Library Cranks.

Said an attendant of the Boston Public Library to a Herald reporter: From morning until night, no matter at what time you may call, you can always find from one to a dozen eccentrics in these reading-rooms. Whenever a man loses the balance of his reason, he turns his attention to literature. A few years ago a man, then well known in Boston, lost nearly all of a once large fortune. In a short time his mind became affected. Up to the time of his losing his mind he had been anything but a literary character; in fact, while sane, he rarely read a book, but as soon as his intellect became unhinged, off he trudged to the library. He came here steadily every day for three years. He was always the first to arrive in the morning. You could generally see him standing outside, waiting for the janitor to open the door-and he was invariably the last person to leave at night, and during all this time he was never known to ask for or to read but one book—the Encyclopædia Britannica' Every morning at 9, up walked our crank to the office desk, got down his encyclopædia, and then, with a proud, knowing expression, he would march over to the farthest corner of the room, where he

would steadily sit, without once moving his chair, or even changing his position, until 6 o'clock at night, when, after we had rung the 'leaving bell' at least three times and every one but himself had left the room, he would slowly and regretfully creep up to the desk. There, with a sigh of intense grief, he would deposit his encyclopædia, and then walk out of the room looking like a man who had parted forever from his best friend.

"Another, we used to call 'the coffee and cake crank.' He was a man of medium age, and he had a mania for reading books about children, tho' he was himself a childless man, and had never, I believe, been married. Still, he would come here every day. He was always one of the very first to arrive, and he was never known to read anything that did not tell something about bringing up children. We called him 'coffee and cake crank,' because regularly, as the clock struck each hour, he would walk up to the desk and ask one of the attendants to keep his book for him while he went out and got some coffee and cakes, I assure you he did this every hour. He came to the library at 9, and at 10, II, and at each succeeding hour until 6, when our library closes, he would go out and get his coffee and cakes. I have often thought what a marvellous digestion the man must have had. If all the books he had read about bringing up children did not teach him that it was wrong to eat coffee and cakes every hour of the day, there is very little to be learned from books.

Beside these two cranks, we had another, one who was almost as bad, and whom we used to call Heavenly Arcana.' He was a regular visitor to the library every day for five years, and so far as we know, during all of that time he never read anything but Swedenborg's Heavenly Arcana.' He used the book so incessantly that he finally wore the binding off, and, as we always do in such cases, we sent the book around to have a new binding put on. As well as I now recollect, .our crank had turned his 'Heavenly Arcana' in on a Saturday night, and when he came around Monday morning and found that we had sent the book to the binders to be repaired, he was furious. He threatened to report us to the Mayor, and he came really very near having a fight with the librarian. But, fortunately, the binders, appreci

ating probably whom they had to work for, were very expeditious, and on Tuesday morning our friend was enabled to once more enjoy his' Heavenly Arcana.'

"As a rule, we have very little trouble with our readers. In my experience, and I have been here a great many years now, I have never seen a fight in the library, and very rarely have I seen a disturbance of any description whatever. This, I think, is very remarkable, when you consider that we literally open our doors to the streets and let every man, woman, and child who is not positively dirty or ragged enjoy the privileges of this great library. Mr. Matthew Arnold was greatly struck by this democratic government of our reading-room when he was in Boston. He came in here one day and saw a little barefooted newsboy sitting in one of the best chairs in the reading-room, enjoying himself apparently for dear life. The great essayist was completely astounded. 'Do you let barefooted boys in this You would never reading-room?' he asked. see such a sight as that in Europe. I do not believe there is a reading-room in all Europe in which Then that boy, dressed as he is, could enter.' Mr. Arnold went over to the boy, engaged him in conversation, and found that he was reading the Life of Washington,' and that he was a young gentleman of decidedly anti-British tendencies, and, for his age, remarkably well informed.

No Time to Read.

Lewiston (Me.) Labor Advocate.

