More women study to-day than men; a greater proportion travel abroad for purposes of culture; a larger share are moral and religious. Half of the world’s wisdom, three fourths of its purity, and nearly all its gentleness, are to-day to be set down on woman’s credit side. Weighted with the alcohol and tobacco habits, Brother Jonathan will have to make better time than he is doing now, if he keeps step with Sister Deborah across the threshold of the twentieth century. For the law of survival of the fittest will inevitably choose that member of the firm who is cleanliest, most wholesome, most accordant with God’s laws of nature and of grace, to survive. To the blindness or fatuity which renders him oblivious of the fact that the coming woman is already here, our current writer of the W. D. Howells and Henry James school owes the dreary monotony of his “society novel.” Not more “conventional” was the style of art known as “Byzantine,” which repeated with barren iteration its placid and colorless “type,” than are the dudesque pages of this pair of literary martinets. The “American novel” will not be written until the American woman, a type now to be found in Michigan, Madison, Boston, Cornell, and other universities, shall have taken her place, twentieth century product that she is, beside the best survivals of young men in similar institutions, and wrought out the Home, the Church, the State that are to be. Measuring each other on all planes, these life partners will know each other’s value, and no appeal to the divorce court will be made to relieve them, a few years after marriage, from an incompatibility that has ripened into open war. Happy homes will dot the country from shore to shore, in which both the man and the woman will do their best to lift the world toward God.