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patron became exhausted, and he wrote to his protégé to say that, if the twelve Cesars whom he had bespoken did not reach him within two months from that date, he would not receive one of them into his house. The forfeiture of so valuable an order was a serious consideration with the artist, and having, when the threatening letter arrived, only completed eight of the Roman emperors, he impressed into his service the busts of four private gentlemen, which he had executed to order according to the received classic type, and disE patched them with the other eight as veritable Cæsars.

A

The anxiously-expected treasures happened to arrive at their destination when Mr. L. Stephens had his house full of company. When they had been carefully unpacked and deposited in the gallery, on pedestals which bad long been prepared for them, the guests were taken by the host to see them. The names of each of the emperors having been written in pencil at the back of the bust, they were transferred to the pedestals, and lettered in gold, so that there was no difficulty in distinguishing them.

"This," said Mr. L. S., "is considered very fine. It is Marcus Aurelius. This is Commodus. This is Pertinax. This is Didius. This is Severus. This is Caracalla. This is Maximus; and I must beg your attention to this, for it is considered the sculptor's chefPauvre-it is Elagabalus."

"No, no, I'll be hanged if it is!" said a well-known master of hounds; "it is no more Elagabalus than I am. It is Gratwicke,* and the sculptor showed it me two months ago in his studio as Gratwicke!"

I

December 11, 1871.-Took a long walk with Lord Lytton. Among other subjects which cropped up was phrenology. In the general principle he had faith, but not in the details, on which professors are so apt to refine. amfused him mightily by telling him what a very clever lady of my acquaintance, a Russian, had told me, with implicit faith in the truth of what she herself had heard, viz., that in one of the battles between France and Germany a French soldier, in single combat with a German, was felled to the earth by the buttend of a musket, and the left side of his skull fractured. As a wounded prisoner, he was taken to hospital, trepanned, and cured. On the recovery of his general health, it was found that he had entirely forgotten his native tongue, his name, his condition of life, etc., etc. Unfit for further military service, he resided for two years in Germany, acquired the German tongue, and adopted the calling of a bricklayer. One day, while at work upon a house, he fell from a scaffold, and fractured the right side of his skull. When once more he was restored it was found that he had forgotten all the German he had learned, that his former knowledge of his mother-tongue had returned, and that he recollected he was a married man, and the father of two children.

December 30.-Dined with Lord Lytton, Mr. hand Miss Froude, Sir Thomas and Lady Symonds, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Cosway, Messrs. Edmund, Boyle, Sievewright, Cosway, W. H. ge Smith, M. P., and the Rev. Mr. Patch.

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We had an animated discussion on the character of the ex-Emperor Louis Napoleon.

dent Lord Lytton spoke of him, as he invariably tipa does, with great regard. He said that he was eig by temperament kind to weakness. He gave

an interesting account of a long evening and

A gentleman well known on the turf and in Sussex a few years ago, but now no longer living.

a confidential chat he had had with him, after dining with him, and after the company had been dismissed, which ran into the small hours of the morning. He had seen much of him when he lived in a small lodging in King Street, St. James's. He was then occupying a handsome house, as Prince Napoleon merely, in Carlton Terrace. He said he had never seen any man so confident of his future as he was. He showed him the flag which his uncle unfurled with his own hands, when, at Embabeh (close to Cairo), he directed his infantry to form squares to receive the charge of Murad Bey and his Mamelukes, and called out to his men, "From yonder pyramids forty centuries behold your actions!" Among other precious relics, he showed him also the ring which had belonged to Charlemagne. He said that his uncle prised it enormously, and regarded it as a talisman of magic power, which insured good fortune to its possessor so long as he had it on his person. He declared positively that it always forsook him when he had it not. Before embarking for Elba he lost it, and offered rewards of incredible amount for its recovery. He attributed his failure at Waterloo to its loss. I forget through what means Louis Napoleon regained it, but regain it he did, and treasured it as much as his uncle did. Louis Napoleon never scrupled to acknowledge that he was superstitious! He reposes implicit faith in a prediction made to him by some one or other-I forget whether witch or wizard or conjurer-as to his end. That end was to be death in the streets of London in the hour of victory. He said, "I feel as certain as that I am now smoking with you, that I shall one day be the foremost man in France, whether president or emperor I cannot say."

