BALZAC OR THE BIBLE?

COLOGNE, March, 1879.

MY DEAR BLUSH, - As I hear that many improvements are making in your Library at Harvard, perhaps an account of some of the unreformed abuses in our transatlantic libraries would be of interest to you.

Last Saturday I was vegetating in St. Goar Library, on the Rhine. Now, owing to the numerous Puritanical cliques in this charming city, the conseil municipal (corresponding to what you call the Library Council) has come to the conclusion that, after going to church, a man ought never to play billiards or cards, or drink anything stronger than H2O, enlivened by a little soda-water, alleging that nothing is more detrimental to orthodox principles than having the mind occupied on the Sabbath. So they close the library and close the cafes and close the shops, thus obliging you to seek refuge in some church - or apothecary's (I generally choose the apothecary's).

I went to the St. Goar Library, and, thinking a little light reading might enable me to get through the Sabbath without the help of the druggist, I requested (in writing) a certain youthful page to bring me Swinburne's youthful poems, or Bussy-Rabutin, or Severin's Premiere nuit de noces.

I was about leaving with these volumes under my arm, when the boy approached, and said, with the blandest of patronizing smiles, -

"Excuse me, but there is a blue star on those books; they cannot leave the library."

"Wh-wh-why?" stammered I.

"Sir," explained my Cerberus, "the doctrines of Epicurus have been sadly corrupted, and their unhealthy influence must be checked at any cost; therefore - "

"But," interrupted I, "I am a married man!"

"In the reading-room, sir, - that first door on the left, - you may peruse these volumes at your leisure. We close at five."

"I am to understand, then," said I, "that anything, from Rabelais to Scarron, may be read and conned eight hours of the day, within these walls, by any lad of fifteen, and yet not read, outside, by any man under eighty. Here are your books; take them back to their alcoves to be purified by the dust of ages and dog-eared by interested youth. Well, can you give me Praed's poems?".

"We regret, sir, that there is not a copy in the library."

"What can you give me?" I sighed.

"We have, sir, at your disposal for Sunday reading 24, 714 copies of the Bible, 27,211 tracts, 311 copies of Joseph Cook's Monday lectures, 7 alcoves of sermons, 13,000 - "

"Thank you; I'll call again."

"Hypocrisy," soliloquized I, as I strolled down the street, "where hast thou not a home?"

My attention was soon arrested by a conspicuous sign:-

"Borestown Public Library - open to all."

I strolled in; this was a Catholic institution. A jovial old padre, whose profile slightly exaggerated Hogarth's line of beauty, was absorbed in a new French breviary, and lit up every letter on the page by the radiance of his smiles.

"Padre Lippo," said I, "what can you find me to read for to-morrow?"

"A blessing on you, my son," quoth he. "See here, - most interesting. Decameron, Heptameron, Balzac, Brantome, Paul de Kock, Zola, - all, except the Bible; it is enough to know the light, - you want not the lamp to see it by."