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There is no more fascinating type of bedside book than the catalogue of a great private library. “Bedside book” I say: but that is hardly just, for I would willingly retire to a desert island (as all the best people appear to be prepared to do these days) with a comfortable handful of such records of greatness. These can conjure up visions for me as no other books can. I find the Abbotsford catalogue as spell‐binding as The Three Musketeers, and old Kirk‐patrick Sharpe's curious collections as intriguing as the adventures of young Waverley. Are there others who share my taste? I hope so, though I admit that it is not everyone's meat. Might I be pardoned for trying to suggest why I like this bye‐way? Bear with me while in the manner of Hill Burton I summon up a few of the famous bookmen of a former day. And pardon me again if it be found that they are all Scots.

ONE of the most remarkable features of the present century is the comparative cheapness of books, most noticeable in the case of the reprint, through the medium of which the public can, for the consideration of what, even today, is a small sum, become familiar with the greatest literature of all time. In the average home today there will almost certainly be found a good collection of new and attractive books in a great variety of editions. Students and serious readers have now no difficulty in building up adequate working libraries of their own, at no great cost and in a short time. In a word, pleasure, knowledge, and what we loosely term “culture” may be had for a modest outlay.

Several years ago, while grubbing in an antiquarian bookseller's basement, I came across a slim little volume in half morocco, lettered up the back Les Mutinées Royales—1863. The title conveyed nothing to me then, but the shabby elegance of the binding prompted me to pull it from the shelf, and for once my zeal was rewarded. First of all there was, within the front board, the bookplate of James Maidment, a notable Scottish bookman, the friend of Scott, and the father of a long series of curious little reprints and literary oddities. On the flyleaf was a note in his handwriting regarding the book; while before the title‐page there was exposed to my delighted gaze a collection of autograph letters from the publisher, Frederic Norgate, dating from the years 1865 and 1866. The title‐page itself read, Les Matinées Royales, ou L'Art de Regner. Opuscule Inédit de Frederic II. Dit Le Grand, Roi de Prusse. The publishers were Williams and Norgate, of Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, and the volume saw the light, as I'd already gathered, in 1863. On all counts, I decided, this was a volume worth having, I carried it upstairs to the comparatively pure air of the outer shop, feigned indifference as to my interest in it, and nailed it for, as far as I can recall, just half a crown. I hurried home, to gloat, perchance to read. The letters I transcribed without delay; the book itself I glanced through hastily, reserving it for future leisure. Before that came, sad to say, I was in the Army, and it is only within the past few weeks that my thoughts have kept turning to the dicta of the Prussian, a train of thought set in motion, no doubt, by a reading of Froude's Carlyle.

EVERYONE nowadays has some more or less intellectual pursuit dear to his heart. Dr. Watson tells us that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had investigated, purely for his own satisfaction, the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus and had published thereon: a topic of infinitely less value than his famous study of the different varieties of tobacco ash. Similarly, it would not be hard to find other examples of a love of learning for learning's sake, nor, unfortunately, of a sedulous application to things academic merely for the sake of fame or notoriety. In the modern world the merry business of “getting into print” has seized on the imaginations of the most unlikely people. The popular press keeps us informed of the mental activities of film‐stars and professional boxers, while the “remainder” catalogue tells a sorry tale of public indifference to days and nights laboriously spent. Leaving aside, however, the commercial and utilitarian aspects, the question suggests itself: How best to tackle the subject of one's choice?

THE history of the Scottish Book Clubs has still to be written. That no one has yet ventured upon it is partly due to the vastness of the subject, partly to the fact that in these degenerate times the student of history or literature is inclined to take his blessings for granted. Happily, the story is unfinished; for today the modern successors of the Bannatyne and Maitland go on from strength to strength. The Scottish History Society is now sixty years old, but as virile as in the days of its youth. The Scottish Text Society, which has given us monumental editions of Dunbar, Wyntoun, and Pitscottie, to name only a few of its triumphs, continues to maintain its high standards of editorship and production. In the North‐East, the Third Spalding Club proclaims to the world at large that Aberdeen has wealth still of scholars in the Joseph Robertson — Hill Burton tradition. In recent years one new name has been added to the roll of the printing fraternities. Some ten years ago, the Stair Society, established for the purpose of “encouraging the study, and advancing the knowledge of” Scots Law, began its labours. Though young, it has demonstrated beyond all doubt that it is worthy to rank with the great Clubs I have mentioned. True, its scope at first sight may appear limited: and those who have the layman's undefined distrust of legal affairs may pass with averted eye. The noble volumes of the Stair, however, bear eloquent witness to the close relationship of law and history, and afford illustrations of bygone life in Scotland which we would be sorry to lose. An extensive and distinguished membership, with regular publications of value, confirms that the work begun by men like David Laing and Cosmo Innes is still being carried on,—and right worthily too.

