Of all varied cranks who make this enlightened metropolis their stamping ground a majority affects more or less acquaintance with books. Thus, if you wish to examine a particular choice assortment of them you should pay a visit to the Boston Public Library. Here they swarm at all hours to the distress of the librarian and the aggravation of his assistants. Very many of them are students of occult science, which includes pretty much everything that no fellow could ever possibly find out. Just now these latter are chiefly engaged in fathoming the mysteries of esoteric Buddhism and the artificial hatching of ghosts. Works on phantasms of the living and spook shells are, accordingly, in active demand. Other victims of cerebral aberration are tireless in the pursuit of highly complicated philosophies and surprising religions imported from the East. But the variety of such lunatics is endless. Not a few, to all intents and purposes, live in the reading rooms. They come day after day at 9 A. M. and bring their lunch; when the meal is finished they go to sleep. To this sort of thing no objection is offered. In the way of edibles to be consumed on the premises the line is drawn at pie, which makes too many crumbs and is also sticky. Nature's sweet restorer may likewise be indulged in ad libitum so long as excessive snoring is refrained from. Down stairs, in the region of popular fiction, is a large apartment for general use known as the Tramps' Retreat. Here are gathered, during the Winter months, these persons of leisure who in Summer frequent the benches of the Common. They like to sit with their damp stockinged feet toasting at the warm radiators — their boots slyly removed when the attendant's back is turned — and dream, over an ostensible novel, of a blissful existence yet to come may be, in which it will not be necessary to do anything whatever any more. If a visitor makes himself obnoxious, through over stimulation or for other causes, a little note is laid quietly before him, in which the librarian informs the intruder that "he had really better go." Then, as a rule, the stranger guest departs in peace. This is the suaviter in modo; the fortiter in re is represented by a burly policeman in the doorway. Perhaps, however, the curious persons who frequent the public library are most interesting when considered as individuals. For instance, there is the epileptic patient — every public library has its pet victim of epilepsy — who is taken with fits at least once a day in the reading room. Physicians say that those who suffer from this frightful disease are wont to seek the most public places for the exhibition of their symptoms, in order to satisfy a morbid craving for sympathy. Certainly there is no form of suffering better calculated to excite distress in the minds of the compassionate beholder, but it seems hardly fair that people should be compelled unnecessarily to witness torments which they are unable to alleviate. A more cheerful subject to consider is the gentleman who has spent every day during the last fifteen years at the library, reading one very mystical book of Swedenborg's over and over again. When he gets to the end he starts anew at the beginning; and so, perchance, he will arrive eventually at a comprehension of what nobody else has ever been able to understand. Another will read nothing but novels by women, for he says that no one of the male sex could over possibly write a book of that description. One little musician comes three times a week and fiddles away quietly on a violin over scores by masters dead and gone, so precious that they are not allowed to be taken out of the library.

      The public library is a great trysting place for lovers. They come in pairs and sit together by the hour on the little upholstered benches, just big enough for two, along the sides of the upper hall — so close, so very close — holding hands and looking unutterable things. A keen perception of the fact that this sort of business must of necessity go on more or less, as one of the conditions of human existence, restrains the librarian from interfering with the ordinary run of billings and cooings. It is only when the love making becomes too intense, as it were, that he resorts to extreme measures, by standing in front of the offending couple, a few feet away, and literally staring them out of the room. Some of the questions asked by readers at the library are too absurd for belief. Many seem to have a notion that the institution is a sort of bureau of information. One woman, last week, inquired of the librarian where she could procure a wet nurse. Another intelligent female wanted to know if Miss Edgeworth wrote "Camille." A new disciple of occultism walked in the other day and said, "I want Buddha." The attendant was tempted to suggest that the customer should seek the article he demanded at a grocery shop, but subsequently it was ascertained that works on the Prince Gantama and his religion were desired. When "'Queens,' by Matilda of Flinders," was called for not long ago the dispenser of books did not guess without some difficulty that Agnes Strickland's "Matilda of Flanders" — in that author's "Queens of England" — was meant. One person asked for "'Sart,' by Carlyle," recently: of course the "Sartor Resartus" was intended; and so ad infinitum. Every library has its skeleton — in other words, a collection of improper or immoral books. In the public library here this assortment is hidden away in a series of modest little closets designated as the "inferno." On these shelves are ranged in suggestive rows all such volumes as ought to bring a blush to the cheek of innocence. The restrictions upon their circulation are very rigid indeed; for it would seem that there are lots of people who are always trying to get hold of something nasty in the literary way. Almost invariably they give it as an excuse for demanding such books that they are going through a course of English and French literature and are compelled reluctantly to peruse the objectionable works as a portion of the task before them. So the attendants are obliged to exercise considerable discretion. If a reader comes up and says he has heard that such and such book is naughty and that he would like to see it, the volume will probably be given him; but if he tries the "course of literature" dodge, he is apt to be refused. Many women of a certain age are fond of reading doctors' books, which, though not quite immoral, are none the less unpleasant. The applicant for an objectionable work is usually asked to fill out a slip, giving his age and occupation, together with his name, reference for character and reason why he wants the book. This slip must receive the indorsement of the librarian before the request is complied with. "At the bindery" is the usual formula employed in such cases, which being translated means that you cannot have what you want. A book that is marked in the catalogue with a single star is not to be circulated freely because too costly. A double star indicates that the volume is too rare to be allowed to go out of the library on any account. Three stars usually signify that the work is immoral, and only to be seen on application to and permission by the authorities. Against the number of books marked in this way with three stars, and thus rendered inaccessible, indignant protests are constantly printed in the newspapers, signed, "Plain Citizen" and "Taxpayer," etc.

