human expression and as characteristic of the nineteenth century as the English poetry of the sixteenth, in the glorious era of Elizabeth. The literature of knowledge is not only fuller and better than of old, it is more wisely employed. In the classroom, and when school days are done, we now understand how the printed page may best direct and piece out the work of the hand, the eye and the ear; not for a moment deluding ourselves with the notion that we have grasped truth merely because we can spell the word. To-day we first consider the lilies of the field, not the lilies of the printer; that done it is time enough to take up a formal treatise which will clarify and frame our knowledge. If a boy is by nature a mechanic, a book of the right sort shows him how to construct a simple steam engine or an electric motor. Is he an amateur photographer, other books, excellently illustrated, give him capital hints for work with his camera. It is in thus rounding out the circle which springs from the school desk that the public library justifies its equal claim to support from the public treasury. In the third and last domain of letters, that of fiction, there is a veritable embarrassment of riches. During the three generations past the art of story-telling culminated in works of all but Shakesperean depth and charm. We have only to recall Scott and Thackeray, Hawthorne, George Eliot and Thomas Hardy, to be reminded that an age of science may justly boast of novelists and romancers such as the world never knew before. No phase of life but has been limned with photographic fidelity, no realm of imagination but has been bodied forth as if by experience on fire, so that many a book which bears the name of fiction might well be labelled as essential truth. Within the past decade, however, the old veins have approached their bounds, while new lodes do not as yet appear. Of this the tokens are the eager sifting of the rubbish heap, the elaborate picturing of the abnormal and the gross. Pens unable to afford either delight or cheer have abundant capacity, often with evident malice, to strike the nerves of horror and of pain. If at the present hour high achievement in fiction is rare, if we hear more echoes than ever and fewer voices, quantity abounds to the point of surfeit. With an output in America alone of 616 works for 1900, all fears of famine may well be allayed.