I SUSPECT that we praisers of past times, we who walk in spirit with the mighty bookmen of bygone days, are now somewhat in the minority. That being so, it was a heightened pleasure to hit upon Mr. Phipps Hemming's delightful gossip on Richard Heber in a recent number of the Review. We admire Richard, I make bold to say, far more than we admire the probably more worthy Reginald. Decidedly the former's labours—whether or not pointless and mistaken—deserve not to be forgotten. Father of all the “second copy” and “duplicate” men he undoubtedly was: yet he somehow contrived to leave a healthy tradition behind him. For Richard Heber was no mere accumulator, but an appreciative scholar and a cultured gentleman beside. Long may his name be remembered, even in times when his “three copy” rule has fallen into derision.

MATERIALS are frequently considered as divisible into two classes, primary sources and secondary sources. This view is useful, though not foolproof. In the first class are those sources which yield the very first information on any subject or event. They cannot be ignored. Secondary sources comprise the elaborations of primary sources, the theory and conjecture to which the original testimony gives rise. The value of original sources is obvious. Mr. Winston Churchill's account of Marlborough will, no doubt, be hailed in the future as “authoritative,” and, all things considered, justly so. But at best the author can only give his own interpretation of the Duke's letters and dispatches. That interpretation may be correct, or only very slightly in error; a fact which does not justify the conduct of the next student of Marlborough if he contents himself with accepting Mr. Churchill's conclusions on a few main events without bothering to look at such original testimony as may be extant. True, an examination of the primary sources may convince the student of the justness of Mr. Churchill's reading. On the other hand, a fresh mind may detect some small but significant point which has persistently escaped the other worker. Original sources may often be scrappy and unsatisfactory, apparently of small value, uninspiring even: but, in that they are unique, they cannot be disregarded. I can give no catalogue of what might be regarded as materials of this class, no list, at least, applicable for all topics to be investigated. If indeed that were possible we would be faced with the difficulty of deciding what were the primary sources of each separate investigation. For example, the Acts of Parliament would certainly be an original authority to the research worker who had the Revolution of 1688 as his subject. But would he regard in the same light the Diary of Narcissus Luttrel who lived through the stirring events of that time, and recorded them as they appeared to him?

While some libraries have done their best over the years to inform the public as to what they are doing and can do as regards helping readers, others seem to move along without making any special effort to publicise their facilities. In the old days modesty was a virtue, but now it is its own reward. Government departments, which used to shun the limelight, now employ public relations officers in large numbers, and professional bodies and big business houses constantly seek publicity. Times have changed, and the battle is to the strong; and it is unfortunately generally felt that the institution or service that does not speak for itself has little to speak about. It may frankly be said that if a service is in a position to enlarge its sphere of influence and esteem it should do so to the utmost of its endeavour. But it will be granted that if its publicity is not justified by performance, there will likely be an unhappy reaction.

ONE evening, while in Virginia, I dined in very select company—for I was the only guest present, excepting the Secretary of the American Library Association, who had not been a president of that body. I was not, however, the only Englishman in the party,—and by Englishman in this paragraph 1 mean British born,—for Andrew Keogh, the Librarian of Yale University and President for 1929–30, sat opposite me. Keogh, like myself, was born in Newcastle‐on‐Tyne.

READERS will understand that owing to the operation of the Censorship and to the fact that news travels slowly, it has not been possible to present anything like a complete record of libraries damaged or destroyed. In any case to do that was not our aim. All that was desired was to keep the library service here and in other free lands informed as to the result of enemy attack on institutions. This third series of reports is much of the same pattern as those already published in this magazine. The note from Coventry deals with prospective reorganisation, but since the note was received the city has suffered again.—Editor, L.R.