boards of combat in immortal silence. The quaint old stained windows at the western end of the long hall look down on the magazine tables where one may be reading the Cosmopolitan and the next the Hibbert Journal. From these colored panes Franklin, Milton, Beethoven and Clovio gaze approvingly. They are surmounted by four symbolic figures, representing (I suppose) their respective arts of Science, Poetry, Music and Art. Of Clovio the miniaturist one does not often hear, and I may as well be honest and admit I had to look him up in the encyclopedia.
To the heart of the booklover the Mercantile speaks with a magical appeal. One wishes there were a little cloister attached to it where the true saints of the bookworld might be buried. It seems hard that those who have so long trodden the alcoves of peace should be interred elsewhere. To many devout souls libraries are the greatest churches of humanity. Even the casual dropper-in realizes that the Mercantile is more than a mere gathering of books. It is a guild, a sort of monastery. The members have secret raptures and side-long glances whereby they recognize one another. As they walk down the long entrance passage they are purged of the world and the world's passions. As they pass through the little swinging gates that shut out the mere visitor, as they bury themselves in shadowy corners and aisles pungent with book-perfume, they have the grateful bearing of those secure in a strong fortress where the devil cannot
