of my eyes, the distilled quintessence of the learning and genius of twelve thousand years."
"It seems but a small space to contain so much," said I doubtfully, calling to mind the immense libraries of London and Paris.
"I fully appreciate your doubt. But each volume represents a choice classic or a standard authority on some one subject."
"Yet, as I understood you," said I, "your family has been settled in this place for about thirty-two centuries. Surely, during that period a much greater number of books than this would accumulate, almost unavoidably."
"Your remark is just. But, in the first place, these are not all the books the house contains. There is a fair collection of works of reference in your room; the ladies have their special library; there is also a separate collection for the children. In the next place, even these collections are the result of a literary struggle for existence extending over long periods.
"The first hundred volumes or so, on the upper shelves, represent the world-classics, down to the twentieth century, the best of each great name comprised in a single volume. Life is too short for becoming acquainted with any but the very best. The next four hundred volumes represent the classics that have appeared since the twentieth century. All the rest are standard works of reference.
"The classics, as you see, are mostly old,—those on the upper shelves very old; though the bindings are comparatively new, since they must be renewed every few centuries. As for the works of reference, as soon as one
