EDITORIAL. We become more convinced daily that some form of publicity for libraries is necessary which shall have a persistence equal to that of the apparently imperishable public notions on the subject. We ask our readers to study the report of the Inaugural Meeting of the L.A.A. as one evidence of the necessity. Here we had a prominent young literary man, editor of the choicest literary monthly we possess, a man of a fine culture withal, expressing views of public libraries which were obsolete in the 'nineties. As, for example, the average issue of fiction is ninety per cent.; and that fiction, of course, of the inferior variety. Then, advocating a limited open access for selected readers-we wonder who would make the selection !because such access is highly desirable, but unlimited open-access "would turn the library into a bear garden." Finally, expressing the view (or at least implying it) that libraries grew by a method of fortuitous accretion, and librarians never exercised selection. It seems incredible, does it not? Of course, in a journal for library workers, a traversing of such statements is unnecessary; but the statements cry aloud that the public men of to-day need a new education in library affairs. * Another example is seen in the recent exploiting of " The Children's Libraries Movement." This, as our readers probably know, is about to convert the house in Somers Town, in which Dickens wrote David Copperfield, into a reference library and reading room tor children. With such a project every librarian must have sympathy and desire success for it. At the same time, the claims made for the projected library in the propaganda are quite unfair to the librarians and library authorities of England. The first prospectus described it as the only library for children in England, and claimed that it would be a model for future children's libraries. This nonsense has been modified, but in the Evening News a week or two ago an article appeared on the library which concluded "In America there are 900 such libraries, "In England there is one." We understand that various letters correcting the error have been sent to this well-known evening paper; but no correction appears to have been published. ** It is ironical to reflect that in some fifty towns in England there are children's libraries larger, many of them, than the David Copperfield Memorial can possibly be, or ever become. The new library is to be for reference use only, and, therefore, resembles that at Cardiff-now over 20 years old-and at the Bradford Library at Manchester, and differs only from the fine children's rooms at Liverpool, Norwich, Nottingham, Coventry, Croydon, Islington, Chelsea, Fulham, and a score of other places, in that these also circulate books. Apparently some American lady said somewhere that no such libraries existed in England, and this has been made the slogan of the movement. But the promoters should be reminded that the American children's libraries are part of the public libraries, as they are here; and it is wonderful that they did not enquire if such libraries existed or not in their own public libraries. They might then have learned that there were public libraries for children here seventy years ago, and long before the idea had taken root in the United States. We understand that an American children's librarian is to be imported to run the "model," because, of course, there is no one in England capable of doing it! This was probably an American suggestion, and will succeed as greatly as the American librarians have succeeded in the League of Nations libraries. * Every public library in England is inadequate. Let us admit that frankly; and the reason is not far to seek. The average user of the public library unconsciously resents the fact that other people borrow the best books. It happens, therefore, that many desirable books are frequently out"; but the reader somehow expects to be able to borrow anything he wants himself, and at the same time to find the books as static as those in the ordinary reference library. Here, it seems to us, lies one of the problems for solution; and that solution appears to lie along the line of providing many copies of desirable books. How many average-sized libraries have fifty copies of, say, Jane Eyre, or Lord Jim? Why should they not have them? We fancy the difficulty arises from the fact that the lending and reference departments are often confused. A reference library should be extensive: have many works and few copies; a lending library should be intensive: have fewer works, and many copies of them. Few books are published each year that are really worth permanent preservation or wide circulation; and those few should be bought in sufficient numbers. It is better for even a small library to buy-to take Fiction only— twenty copies of De la Mare's Little Midget, or of a new Conrad, than to buy twenty separate inferior novels. Those strengthen the library, and make it possible for every erader to get a good book in a reasonable time; these do not give satisfaction, and are bought at the expense of better works. A new view of the whole question, in this and in every class of literature, is imperative. THE ESCORIAL AND ITS LIBRARY. A holiday in Spain last Easter_afforded me an opportunity of visiting the Royal Palace of the Escorial, a lasting monument to Philip II., and the last resting place of so many of his royal House. I made the expedition from Madrid, and one bright sunny morning I left the Norte Station for the journey of 32 miles. It took nearly two hours, an illustration of ordinary railway speed in Spain. The last few miles of the journey was through typical Highland scenery, and when the train