First, and very obviously, the librarian's position is like that of Tantalus. He is up to his eyes in books, but the reading of these books - in any leisurely manner - is not for him. Again, the librarian is like Sisyphus. He is all the time rolling the same stone up the same hill. His work is no nearer being "finished" on the last day of the year than it was on the first. In fact, his work-like "woman's work"-" is never done."

Again, the librarian's work is one of infinite detail, often of painful detail, - quite as often of obscure detail. In the eyes of others much of his work is of such a nature that it can never show for what it is worth.

Once more, look at the hermit-like manner in which the librarian must cut himself off from all outside matters to prosecute his work. Withdrawing himself from association with the great world of life and thought around him, he is compelled to thread his way - bookworm-like through the accumulated mustiness of years, sometimes of centuries.

And, then, think of the tendency to superficiality. From so many different directions do the demands upon his time and energies come that he cannot know all the topics of investigation perfectly, perhaps none.

one.

Well, the indictment is certainly a formidable Let us - slightly changing the orderrecapitulate the successive counts :(1) A librarian's duties allow him no time for the conventional method of reading.

(2) They confine him to minute and petty details.

(3) They withdraw him from the common concerns of life.

(4) They are connected with a tendency to superficiality.

(5) His work must, from the necessities of the case, always fall short of completeness. Who is there, in view of this state of things, who would be a librarian?

We propose to examine these counts in succession, and then to ask, "Who would not be a librarian?"

(1) The first of these objections is that the librarian has no time for the conventional method of reading. It is true- let us frankly acknowledge it that in the case of by far the greater part of his reading he knows nothing of the luxury of taking down from the shelf a book which strikes his fancy, of leisurely opening it, judicially making up his mind whether he really wants to read that book or not, calmly, and with utter obliviousness to time, making acquaintance with its main features, settling himself down, day after day, for the luxury of a taste of the book, a little at a time, until the unwelcome "Finis" is reached. No. Were the knowledge which he gains of the books under his care to be obtained in