I whiled away many’s an hour at the
Westmount Public Library in my
youth. .
I always felt as though I was entering a hallowed space and the
reference room was the inner sanctum.
The venerable old books, I was certain,
held arcane knowledge. I loved the way the light slanted through the
leaded glass windows high above the book shelves. The gold leaf lettering on the spines of esteemed
tomes shimmered with a mysterious lustre that suggested the alchemists were
affiliated with this place. The lead
which had not been turned into gold inscribed the names of the classical
authors in each of the leaded panes of window glass. There was Shakespeare, of course, and Shelley
and Wordsworth and Tennyson and many more.
The patina on the huge tables in the reference-reading
room was the embodiment of a wise oak tree. I loved
the quiet creaking of shuffling feet across the floor, the sound muffled by
thickly padded carpet. It seemed to me
that the ghosts of those great authors were treading softly in our midst.
The catalogue file filled the seeker with
wonderment. It seemed always a great achievement
to find books relevant to whatever project I was working on. Those little drawers were enchanting, conjuring
up visions of an apothecary’s shop. The
one containing drams for the health, the other draughts for the soul.
There was a spiral stair case behind the
circulation desk, its sacred geometry leading to the music gallery which held
sheet music, many pages of which were embellished with calligraphic illuminated
borders. A small table was surrounded by
four chairs in the midst of the collection of musical scores and musical
history. It was a favorite place to
study for exams. Perusing through the
classics and old standards were a welcome distraction for the student who chose
procrastination over studying for an upcoming examination.
The library never failed me. I always left with at least one selection
that proved to be good reading. I took
on folk art in a big way one summer and found remarkable old books with unique
and unusual patterns hidden away in the book stacks.
I think the most beautiful feature of the
library was a connecting passage leading to the green house fashioned after a
Victorian conservatory. At Easter time,
the displays of flowers were magnificent.
The fragrance was intoxicating.
The visual display was breath taking.
Large gold fish from Murray Hill Park were overwintered in a pond amidst
the flowers under the glass of that greenhouse. There was a tropical room with a banana tree
which fascinated children and adults alike.
At the end of the sojourn through the mystical,
magical flowers, the scholar was revitalized and eager to hit the books again
for that all important examination coming up.
This aspirant scholar, on the other hand,
put my hand to the task of doodling. I
sketched a unicorn which got me to thinking about the history of unicorns and I
was pleased to find five books on the topic.
As for the examination, I actually don’t recall how I fared on it, but
memories of the library are as vivid as if I had left it only moments ago.
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