But it is a pity that the half-loaf should have been given so grudgingly and made so bitter in the giving. I find that the author, before the Senate Committee, occupied very much the position of an importunate beggar. And it is a pity, too, that the question of justice was rejected, and only that of expediency entertained. One would like to look up to our law-makers as an assembly which sustains and expresses the nation's fundamental principles; and if we have any foundation for our oft-repeated claim to a moral superiority over other nations (I confess I see no proof of such superiority), it rests precisely and solely on our holding that it is always expedient to be just.

It seems to have been conceded that the author has no natural right to his book; and after having made an excursion à propos of his idea, into some nightmare region of doubt as to whether we have any right to anything -cousin-german to the doubt if we exist, or only imagine that we exist the debate touched terra firma again to find that in ancient times the head of the family or tribe held all the property in his own hands, and that the Russian commune of to-day does not allow its members to hold property.

It might have been added that the head of the family, tribe, or commune, while denying the right of the individual to own property, assumed the duty of providing for his support.

Doubtless there is many an author and artist who would willingly relinquish all individual claim to the fruit of his labors if he could therefore be freed from the distraction of having to care for his own support and that of his family. And probably he would do much better work if so relieved. But when each member of the community is left to support himself, or starve, then his natural right to the fruits of whatever honest labor his disposition and circumstances may call him to, literary no less than any other, is as undeniable as his liability to hunger, cold and fatigue. It is an inevitable consequence of his casting forth from the capital providence.

As to the author, in international copyright, wishing to accomplish the feat of eating his pudding and having it too, his bargain is simply that of the person who sells a house for a part of the money down and the rest in mortgages on the house sold. Copyright is his mortgage for value not received, and the time of expiration is the time when the public no longer wishes to read his book. Nor is he the only judge of that value, as was asserted. His publisher is the first, and the public his final judge. In fact he is not allowed any judgment at all in the matter.

Some books have to wait for recognition. It is impossible to calculate the length of

copyright time necessary to pay for even the manual labor of writing a book. It is said that that exquisite work, “Ben Hur,” was at first received with comparative indifference. Yet, beside the actual labor, the concentrated essence of a man's life, from infancy up, goes to the making of a book like that. Would the slow sales of a limited domestic copyright repay the public debt for such a gift?

The author is admonished to recollect what the State has done for him. Waiving his right, as one of the sovereign people, to retort

L'état c'est moi!" the fact remains that the State has done for him only what it has done for every other citizen. Not all its advantages have ever made a poet or prophet, though they may have taught both poet and prophet to spell more or less correctly. The State did not give us Dante, Shakespeare, Göthe, Victor Hugo, nor Longfellow. Nature gave them to us. And if we were all savage instead of civilized, they would still have been superior and eloquent as savages, and we should all have sat round on the grass, and listened to them, wide-eyed. They would have incited us to battle, celebrated our victories, lamented our defeats, offered sacrifice on our altars, and crowned our loves.

I have said that the author, no less than any other, has a natural right to his work. I might say, more than any other. A book is the author's mental offspring, instinct with his life, good or bad, and inevitably resembles him in some way. He has spent more time, perhaps, in learning to write than would have been necessary to fit him for almost any other profession. All writers know that the expression, "dash off," has no application to literature, except as a copying out of what is already formed in the mind. A good novelist, for example, has need of a far higher and wider culture than has a good lawyer. He studies human nature, art, and the nature of earth and sky. Science does not come amiss to him, and the more learned he is the better will his work be. He visits the hospital with the doctor, the court with the lawyer, the mine with the miner; in his university there is no graduating day. For expression, scarcely the poet may touch his phrase more jealously to turn it with a proper grace.

It is this fact, namely: that the author studies more than others, which accounts for his acknowledged backwardness in what is usually meant by business. He does not lack financial ability, but his mind is full of other things. Otherwise he could not have been robbed so long.

Mr. Griswold is quoted as having said that in the piracy of foreign books the greatest injury falls on "the people at large, whom it deprives of that nationality of feeling which is among the first and most powerful incentives to every kind of greatness,”

It has long seemed to me, from a somewhat extended observation, that Americans have less of that "nationality of feeling" than any other people I have known. We boast a great deal. We are always talking about our wonderful works, and what a great nation we are. But we seem to hold these works up as a rampart against criticism, and not to be sure of ourselves. We have not that centered, taking-for-granted-that-we-are-respectable manner which gives dignity to a person, or a people, even without marvellous works. Our attitude is defiant, not confident; and when we come out from behind our rampart, we have internationally a certain air of standing first on one foot and then on the other.

Has the lack of a more exclusive national literature and reading anything to do with

this?

The author, beside his book, is the cause of a good many accessory industries which could not exist without him; and it would be graceful as well as just if the many who live by these industries would acknowledge their indebtedness. It is his pride that he so helps others, and that his thought is the motive power to so large a human machinery. But it is serious, it is outrageous, to see that while so many live upon this unfortunate beggar, he sometimes starves.

He would be limited and crippled without them, it is true, but not lost. In olden time there was recitation, copying and the minstrel. Through these we know the songs and stories and legends of a world that never dreamed of printing.

And doubtless, after barbarism shall again have swept over the world, obliterating nations with all their hoarded and accumulated sciences, and when internal convulsions, aiding the human element, shall have changed the face of the earth; when, in the succeeding calm, the remnants of humanity shall gather once more into groups, like brands to kindle a new civilization; then, doubtless, recitation will again give the author the supreme stimulant of instantaneous fame, the lute of the minstrel will be heard in bower and hall, as in the long-forgotten past, and the recluse will bend with earnest face above the illuminated page where he records a thought too precious to be trusted to memory's sole keeping-each and all of these to give place in their time to a re-discovered type-printing.

