rsuade oneself that civilization had
indeed made great and solid progress, and that the world stood at a very
hopeful stage of enlightenment. Week after week, I glance over these
pages of crowded advertisement; I see a great many publishing-houses
zealously active in putting forth every kind of book, new and old; I see
names innumerable of workers in every branch of literature. Much that is
announced declares itself at once of merely ephemeral import, or even of
no import at all; but what masses of print which invite the attention of
thoughtful or studious folk! To the multitude is offered a long
succession of classic authors, in beautiful form, at a minimum cost;
never were such treasures so cheaply and so gracefully set before all who
can prize them. For the wealthy, there are volumes magnificent; lordly
editions; works of art whereon have been lavished care and skill and
expense incalculable. Here is exhibited the learning of the whole world
and of all the ages; be a man's study what it will, in these columns, at
one time or another he shall find that which appeals to him. Here are
labours of the erudite, exercised on every subject that falls within
learning's scope. Science brings forth its newest discoveries in earth
and heaven; it speaks to the philosopher in his solitude, and to the
crowd in the market-place. Curious pursuits of the mind at leisure are
represented in publications numberless; trifles and oddities of
intellectual savour; gatherings from every byway of human interest. For
other moods there are the fabulists; to tell truth, they commonly hold
the place of honour in these varied lists. Who shall count them? Who
shall calculate their readers? Builders of verse are many; yet the
observer will note that contemporary poets have but an inconspicuous
standing in this index of the public taste. Travel, on the other hand,
is largely represented; the general appetite for information about lands
remote would appear to be only less keen than for the adventures of