplated in the Bodleian that arch over which is placed the portrait of Selden, and the library of Selden preserved entire; the antiquary’s closet which holds the great topographical collections of Gough; and the distinct shelves dedicated to the small Shakespearian library of Malone. He observed that the collections of Rawlinson, of Tanner, and of others, had preserved their identity by their separation. This was the subject of our conversation. At this moment Douce must have decided on the locality where his precious collection was to find a perpetual abode; for it was immediately on his return home that our literary antiquary bequeathed his collection to the Bodleian Library, where it now occupies more than one apartment.
To the anxious cares of such founders of public collections, England, as well as Italy and France, owes a national debt; nor can we pass over in silence the man to whom first occurred the happy idea of instituting a library which should have for its owners his own fellow-citizens. A Florentine merchant, emancipated from the thraldom of traffic, vowed himself to the pursuits of literature, and, just before the art of printing was practised, to the preservation of manuscripts, which he not only multiplied by his unwearied hand, but was the first of that race of critics who amended the texts of the early copyists. What he could not purchase, his pure zeal was not the less solicitous to preserve. Boccaccio had bequeathed his own library to a convent in Florence, and its sight produced that effect on him which the library of Shakespeare, had it been preserved, might have had on an Englishman; and since he could not possess it, he built an apartment solely to preserve it distinct from any other collection.
At a period when the owners of manuscripts were so avaricious of their possessions that they refused their loan, and were frugal even in allowing a sight of their leaves, the hardy generosity of this Florentine merchant conceived one of the most important designs for the interests of learning;—to invite readers, he bequeathed his own as A PUBLIC LIBRARY.[2] He who occupied but a private station, first offered Europe a model of patriotic greatness which princes and nobles in their magnificence would emulate. It has been said that the founder of this public library at Florence had only revived the noble design of the ancients, who had displayed their affection for literature by even bestowing their own names on public libraries; but this must not detract from the true glory of the merchant of Florence; it was at least an idea which had wholly escaped the less liberal of his learned contemporaries.
Sir Thomas Bodley may be considered as the first founder of a public library in this country, raised by the hand of an individual. A picture of the obstructions, the anxieties, the hopes, and the disappointments of the founder of the Bodleian, exhibits a person of rank and opulence submitting even to minute drudgery, and to the most humiliating solicitations, and busily occupied by a foreign as well as a domestic correspondence, to accomplish what he long despaired of—a library adequate to the wants of every English student.
Bodley, in the sketch of his own life, betrays that early book-love which subsequently broke out into that noble passion for “his reverend mother, the University of Oxford.” Sir Thomas Bodley had ably served in some of the highest state-employments; but, at length, discovered the secret pathway to escape from “court contentions;” and this he found when busying himself with a vast ideal library—the future Bodleian! Long, indeed, it was but ideal; the labour of his day, the dream of his night, so slowly rose the reality of the fabric. It was difficult to determine on the class or the worth of authors—often rejecting, always augmenting, still consulting, now advising, or being advised; sometimes irresolute, and at others decisive; now exulting, and now despondent. However fervid was his noble enthusiasm for literature, and for his library, not less remarkable was that provident sagacity which he combined with it, and by which only he could carry on the vast design.
What were the emotions of Bodley through this long period, what his first intentions, and what his immutable decision, have fortunately been laid open to us in a close correspondence with his first librarian. Our parent-founder of a public library, with the forcible simplicity of the natural colloquial style of that day, has developed his own character. “Examining exactly for the rest of my life what course I might take, and having sought, as I thought, all the ways to the wood, to select the most proper, I concluded, at the last, to set up my staff at the library door in Oxon; being thoroughly persuaded, that in my solitude and surcease from the commonwealth affairs, I could not busy myself to better purpose.” He early discovered that the formation of his library required the co-operation of many favourable circumstances: “some kind of knowledge, some purse-ability, great store of honourable friends; else it would prove a vain attempt and inconsiderate.” After many perplexities, the great resolve seemed to sanction the act, and he exclaims—“The project is cast, and whether I live or die, to such ends altogether I address my thoughts and deeds!” Such was the solemn pledge, and such the deed of gift, which Bodley, in the greatness of his mind, contracted with posterity.