Let us fervently hope that this human race of the future may not keep their authors waiting 6,000 years for an international copyright. MARY AGNES TINCKER. Boston, Mass.

Summer Souvenirs.

ALL who have spent any part of the summer by the sea-shore, among the mountains or in country rambles are sure to have a collection of mementoes. Things which seemed worth the gathering at the time are apt soon to become trash to the eyes of the possessor and be thrown away.

Perhaps a description of a few of the various ways in which such mementoes were preserved and utilized as holiday presents and artistic ornaments by a party of ingenious tourists may enable some reader to do likewise with the collections that will be made during the summer and autumn.

In many parts of the country visited by our tourists was found a great variety of colored sands, light and dark yellows, browns and reds, with many intermediate shades. These they arranged in various quaint oddshaped bottles, which made beautiful groups for a cabinet. A view of the place where they were gathered was painted on some of the bottles, a small oval or square only being covered by the picture.

All have noticed how beautiful the pebbles look on the beach and have yielded to the temptation of picking them up, and then

wondered why they brought those dim looking things home. If they are placed in a clear glass jar and filled with water and alcohol, in the proportion of two parts of the former to one of the latter, and sealed with bright-colored wax, they will find all the brightness and beauty of the stones restored. They should be labeled with place and date.

Golden rod will dry so as to keep nearly all of its brightness, as also will many other field flowers and grasses. A beautiful bunch of such flowers and grasses was the trophy gleaned one autumn afternoon in a farewell ramble through the fields. It was a flat mass when taken from the trunk, but it served when nicely arranged to prettily adorn a hitherto unoccupied space on the library wall. In the arrangement a thin board such as dress goods come wrapped around was first obtained; this was covered with a layer of cotton batting, over which a cover of dark winecolored plush was smoothly stretched. On this the stems of golden-rod and grasses were fastened together with an inconspicuous bow of olive-green ribbon, which had been first firmly fastened to the board with doublepointed tacks. These tacks were also used elsewhere to hold the heavier branches in place, and as an after-thought a narrow strip

of dull-gilt moulding was placed as a finish around the panel.

Another panel was made of the pods of the milk-weed. These were partly opened and the brown seeds on their silky white stems drawn out. The large bunch was then mounted on a panel of oiled walnut, making an ornament of exquisite beauty and delicacy.

A lovely gift that can be sent as a memento of the weeks spent during the summer with a friend at the seaside is a porcelain plaque with a small sea-view in the centre and a border of seaweed. Such a memento was made by our party. Two inches from the rim was drawn a line of color, and within that the seaweeds were arranged so as to best show their delicate forms and dainty coloring.

A very pretty ornament was made by gathering great bunches of chestnuts, so green that they dried with the burrs on. These were covered with sizing, and plentifully sprinkled with gold, silver and bronze powders, which easily caught in the rough burr; they were then hung on the wall by bows of bright ribbon. Bunches of the chincapin were treated in a similar manner, their smaller burr and larger cluster presenting even better effects.

The father of the family received a sofa pillow for his Christmas gift, the cover of which was of serviceable china silk, orna⚫mented with a vine of hops worked in outline. This cover was tied on with bows of dark green ribbon, the ends of which were finished with a silk drop, representing hops, some light green, others brown. The pillow was filled with hops, gathered from a hop vine with a history. The mother likewise received a pillow, the cover of the same material. On it was embroidered in fancy script of brown, a wish for "pleasant dreams." It was filled with the flower of a plant known

through the South as "old field balsam," found among the fields of the old home plantation.

Among the mountains and along the rivers were found many oddly colored stones, some of which had been worn into very queer shapes by the water. These were made into paper weights. They are often left just as found, except that the State and the name of the place where they are picked up are written on them. Some had a view of the mountain or river where they had lain painted on them. The shape of the stone will often suggest the style of decoration.

Some beautifully marked and formed knots of wood were used for the same purpose. The necessary weight was given by filling with lead a small hollow made on the under side.

Anyone who can sketch from nature has, at their finger tips, the means of making a most acceptable present to the friend at home. Procure from the photographers a number of cards, such as are used in mounting cabinet pictures. On these, finish at leisure sketches of some of the picturesque places visited. The ones we examined consisted of views along a noted river, down which both parties had made a boating trip the previous summer.

The cover was made of chamois skin, in the form of a book. On one side was the name, in old English letters, of the place from which the view was obtained, and the date. Such a case, in another instance, contained photographs which were bought unmounted, and afterwards placed on the cards.

Another member of the party, who possessed an amateur photographic outfit, procured a number of views, not only of places but of the tourists as they appeared in various situations. L. A. France.

An Easy Remedy. A STORY Comes from Maine that is true, although it reads dubiously:

The daughter of a parsimonious mother became so emaciated from insufficient food that her friends, supposing she had consumption, sent a physician to see her without her mother's permission.

"She needs no medicine," was the doctor's verdict. "The only thing your daughter wants is nourishment!"

What does he mean by nourishment' ?" asked the girl (who was as ignorant as illfed), after the doctor had gone.

"He must mean exercise," said the cunning woman; "I guess you'd better fill up the wood-box, to begin on!"

Western Courage.

A YOUNG Western widow, with an aptness at retort, was the recipient on St. Valentine's Day, of a basket of roses, containing a most tender and unequivocal proposal from a charming young Boston man of her acquaintance, who evidently had no idea of her real seniority. Without waiting a mail, she sent, unsigned, the following reply:

He loved her, he loved her,
But he was much too young;
He wooed her, he wooed her
With charm of glance and tongue.
She loved him, she loved him,
But dared not own his sway-

For he was born when she had lived
Just ten years and a day.

They are not engaged.