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‘DID YOU KNOW old John Simpson?’ I have lost count of the number of times I have been asked this question about my predecessor over the past thirty‐six years. Inevitably my interlocutor follows up his question with the statement, ‘He was a terror; you either took what he gave you out of a selection of two or three books, or did without’.

WRITING on ‘The Personality of John Scotus’ Fr. Vincent Fochtmann, O.F.M., says:

When we are young a year is a long time, and ten years an eternity. It is only at a later stage when someone we have loved and admired for many years accepts well‐earned retirement that we realize how quickly the years slip away.

THE TELEPHONE rang and after the usual signs that the call was coming from a box somewhere I said, ‘Whitehaven 3504.’ The time was 9 p.m. and I had been half expecting a family call; but this, obviously, was not it. The voice that came over the line was quite markedly North American.

Not many weeks back, according to newspaper reports, three members of the library staff of the School of Slavonic and East European Studies in London were dismissed. All had refused to carry out issue desk duty. All, according to the newspaper account, were members of ASTMS. None, according to the Library Association yearbook, was a member of the appropriate professional organisation for librarians in Great Britain.

EVEN when it rains, and it did rain, Edinburgh has many attractions. It is a fine centre for a conference with some splendid libraries to visit and this year, as in other years, our hosts put themselves out to make us welcome.

THE RELICS OF A WRITER, his manuscripts, typescripts and memorabilia, have no life of their own, but they give life: they generate and resurrect. Too often they are abused, their products peddled to advance a thesis of no virtue, but this is the nature of things. Yet without them, properly handled, as they should be in an archive, there is no revelation: and not just for scholars either, less for them than for those who love O'Hara. Just a contemplation of them can bring some of him back to those who love and have some inkling of the concern and the care he had for his craft and his creation. He was a concerned man; he had a conscience. He sought and engaged the craft and sullen nature of his gift until it became as much a part of him as his fist. It became as much a part of him as his mind and body; it became his life. No photostat, microform, information retrieval can ever, will ever, replace the true relics, so that the place that holds them becomes for all who need or desire them a singular place, a side altar as well as a memorial. This is both meet and proper, for John O'Hara was a religious writer. He was not unique in this—all good writers are, one way or another—but he was one, especially; a moralist, in a Brooks Brothers shirt, in his bespoke shoes off Peal Brothers. Writing was his rod and his staff. To die in harness, shining in use, was his good luck that we must be thankful for. Requiescat in Pace, as he wrote of Philip Barry, another of them, in his dedication to him of The Farmers Hotel, a book that notched me. O'Hara knew what he was about. He was like one who keeps the deck by night, bearing the tiller up against his breast; he was like one whose soul was centred quite in holding course although so hardly pressed. And veers with veering shock now left now right,

WHATEVER MAN PERPETRATES, the printing press indelibly perpetuates. The salting of bibliographic borrow pits with glittery falsehoods is therefore a reprehensible imposition on posterity. When hoax, forgery, mischief, and fraud are buried in tomes, they enjoy an immortality seldom accorded truth. Tricks may, perhaps, be more illustrious and diverting than truth; they certainly are more difficult to crush to earth. They have one salutary utility, however. They can be used to test the credibility of books and reference sets.

TODAY the northernmost community library in Britain is the County Library of the Shetlands, with its headquarters at Lerwick, the county town, which was preceded by a series of vigorous organizations for more than a century. But for over a hundred years the Publick Bibliotheck at Kirkwall was not only the oldest but the farthest north in all Britain. The founder was William Baikie, member of a leading family and proprietor of the estate of Holland in the island of Stronsay in the Orkneys. Born about 1638, he probably attended the very old Grammar School in Kirkwall, he was a student at the University of Edinburgh in 1656 and proceeded m.a. in the next year. A relative, Rev. Thomas Baikie, minister first of the ‘second charge’ of Kirkwall and a zealous student, apparently influenced the young man toward a life in the church, but the opportunities near home were few. Orcadians were loath to move to the mainland, and besides William's inherited properties were substantial. So he spent his life as a respected heritor and collector of books.

R. D. MACLEOD'S career can be summarized briefly. Born in Greenock, he joined the staff of the public library there in 1902. He moved to Glasgow and was a district librarian in Hutchesontown and Anderston before his appointment in 1915 as librarian to the Carnegie United Kingdom Trust, with responsibility for their pioneer North of Scotland scheme. In 1921 he joined Messrs W. & R. Holmes, booksellers in Glasgow, as consulting librarian, and he retired from the firm as a director in December 1963. One of the first to bring the professional skill of the librarian into the world of bookselling, to the end he considered himself a librarian.