But the minor cares and the minuter anxieties were to open on him; and it must be confessed that he tried the patient duties of the learned Dr. James, whom he had judiciously elected for the first librarian, but who often vents a groan on his interminable labours. Sir Thomas gently reproaches him: “I am toiled exceedingly, no less than yourself, with writing, buying, binding, disposing, &c.; but I am fed with pleasure of seeing the end.” Bodley had not only to form a universal library, but to build one on the desolate ruins of that founded by Duke Humphrey, whose royal name could not save his books and manuscripts, which had all been purloined and wasted. The pledges left for their loan not being worth half the value of the books, the volumes were never returned; and those which remained in the reign of Edward the Sixth were burned as “superstitious,” for their rubrics and illuminations. The history of this library might have deterred our new founder, by reminding him of the fate which may await even on public libraries. At all events, for many years it required all his fortitude to encounter a rabble of master-carpenters, joiners, carvers, glaziers, builders, claspers, and stringers, and the chain-smiths; for at that day books were chained to their shelves, with chains long enough to reach the desk. A book was tethered, and could never stray from its paddock. Then came the classification and the arrangements! discussions not easily to be adjusted with his librarian, whether a book should be classed as a work of theology or of politics? Sir Thomas found an incessant business at London in packing up “dry fats,” or vats of books, barging them for Oxford; he was receiving fresh supplies from Italy, from Spain, from Turkey, and designed to send a scholar to travel in the East, to collect Arabic and Persian books, on which he sagaciously observed, that “in process of time, by the extraordinary diligence of some one student, these Eastern languages may be readily understood.” Bodley anticipated our Society for Oriental Literature.
But not merely solicitous to erect a vast library, Bodley was equally anxious to consecrate the spot to study itself. He is uneasy at too public an admission, lest idlers should mix among the students, and, as he plainly tells, “be daily pestering the room with their gazing and babbling, and trampling up and down, disturbing the real studious.” With what fervour he rejoices when, at length, he lived to witness the day of the opening of the library, and found that “all proceeded orderly, and with such silence!” But although he had bestowed all his cares and his fortune on this institution, it still was but an infant, and he had to look towards spirits as enlarged as his own, to protect the orphan of the public. It met with some who adopted it, and Bodley had their names inscribed in the register of this public library; but he was as cautious as he was courteous—the vain were not to be gratified for penurious gifts. Books, and not names, were wanted. At first, impatiently zealous, he murmurs of “promises received for performances.” But latterly, he had occasion to exhort the university to mark by their particular acknowledgments, the donations in volumes or in money. The honourable roll on which the names are inscribed, includes not only those of the most eminent of our county, but also of several ladies, who rivalled those heroes and statesmen who had the honour of laying the foundation of the Bodleian Library.[3]
In Sir Thomas Bodley’s character we view the conscious dignity of a great design, yet combined with the sedate reflection of a man practised in the world. There were certain traits of vanity, which may give a colour to the insinuations of some—who might consider they had been deprived of legacies—that it was his enormous vanity which raised this edifice of learning. It is amusing to discover, that when the Bishop of Exeter proposed to visit the library, a letter of Sir Thomas immediately precedes his visitor. “I pray you, observe his speeches, and liking or disliking, and in your next let me know it.” When James the First was preparing to visit the library, he furnished hints to the librarian for his speech to the literary monarch: “It must not carry greater length than for half a quarter of an hour’s utterance. It must be short and sweet, and full of stuff.” The librarian was desirous to hide Buchanan when the king came down to Oxford; but Bodley, probably not approving the concealment of any of his literary stores, observed, “It will not avail to conceal him in his desk since he is in the catalogue, nor have we any reason to take any notice of the king’s dislike; but,” he warily adds, “should it excite his Majesty’s notice, we must allege that the books were put there in the Queen’s time.” But nothing save the most delicate attention towards an author could have prompted his order concerning Coryat the traveller, who had presented his book to the library. On the author’s coming to Oxford, Sir Thomas desired that “it should be placed in such a manner, that when the author came down, it may seem to magnify the author and the book.” In his ardour for the general interests of his library, Bodley absolutely insisted that his librarian should persevere in his forlorn fellowship, for “marriage,” opined the founder of the Bodleian Library, “is too full of domestic impeachments to afford him so much time from his private affairs.” The doctor decided against the celibacy of a librarian, and was gravely admonished on the absurdity of such conduct in one who had the care of a public library! for “it was opening a gap to disorder hereafter.” With a happier prescience, Bodley foresaw that race of generous spirits who, long after, and at distant intervals, have carried on his great views. Listen to the simplicity and force of the venerable style of our first founder of a Public Library.