We dislike very much to hear a laboring man say he doesn't have time to read, because nine times out of ten we know he utters a falsehood when he says it, and nine out of ten of the men who have no time to read spend their evenings loafing on the street or around the beer counter and billiard-table. The cases are very rare indeed where a man doesn't have time to read one or even three or four weekly papers each week if he wants to. It is because he has not interest enough in his own welfare to read and post himself on the events that are transpiring for or against him. He is content to let others do his reading and thinking for him.

The class of men that claim they do not have time to read are the curse of the community in which they live. They have no minds of their own, and being as ignorant as a Hottentot, they are used by the sharpers of their town and neighborhood to help them carry out schemes to thwart the will of the educated and respected citizens.

The man who doesn't have time to read is usually a loafer. The successful business man has plenty of time to read and post himself on matters pertaining to his business, and that is one reason why he is successful. The educated laboring man finds plenty of time to read, and without neglecting his work either. He is the man whom you will find at home evenings with the family. The nail-keg in the corner grocery is never kept warm by him while he listens or tells smutty stories to an ignorant crowd of gaping loafers.

He who cannot find time to read never finds time to be a man, but always is the tool of some man who does read. When we hear a great live man say he doesn't have time to read one paper a week we always pity his wife and children to think they have such an indolent, ignorant, dolittle husband and father.

Literary Miscellany.

44

THE PLEASURES OF A LIBRARY. THAT place that does contain My books, the best companions, is to me A glorious court, where hourly I converse With the old sages and philosophers; And sometimes for variety I confer

Beaumont and Fletcher.

THANATOPSIS," said Edgar Allan Poe," is the poem by which its author is best known, but is by no means his best poem. It owes the extent of its celebrity to its nearly absolute freedom from defect, in the ordinary understanding of the term. I mean to say that its negative merit recommends it to the public attention. It is a thoughtful, wellconstructed, well-versified poem. The concluding thought is exceedingly noble, and has done wonders for the success of the whole composition." KEATS' MANUSCRIPTS.—The Dial of Chicago says that Mr. J. G. Speed, of Kentucky, the editor of an elegant edition of the works of Keats published in New York a few years ago, has in his possession the original MSS. of most of the poet's works, including "Endymion," and the " Diary Letters," and intends to present his collection to the British Museum. Mr. Speed is a grandson of Keats' younger brother George, who settled

in America.

DERIVATION Of the Title of "SHE."-" Here is a curious anecdote," quotes the Commercial Advertiser from Figaro, "as to the possible derivation of the monosyllable title Mr. Rider Haggard gave his popular romance. When the author of 'She' was a boy, it seems that the Haggard nursery reckoned among its belongings a very ancient and battered wooden doll, which had been handed down by a former generation, and was regarded, ugly as it was, with peculiar affection by the girls of the family. The doll, which had lost its eyes in the course of time, was known to all the children as She,' this name having been bestowed, it is said, by a faithful old nurse in the family's employ."

PUCK'S LETTER TO HAGGARD.—Mr. H. Rider Haggard-Dear Sir: You will please take notice of the fact that in your last book you have killed off Allan Quatermain and several thousand colored persons, shut Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good up in an absolutely inaccessible fastness in the heart of Africa, with the porte cochère bricked up and malaria all around them, and their solemn promise never to emerge spread upon the shining record. You will further take notice of

the fact that any attempt on your part to revivify, resuscitate, or otherwise trot out again any of these characters will be promptly and vigorously resented by a patient but self-respecting populace. Receive, sir, the assurance of our distinguished consideration, and be kind enough to govern yourself accordingly.—Puck.

WORDSWORTH, according to the Imperial Dictionary of Universal Biography," was about five feet ten inches in height. His figure was not graceful, but in his countenance there was a fine mixture of poet and philosopher. He resembled the portraits of Locke; his eyes burned with an inward glare, and looked as if they saw things (which they did) in nature not revealed to ordinary

would be finally rated at their proper worth, whatever vicissitudes they might meanwhile undergo.

