But if a bookworm should ever flap its wings and crow in Philadelphia, certainly the place where it would do so would be the Mercantile Library. I imagine that when Mr. Hedley, the delightful librarian, shuts up at night, turns off the green-shaded lamps and rings the bell to thrust out the last lingering reader from the long dark tables, he treads hopefully through those enchanted alcoves. The thick sweet savor of old calf and the dainty bouquet of honest rag paper, the subtle exhalation of rows and rows of books (sweeter to the nostril of the bibliosoph than any mountain air that ever rustled in green treetops), is just the medium in which the fabled bookworm would crow like chanticleer. It is fifty years this month since the Mercantile Library moved into the old market building on Tenth street, and while fifty years is a mere wink of the eyelash to any bookworm, still it is long enough for a few eggs to hatch. For that matter, some of the library's books have been in its possession nigh a hundred years, for it will celebrate its centennial in 1922.
The Mercantile is everything that a library ought to be. It has the still and reverent solemnity that a true home of learning ought to have, combined with an undercurrent of genial fellowship. It is not only a library but a club. Through the glass panels at the back one may see the chess players at their meditative rites, and the last inner fane where smoking is permitted and the votaries puff well-blackened briars and brood round the
