and don gown and hood, that the noble theme may be dealt with in all outward respect. Buffon was so possessed by the dignity of letters that he put on his richest garb, with lace ruffles and gem-studded sword, before he sat him down at his desk to labor at his monumental work; and Machiavelli also arrayed himself "in royal, courtly garments," and thus worthily attired he made his "entrance into the ancient courts of the men of old."
But this lordly approach is not imperative, for Literature, lofty as it may be at times, is not remote a^id austere. At its best it is friendly and intimate. It is not for holidays only and occasions of state; it is for everyday use. It is not for the wise and the learned only, but for all sorts and conditions of men. It provides the simple ballad and the casual folk-tale that live by word of mouth, generation after generation, on the lonely hillside; and it proffers also the soul-searching tragedy which grips the masses in the densely crowded city. It has its message for every one, old and young, rich and poor, educated and ignorant; and it is su- preme only as it succeeds in widening its invitation to include us all. At one time it brings words of cheer to the weak and the downhearted; and at another it stirs the strong like the blare of the bugle. It has as many aspects as the public has many minds. It is sometimes to be recovered only by diligent scholarship out of the dust of the ages; and it is sometimes to be discovered amid the fleeting words lavishly poured out in the books of the hour, in the maga- zines, and even in the daily journals. It may be born of a chance occasion and yet be worthy to survive through the long ages — the Gettysburg address, for example, and the "Recessional."
Literature is now what it was in the past, and it will be in the future what it is now, infinitely various and unendingly interesting. We can venture to project the curve of