'Ex

SHELLEY'S SHARE OF "FRANKINSTEIN.' perts now declare," says Book-Mart, "that Mr. Shelley's novel of 'Ledore,' published in 1835, contains a number of details bearing upon Shelley's career, especially the poverty which he and she endured in London towards the close of 1814; and that the preface to 'Frankenstein' is the writing of Shelley, not of his wife. Professor Dowden has published in his 'Life' several poems by Shelley hitherto unknown. It appears that his manuscript book containing the pieces intended for publication in the spring of 1813 is still in existence. It is said that the details heretofore given about the Cythna,' so as to bring it into its present form, alterations made in the poem of Laon and

The Revolt of Islam,' are not correct, the fact being that Shelley, although indignantly opposed to the total suppression of "Laon and Cythna," acquiesced at once in the publisher's proPosal that a certain number of passages should be changed, and carried the changes into effect with alacrity.'

THE SHAKESPEARE FOUNTAIN erected by Mr. George W. Childs at Stratford-on-Avon has on American citizen, George W. Childs, of Philadelone side of its square base: "The gift of an phia, to the town of Shakespeare, in the Jubilee Year of Queen Victoria." On other faces are quotations from Shakespeare and Washington Irving, the latter referring to the poet. From the corners of the square base buttresses spring. They rise to a sharp gable, surmounted by alternate lions and eagles. From this point rise two stories with small round engaged turrets at the four corners, terminating in sharp conical roofs. The centre is crowned by a large conical cap. The architecture is ambitious, and lacks simplicity and good taste. The middle story has on each face a triple arcade, behind which the clock will stand, while that above carries the dials on its four curved faces, which will be illuminated at night. From the ground to the richly gilded vane at the top is 50 feet. Drinking places for citizens, cattle, and dogs are arranged conveniently about the base, and there is elaborate work on the arches, turrets, spirelets, and roofs.

says the

birthday some time ago, and is still Miss de la 'OUIDA,' the extravagant, passed her 50th Boston Globe, Rame. She is rather masculine," "in figure, and, from much exposure to wind and weather, her face, including her nose, has become decidedly rubicund. Her amber hair,' which she used to wear flowing over her shoulders, in the style she favored in her earlier novels, is cut short, pushed back from her forehead, and confined with a narrow ribbon. On festive occasions she wears white velvet, a favorite material of hers, judging from the frequency with which she arrays her heroines in it, but ordinarily she is dressed in the most dowdy English style. She lives with her mother in a villa situated about four miles from Florence,

which is literally crammed with all sorts of choice and artistic possessions-old embroideries, antique gold and silver brocades, fine old porcelains, bronzes, pictures, etc. In fact, it is said that she has sunk most of the large sums that she has received for her later novels in these purchases. She is also extravagantly fond of dogs, and is always accompanied in her daily walks by some ten or fifteen of these canine pets, which are usually of the largest possible size. Also she delights in driving in a high dog-cart at a tremendous rate of speed, and has been more than once fined for too rapid driving."

T. B. ALDRICH'S SUMMER HOME.-A writer in the Boston Advertiser gives this glimpse of Mr. T. B. Aldrich's summer house at Ponkapog, a little village in the outskirts of the Massachusetts town of Canton: "Mr. Aldrich's home is a plain old-fashioned mansion, just like so many others that you see scattered everywhere throughout New England. It is two-story, painted brown, with a portico in front and concealed from the street by a belt of trees. Inside is the large old-fashioned hall, belonging to old colonial days, with two rooms opening on either side, and the dining-room in the rear. The poet's study is on the second floor, and a

pleasant room it is, large, airy, with books lining the four walls and stuffed into every nook and corner. Choice art treasures and articles of bric-à-brac and vertu appear scattered about in a charming way. The views from the windows are fine, commanding meadow and pasture-land, with old Blue Hill looming up in the distance. Just back of the house is an old mill-pond with the ruins of the mill on its bank. Within a stone's throw is a bubbling brook which goes splashing and dashing along its rocky bed. But for the noise of the brook and chirping of the birds, with the occasional passing of carriage or cart, nothing disturbs the exquisite quiet of the scene. Of late Mr Aldrich is not so much in Ponkapog as formerly, but he is still often seen about the old streets, and part of the family are always at home, winter as well as summer."