arrived at our destination, as far as the country was concerned it was familiarly Scotch in character, notwithstanding the absence of fir and pine woods. The village is some way from the Station, up the hill, and I accordingly took my seat on the outside of one of the hotel omnibuses, which compete for the favour of the incoming traveller. As I sat, perched high-up, on what might well have been one of the old Highland coaches, had not the three sorry mules who drew the conveyance dispelled the illusion, I had a good view of the Escorial nestling above on the side of the hill, and surrounded by the village. Frankly, my first impression was one of disappointment. In the sixteenth century, when the approach was by a mountain road with no railway, and at the most a few, and not incongruous cottages to make up the village, the buildings of the Escorial viewed from a distance were no doubt impressive in their lonely grandeur; but in the twentieth century, a large modern chocolate factory outside the station, and a village right round the walls of the Escorial itself, with shops and modern villas of white walls and red tiled roofs, seemed horribly out of place. A nearer view on arrival confirmed the impression. After lunch at an hotel opposite the monastery, I tock a stroll round the outside of the building. It may have been, and in fact was, built in a hurry, but it was built for all time. Composed of heavy granite blocks, blue slate roofs with leaden flats and narrow, cell-like windows, this eighth wonder of the world, as it has been called, is more suggestive of a penitentiary than a palace. A part of the buildings is now used as an educational establishment, and on turning round one of the corners of the block I found myself in the midst of a happy throng of laughing boys, playing fives with soft tennis balls against the walls, while a young monk walked up and down on duty. The Augustinians are now in possession of the Monastery, and now, as ever, afford educational advantages to the rising generation. I retraced my steps, and finding myself at the main entrance I bought two tickets of admission, one to the Royal Palace and the other to the rest of the building. The Palace was my first objective, and following my guide, a gorgeously-attired individual, I traversed a series of rooms lined with some of the finest tapestries I have ever seen. The colour and texture have been most wonderfully preserved, and made at Madrid consist of copies from the works of Goya, Rubens and other wellknown painters. I must not attempt to describe in any detail all the wonders of the Palace, but two of them linger in my mind. The Royal Chapel is closed to the public, but my guide took me to a shuttered door, and opening one of the panels I was allowed to lean through it and get a very hurried glimpse of the Chapel. When his religion was concerned, Philip spared no trouble or expense, and for restrained magnificence I have seldom seen anything to equal it. A vaulted roof, painted in blue frescoe, a fine retablo at the High Altar, approached by red stone steps, a screen nearly a hundred feet high, noble paintings of the Adoration, Nativity, and San Lorenzo, by Tibaldi, small boxes, or chambers, for the Royal Family, with bronze gilt statues over them, representing Charles V., Philip, and others, are veritable portraits, and inlaid with marbles and precious stones. I could have lingered to take in all this conglomeration of splendour and, on the whole, excellent taste, but my custodian gave me a tap on the shoulder, and said it was time to move on. The other memory I would fain recall is of a small unpretentious room situated over the High Altar of the Chapel, where the sombre Philip passed away. A rude leather-seated chair is shown with the following inscription :-" Silla de manos en la que efectuó ultimo viaje al Escorial el Rey Don Felipe II." My companion is called away, and I sit for a minute or two, conjuring up those last weeks of the King, when riddled with disease he experienced a living death, and eventually died clasping the same rude Crucifix which had consoled the last hours of his Father. A complex character, but without doubt a great man, and as I sat in the room which had witnessed his passing, my mind went back to that fateful day in July, 1554, at Winchester, when the same King, young and handsome, met his English bride, and plighted his troth in that Cathedral City in pursuance of a policy imposed upon him by his great Father, Charles V., who dreamed of adding England to the crown of Spain, a dream which, fortunately for England, remained unfulfilled. Leaving the Palace, I made my way to the Panteon. This burial place of the Kings and Queens of Spain is approached by a jasper-lined staircase and is an octagon chamber, a mass of polished marble and gilt bronze. Niches in the walls contain the black marble sarcophagi with gilt fittings. The room is situated immediately under the High Altar of the Chapel, the Kings being ranged in tiers on the right of the Alta and their Queens on the left. Each receptacle is labelled with the name in gold letters. I was glad to think that the taste displayed was not that of Philip II., who had planned a far humbler scheme of furnishing, but was due to Philip III. and Philip IV., the last-named completing the installation of the bodies in 1654. There are empty urns designed to receive the remains of the present Royal Family. It was a wonderful sight. but as I went out, I could not help contrasting it with what I had seen a few days before in the Cathedral at Granada, and I envied Ferdinand and Isabella their ill-made wooden coffins in a rough hewn vault, a humble burying place for so much greatness, but |