LIBRARY LUNATICS.

AMERICA seems to be the home of what are styled "Book Cranks" in that country, and in this, literary lunatics. Not that we are without our "naturals" by any means, but we take little or no notice of them, while the Americans spy out all their ways, and chronicle their doings with zeal. Every large library has one or more constant readers who seem to be on the staff, so promptly do they appear in the morning, so late do they stay at night, and this not for a few days or even weeks, but month after month, sometimes year after year.

      The New York Herald recently interviewed the librarian of the Boston Public Library to see whether there were any "Cranks" on hand at present, and if so, what were their peculiar eccentricities. "From morning until night," observed the librarian, "no matter at what time you 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 nine, 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 six o'clock at night, when, after we had rung the 'leaving bell' at least three times, and everyone 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 for ever 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, though 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 nine, and at ten, eleven, and at each succeeding hour until six, 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 take 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 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, he had given his Heavenly Arcana in on a Saturday night, and when he came round on 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, appreciating probably who it was 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 bare-footed boys in this reading-room?' he asked. 'You would never see such a sight as that in Europe. I do not believe there is a reading-room in all Europe in which that boy, dressed as he is, would enter.' Then Mr. Arnold went over to the boy, engaged him in conversation, and found that he was reading the Life of Washington, that he was a young gentleman of decidedly anti-British tendencies, and, for his age, remarkably well informed. Mr. Arnold remained talking with the youngster for some time, and, as he came back to our desk, the great Englishman said: 'I do not think I have been so impressed with anything that I have seen since arriving in this country as I am now with meeting that barefooted boy in this reading-room. What a tribute to democratic institutions it is to say that, instead of sending the boy out to wander alone in the streets, they permit him to come in here and excite his youthful imagination by reading such a book as the Life of Washington! The reading of that one book may change the whole course of the boy's life, and may be the means of making him a useful, honourable, worthy citizen of this great country. It is, I tell you, a sight that impresses a European not accustomed to your democratic ways.'"