HUGO'S DUAL NATURE.- The mind of the great poet was, so to speak, photographic. When he is placed before an impressive scene," says the Evening Post, "he reproduces it with a fulness, an exactness, truly extraordinary. No details, no contrast, no shade of color is lost. He sees everything and can remember everything. Read, for instance [in his new book, 'Things seen '], the description of the Chapel of the Invalides, which received the remains of Napoleon, brought back from the island of St. Helena. Even Balzac cannot describe a room with greater minuteness. Hugo's description is, so to speak, an inventory. His eye was evidently as sensitive as the photographer's plate. His memory was tenacious, but he took the precaution, when he returned home, to fix his impressions. There are a thousand pages in Notre Dame de Paris,' in the Misérables,' which were manifestly written from such notes, taken after the long and careful observation of some object. There is in such pages a realism which stands in contrast with the natural vagueness of the poetic mind. There were, so to speak, two men in Hugo: one describes things like a naturalist or realist of the modern school, like a Zola; the other sees things as mere phantoms, as forms of some unknown invisible forces. In these Choses Vues' we see the two men, and we see them at work preparing their task."

TOLSTOI'S GREATEST WORK.-Incomparably Tolstof's greatest book, however, is "War and Peace." It has been called the Russian epic; and in the vastness of its scope, as in the completeness of its performance, it is not unworthy the name. It is the story of the great conflict between Koutouzoff and Russia and Napoleon and France. It begins some years before Austerlitz, and it ends when Borodino and Moscow are already ancient history. The canvas is immense; the crowd of figures and the world of incidents it is made to contain are almost bewildering. It is not a complete success. In many places the mystic has got the better of the artist. He is responsible for theories of the art of war which, advanced with proved by the simple recital of events; and he the greatest confidence, are set aside and dishas made a study of Napoleon, in which, for the first and only time in all his works, Count Tolstof appears, not as a judge, but as an unjust and intemperate advocate. But when all is said in blame that can be said, so much remains to praise that one scarce knows where to begin. Count Tolstoi's theory of war is mystic and unenable, no doubt; but his pictures of warfare are incomparable. None has felt and produced as he has done what may be called the intimacy of battle-the feelings of the individual soldier, the passion and excitement, the terror and the fury, which, taken collectively, make up the influence which represents the advance or retreat of an army in combat. But, also, in a greater degree, none has dealt so wonderfully with the vaster incidents, the more tremendous issues.-Saturday Review.

BOOKS AND BINDINGS.

From the Book-Mart.

On my study shelves they stand,
Well known all to eye and hand,
Bound in gorgeous cloth of gold,
In morocco rich and old,
Some in paper, plain and cheap,
Some in muslin, calf and sheep;
Volumes great and volumes small
Ranged along my study wall.

But their contents are past finding
By their size or by the binding.

There is one with gold agleam,
Like the Sangreal in a dream,
Back and boards in every part
Triumph of the binder's art;
Costing more, 'tis well believed,
Than the author e'er received.
But its contents? Idle tales,
Flappings of a shallop's sails!
In the treasury of learning
Scarcely worth a penny's turning.

Here's a tome in paper plain,

Soiled and torn and marred with stain,
Cowering from each statelier book
In the darkest, dustiest nook.
Take it down, and lo! each
page
Breathes the wisdom of a sage!
Weighed a thousand times in gold,
Half its worth would not be told,
For all the truth of ancient story
Crowns each line with deathless glory.

On my study shelves they stand;
But my study walls expand,
As mind's pinions are unfurled,
Till they compass all the world.
Endless files go marching by,
Men of lowly rank and high,
Some in broadcloth, gem-adorned,
Some in homespun, fortune-scorned;
But God's scales that all are weighed in
Heed not what each man's arrayed in.
WILLIS FLETCHER JOHNSON.

Freshest News.

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS have just issued "Underwoods," the new volume of verse by Robert Louis Stevenson.

THERE will soon be published in Germany a posthumous story by E. Marlitt (Eugenia John),

entitled "Schulmeister's Marie."

