"What a plague do they
mean?" said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was
somewhat choleric--"what a plague do they mean by keeping several
thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old
vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at
now and then by the dean? Books were written to give pleasure and
to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the dean
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or, if he is
not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the
whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now
and then have an airing."
"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "you are not aware how
much better you are off than most books of your generation. By
being stored away in this ancient library you are like the
treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie
enshrined in the adjoining chapels, while the remains of their
contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of Nature, have
long since returned to dust."
"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big,
"I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an
abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other
great contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for
more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to
these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my
intestines if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of
uttering a few last words before I go to pieces.
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