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Who can tell where or how the tide turns, and when the literary flavers and reputations of the past go down, and those of to-day come up? There is no drawing stark lines of define-ment; the swell of Dibdin's sea songs has hardly subsided when some new billowy stir of the waters brings to us " Hob-son's choice"; if we delight in the wonders of Kipling, or the bewitching enmeshments of Daudet, or Zola, 'tis not that we have forsworn or forgotten the kind, old, limping master of Abbotsford, who has for so long lessened our burdens, brightened our hopes, and sweetened our rest: Bradwardine, and Guy Mannering, and Ivanhoe, thank Heaven, still fling their standards to the breeze, over all the great "Keeps" of literature !

The "dead line" cannot be drawn here; who is more lively, pray, than many a dead one whose name is shining athwart these pages? And who is more dead than many a live one whose -

- but we will not say it; we will guard our

tongue, and pen, and good humor.