G. W. DILLINGHAM has in press a novel, "At the Mercy of Tiberius," by Mrs. Augusta J. Evans Wilson, the author of "Beulah" and "St. Elmo."

MR. WILLIAM BLACK's forthcoming book, "The Strange Adventures of a Canal-boat," is said to follow in its plan his "Strange Adventures of a Phaeton."

MRS. ARTHUR BROOKFIELD is going to bring out an edition of Esop's Fables, which will be illustrated by Miss A. Thackeray, a daughter of Col. Thackeray.

"JOHN STRANGE WINTER" has added another to her list of " Mignon" stories. This is called "Mignon's Husband," and it has just opened in Harper's Bazar.

THE CENTURY COMPANY will publish shortly

in book form the droll "Brownie poems and pictures, by Palmer Cox, which have so long delighted the readers of St. Nicholas magazine.

A NEW novel by Miss Florence Warden, entitled "Scheherezade: a London night's entertainment," will be published simultaneously in New York and London in September. The English edition will be issued by Ward & Downey.

D. APPLETON & Co. publish this week "The Romance of the Canoness," a life history, the latest work of the celebrated German author, Paul Heyse, and "His Helpmate," a novel, by Frank Barrett, the author of "The Great Hesper."

MR. R. L. STEVENSON, before sailing for America, where he intends to live on a Colorado ranch for some years, will issue a reprint of "Virginibus Puerisque" and a volume called Memories and Portraits," which is largely composed of autobiographical studies and sketches.

FORDS, HOWARD & HULBERT announce for publication next month" Beecher as a Humorist," a compilation from the published works of Henry Ward Beecher, by Eleanor Kirk, the editor of the "Beecher Book of Days." The little book promises to be full of sunshine and laugh-provoking extracts.

THE story of Verdi's life and of the production of his recent opera, Othello," at Milan will be told by Miss Blanche Roosevelt in a new work, "Verdi, Milan, and Othello,' which Ward & Downey, London, have ready for publication. The book is dedicated to Mr. Wilkie Collins, and will contain several portraits and other illustrations.

MISS BRADDON is writing a Jubilee novel. She keeps all her мss. and has them bound in red. She has recently engaged herself to write exclusively during the next three years for Leng & Co., of Sheffield, England. In January next a story by her, designed ultimately for publication in threevolume form, will be issued in various English newspapers under the title of "The Fatal Three."

A NEW Volume of poetry by Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, whose "Child's Garden of Verses" is his only other essay in this branch of literature, will be published immediately by Charles Scribner's Sons, simultaneous with its appearance in England. The title of the book is " Underwoods,"

and its contents reveal the author's remarkable versatility, and indicate that the volume will attain the same popularity and arouse the same wide interest that his romances have.

WALTER BESANT is about to publish in the English provincial press, in serial form. a new story, entitled "Herr Paulus: his rise, his greatness, and his fall." The author describes "Herr Paulus" as a story of modern life and manIt treats of the rise, the greatness, and the fall of an adventurer, who will come to London in order to trade upon the credulity of the circle which live among Spiritualists, Mediums, Esoteric Buddhists, Occult Philosophers, Thought Readers, and so forth.

ners.

RECENT reports that the health of Harriet Beecher Stowe was failing have led to the publication of the following private letter from her, the handwriting being her own and "firm and regular :"

"I was 76 on my last birthday, and have all my bodily day without undue fatigue: have a healthy appetite and powers perfect; can walk from three to seven miles per quiet sleep every night. In view of all these items I scarcely think that I am a subject for lamentation. I do not lament over myself. It is true that I do not intend to write any more for the public. I always thought that authors should stop in good time, before readers stop reading, and I think I may say I have done my part and ought to leave the stage to younger actors."

D. LOTHROP & Co. have just issued "After School Days," a story for girls, by Christina Goodwin. The opening pages are descriptive of life at a country boarding-school. In the first chapter the principal characters are introduced in a group at the close of the school term, and their conversation gives a clue to their different char acters and aspirations. Later chapters develop