The simplest protection yet discovered against book worms is a liberal use of common snuff, which should be sprinkled all over the shelves, the process being repeated every three or four months. This is almost infallible, and probably quite as effectual as Dr. Hermann's ten preventives rolled into one. There is no magic in the art of preserving books—the great art is to be able to get them, and to know what to buy and how much to give for them. This acquired, the rest will come easily enough. The contents of a whole treatise on the custody and preservation of books might be very accurately and succinctly summed up in a few lines. Keep out damp, let the shelves be lined if possible with good leather, and last, but by no means least, look at the insides of your books as well as at the outsides.
Collectors of books are continually being asked to lend volumes which happen to take the passing fancy of a friend or even chance acquaintance, and it is frequently a matter of some delicacy to refuse. Not one person in a hundred knows how to treat a book properly, and the borrower is therefore usually regarded as but one degree removed from an enemy. Curiously enough, the famous bibliophile, Grolier, stamped his books with a motto of invitation, "Jo Grolierii et Amicorum". So did Charles de Savigny, who went to even greater lengths still with his legend, "Non mihi sed aliis". The private history of neither of these enthusiasts states how they fared, or how many choice tomes were returned dog-eared and stained, even if they were returned at all. For my part I possess no books that I should fear to lend, as my whole library consists of "working copies," useful, probably, but not valuable. The amateur who is the proud owner of a single book out of the common should hide it from the borrower even as from a book worm. He may well lay the couplet which graced the library doors of Pixérécourt to his heart:—
"Tel est le triste sort de tout livre prêté
Souvent il est perdu, toujours il est gâté".
CHAPTER VII.
THE ALDINE PRESS.
THE revival of classical literature in Europe is generally assigned to the middle of the fifteenth century, and is, perhaps, coeval with the invention of printing, when for the first time it became possible to multiply books not only rapidly but without the multitude of mistakes which invariably occurred in ordinary manuscripts. We have seen that in the palmy days of Rome some of the large publishing houses were quite capable of turning out extensive editions at a few hours' notice. No modern type-setter could possibly keep pace with one of the trained slaves of Atticus, and when some hundreds of the latter were assembled in a room transcribing the MS. of some favourite author through the medium of a professional reader, many copies would be completed in an incredibly short space of time. If, however, the reader made a mistake, it would be faithfully and universally reproduced, while in addition each transcriber might fairly be credited with a number of errors of his own. To this extent the printing press was a great improvement. If it did its work more slowly, less workmen were required; and though each movement of the machine would perpetuate the same errors, these might be reduced to a minimum by the very simple expedient of carefully reading and correcting the "proofs".
The year 1450 ushered in, as is supposed, the great art which was destined to revolutionise the world; and although the pen was employed for many years after that, it gradually gave place to its more convenient if less nimble rival, taking at last a position more congenial to it. "The pen for the brain, the press for reproduction," became henceforth a motto which had for its basis a new division of labour as convenient as it was efficacious.
In the same year,[7] at Sermonetta, a little Italian town, Aldus Manutius, the great printer and editor, first saw the light. The earlier portion of his life was devoted entirely to scholastic duties and in preparing himself, by hard and assiduous study of the Greek and Latin classics, for the more important work of revising and printing the text. It was not until 1490 that the preliminaries were complete, and he found himself, with a little money and an immense stock of knowledge, a comparative stranger at Venice, where already 160 printers and publishers had been engaged for some time in glutting the market with almost worthless books. The old Greek manuscripts especially were a source of inconceivable trouble and continual annoyance. They were written for the most part in bastard characters, and crowded with mistakes and omissions, the result of some hundreds of years of repeated transcriptions. They were, moreover, almost as difficult to procure as they were corrupt in text. Nor was this the only difficulty that faced the intrepid pioneer editor. Greek was a language but rarely used, having given place to Latin in all but the most cultivated circles; the demand for books in that character was accordingly limited, while even at that early period competition was ruinous. To say nothing of the army of printers at Venice, there was a large number at Rome who more than supplied the Italian and foreign markets, turning out books in such profusion that the important and oldest printing house, that of Sweinheym & Pannartz, was compelled to petition the Pope to save themselves from bankruptcy. In their petition they state that they had printed no less than 12,475 separate volumes, a statement most likely exaggerated, but none the less cogent evidence of the fierce struggle which was being carried on when Aldus determined to swell the ranks of the already crowded profession.