lightness enables it to tell the history of the commonest peasant—a subject that History disdained until the Novel bent to the task. Its flexibility makes it possible to write the history of types and classes; its capacity enables it to convey science, to teach morals, to illuminate the abstract difficulties of every philosophy, to utter the despairing human protests stifled elsewhere, and to embrace every purpose for which words were created and human aspirations were kindled. That it has lent itself to base uses is true. How could it escape the contamination that has smirched every other art? And, as in every other art, that which is base and false in fiction soon dies of its own inherent weakness and is forgotten. But decade by decade the Novel grows more powerful, more noble, and more adaptable to the spiritual uses of man. The time will come when the Novel will stand on the book-shelves with history, the philosophies and the sciences, as of equal honor and use—necessary to complete the education of every scholar; yet even then there will probably be a tribunal to pronounce it to be, if not a vice, at least of doubtful utility.