One feels that the _librarii_ should be a sacred order,
nearly allied to the monastic, refined by varying steps of initiation,
and certainly celibates. They should give out their books as the priest
his sacrament, should wear sacred vestments, and bear about with them
the priestlike _aura_, as of divine incarnations of the great spirit of
Truth and Art in whose temples they are ministrants. The next step to
this ideal ministry is to have our books given out to us by women.
Though they may understand them not, they handle them with gentle
courtesy, and are certainly in every way to be preferred to the youthful
freckled monster with red spines upon his head, and nailed boots, 'the
work of the Cyclops,' upon his feet, whose physiognomy is contorted by
cinnamon-balls at the very moment he carries in his arms some great
Golden-lips or gentle Silver-tongue. What good sweet women there are,
too, who would bless heaven for the occupation!
Well, as I said, we in that particular library are more fortunate, and
two of the 'subscribers,' at least, did at one time express their
appreciation of its privileges by a daily dream among its shelves. One
day--had Hercules been there overnight?--we missed one of our fair
attendants. Was it Aegle, Arethusa, or Hesperia? Narcissus probably
knew. And on the next she was still missing; nor on the third had she
returned; but lo! there was another in her stead--and on her Narcissus
bent his gaze, according to wont.
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