      The Public Library here is not the least interesting of Boston's institutions. It is the most valuable and complete collection of books in the United States. The 500,000 volumes upon its shelves would stretch nearly nine miles, if put side by side. In this vast literary omnium gatherum are included several smaller libraries of priceless worth and great historical interest. Take, for instance, the Thomas Prince library, which, in Revolutionary times, was quartered in the old South Church. The British, when they turned that ancient fane into a temporary barracks, used many of the books as litter for their horses' stalls. What they left includes the Mather MSS., and other Americans not to be duplicated for love or money. Single books in the collection would sell to-morrow at auction for $1,000 apiece. Four hundred of the volumes relate exclusively to the Mather family.

      The Ticknor collection, also included in the Public Library, is the best collection of Spanish literature outside of Spain, with the exception of that in the possession of Lord Holland. Ticknor was the first American who was recognized abroad as a scholar. Most of the books he got together were saved from the sacking of cities and monasteries in the pockets of soldiers. Many of them had not only to encounter the perils of war, but also those incidental to religious conflicts. Not a few bear to this day the marks of the inquisitors of the Holy Office. Some curiously illustrate the methods of the old Dutch Protestants, who, in those days, used to send their heretical tracts into Spain printed in the midst of harmless volumes.

      Theodore Parker's library is a wonderful collection of classical and theological lore. Probably no one ever hated that great champion of religious liberty more bitterly than did the trustees of the Public Library, to whom he left his literary remains when he died. Many secret passages in the early history of the anti-slavery movement can only be explored by consulting certain documents in this collection. The Franklin Library is unique, containing several hundred volumes about him or published by him, as well as a great many sketches and squibs. There is nothing like it anywhere. The Barton Library was bought of the widow of Thomas P. Barton, of Philadelphia. It is the best Shakspearean collection in the world and worth $250,000. A number of first quartos are worth ten times their weight in gold. This library is strong in the naughty dramatists of the Restoration. It was the reaction against the Puritanism of the Roundheads that made the literature of that period so improper. One book in the collection is absolutely unique. It is an edition of Shakspeare published by Sir Walter Scott, the only one of its kind in existence. Then, too, there is no end of early French romances, novels and songs of the troubadours, all bound in the most beautiful manner conceivable. Many of those very volumes belonged years ago to real kings and queens. There are other fine libraries in Boston. The Atheneum has 175,000 volumes. It is a stock company and to have a share in it is considered the swell thing. No person of aristocratic pretension in the modern Athens would think of getting books at the Public Library. At the Atheneum shareholders have the freedom of the shelves. This collection is especially useful to art students. Its periodical list is the most complete in the country. It is distinctly a scholar's library, largely devoted to the severer sort of literature, and represents very well the best development of Boston brains. The Harvard Library, close by, has 250,000 books; it is very strong in early history and rare editions of the classics, maps and such treasures. This was the first library in the country to adopt the "stack system" for keeping books. Such an arrangement gives them ventilation, lacking which they will rot. Fresh air is as essential to the health of books as to that of human beings; furthermore, they must be kept cool. Among other fine libraries in Boston are the Massachusetts Historical and New England Historical, the Social Law and the Congregational. — Correspondence Salt Lake Tribune.