The young woman of whom Mr. Matthews, the well-known librarian of Bristol, tells us, who, being a candidate for the post of assistant librarian, boldly pronounced Rider Haggard to be the author of the Idylls of the King, Southey of The Mill on the Floss, and Mark Twain of Modern Painters, undoubtedly placed her own ideas at the service of Bristol alongside the preconceived conceptions of Mr. Matthews; but she was rejected all the same.

To speak seriously, who are librarians, and whence come they in such numbers?  Of Bodley’s librarian we have heard, and all the lettered world honours the name of Richard Garnett, late keeper of the printed books at the British Museum.  But beyond these and half a dozen others a great darkness prevails.  This ignorance is well illustrated by a pleasing anecdote told at the Conference by Mr. MacAlister: 

’Only the day before yesterday, on the Calais boat, I was introduced to a world-famed military officer who, when he understood I had some connection with the Library Association, exclaimed:  “Why, you’re just the man I want!  I have been anxious of late about my man, old Atkins.  You see the old boy, with a stoop, sheltering behind the funnel.  Poor old beggar! quite past his work, but as faithful as a dog.  It has just occurred to me that if you could shove him into some snug library in the country, I’d be awfully grateful to you.  His one fault is a fondness for reading, and so a library would be just the thing."’

The usual titled lady also turned up at the Conference.  This time she was recommending her late cook for the post of librarian, alleging on her behalf the same strange trait of character—­her fondness for reading.  Here, of course, one recalls Mark Pattison’s famous dictum, ‘The librarian who reads is lost,’ about which there is much to be said, both pro and con; but we must not be put off our inquiry, which is:  Who are these librarians, and whence come they?  They are the custodians of the 70,000,000 printed books (be the numbers a little more or less) in the public libraries of the Western world, and they come from guarding their treasures.  They deserve our friendliest consideration.  If occasionally their enthusiasm provokes a smile, it is, or should be, of the kindliest.  When you think of 70,000,000 books, instinctively you wish to wash your hands.  Nobody knows what dust is who has not divided his time between the wine-cellar and the library.  The work of classification, of indexing, of packing away, must be endless.  Great men have arisen who have grappled with these huge problems.  We read respectfully of Cutter’s rules, which are to the librarian even as Kepler’s laws to the astronomer.  We have also heard of Poole’s index.  We bow our heads.  Both Cutter and Poole are Americans.  The parish of St. Pancras has just, by an overwhelming majority, declined to have a free library, and consequently a librarian.  Brutish St. Pancras!