The task of determining an author's “place” in literature is at best uncertain and thankless. It is hard enough when the subject is centuries old, and in the case of Stephen Leacock it is impossible: critics, especially Canadian critics, are still too close to him in place and time. For a reasonably assured “determination”, we shall have to wait two or three decades. This inquiry, therefore, must be taken as experimental and completely “subjective”, although it may often appear to speak with the authority of scribes; and since it has no pretension to such authority, it has been cast in a deliberately informal mode. What is more, I have only a fragmentary knowledge of Leacock's life and have had no access to a great deal of his uncollected writings. Consequently I cannot discuss his “psychology” or, his “social consciousness”, as it has been fashionable to do; nor should I be competent to discuss such things, if the data were available to me: These confessions, I hope, will give sufficient warning about the nature of this piece. It may still be proper for a student of literature to consider Leacock's books in an old-fashioned way.