September 3, 1872.-Sat for a considerable time with Dean Ramsay, with whom I found Lord Torphichen. The dean was in high force, and told me more anecdotes than I can recall. One, however, I remember well. He had been talking of the nationality of his countrymen, and I had been justifying it, when he said: "An Englishman was speaking on the same theme one day to a Scotchman. The Scotchman said:

"It is not mere national pride if I say, what is a matter of fact, viz., that my country is the finest in the world!'

"Well,' said John Bull, if it be the finest, it is not the biggest! I suppose you'll allow that England is bigger than Scotland?'

"""Deed, sir,' answered Sandy, 'I'll allow nae sic a thing; for, if oor grand hills were rolled out as flat as England is, Scotland wad be the bigger o' the twa !'

"Well,' retorted John Bull, 'you'll acknowledge that Shakespeare was not a Scotchman?'

"Discomfited at this home-thrust, but not disheartened, he once more replied:

"I'll acknowledge that Shakespeare had pairts' (parts) 'that would justify the inference that he was a Scotchman.'"

A Presbyterian minister, who had not long before married a couple of his rustic parishioners, had felt exceedingly disconcerted, on his asking the bridegroom if he were willing to take the woman for his wedded wife, by his scratching his head, and saying:

Ay, I'm wullin'; but I'd rather hae her

sister."

As the name of Moore and his Bessy are on the tapis, I must take the opportunity of mentioning a circumstance which the delicacy of my informant has hitherto kept religiously secret from the world, but which I am permit

ted by him to divulge, now that all the near connections of the parties implicated are no more. I think, as it is an anecdote which reflects honor on the character of Mrs. Moore, it would be an injustice to her memory any longer to withhold it. When living in Dublin, where Moore was the observed of all observers, he was engaged in some private theatricals when he made acquaintance with Miss Bessy Dyke, who had recently made her début as a ballet-dancer on the Dublin boards. Moore was smitten with her at first sight, and, having access to the greenroom, used to seek her out and converse with her, whenever he could, behind the scenes.

One night, as the celebrated Sir Philip Crampton, one of the very ablest medical men that ever lived, was just dropping off to sleep, after a day of great fatigue, he heard a violent and agitated knocking at his bedroom-door. "Come in," he said, and a voice, which he at once recognized as that of his friend Moore, spoke through the half-opened door, "Phil, Phil, for God's sake, get up and come with me without a moment's delay!" Sir Philip jumped up, hurried on his clothes, and weut out with him. It was about two o'clock, in a bright summer's morning, and the streets were entirely deserted. As they walked rapidly together, Crampton in vain appealed to Moore to tell him what was the matter. The only reply he received was, "You'll see soon enough. Come along quick, for God's sake! There's not an instant to be lost." They hurried down Dawson Street, reached Suffolk Street a short street at right angles to Grafton Street-and about half-way up that street, lying prostrate on the flags, Sir Philip beheld, to his amazement, what appeared to be the body of a young woman. So it proved to be -not a dead body, but an insensible one, and bleeding copiously from the head, which was severely injured. On going up to it they found an old woman standing by it, and keeping watch over it. Sir Philip Crampton, with Moore's assistance, lifted the body from the ground, and carried it up-stairs to her rooms, which were on the first floor. After a considerable time she was brought back to consciousness by the skill of the great practitioner. The ugly wound which she had received did not prove so serious as had been feared; so that, after a while, she gradually recovered, and (here is the curious part of the story) the heroine of this little drama lived years and years after, and lived to become "the darling Bessy" of Tom Moore.

It would seem that on the night in question Moore had accompanied her to her lodgings in Suffolk Street, and while there made use of opportunity to express his feelings toward her passionately. If she were blamable for having admitted a man to her apartments at such an hour, it must be borne in mind that she was really and truly a pure-minded, unsophisticated girl, who, though flattered, naturally enough, by the undisguised admiration of a man so sought after and distinguished as the modern Anacreon, yet had been treated by him invariably with such respect as to inspire her with confidence. However, his advances were made so warmly that his ardor got the better of his prudence, and he rushed forward toward her, hoping to grasp her in his arms. When she perceived his intentions, she said to him in the most decided tone, "Stop, sir! If you come one step nearer to me I will throw myself out of that window," pointing to one that, on account of the sultriness of the weather, had been left wide open. Not imagining her to be in earnost, he continued to approach her, and in one moment she sprang

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these same Saracenescans, Subiacians, and Olevanites, have been transmitted in marble and canvas into the luxurious and splendid abodes of all Europe.

The flower-girls who formerly served as models are on the wane; even in the selling of bouquets they have been replaced by floriste from Florence, once so charming and attractive, but now fallen on a level with the lowest types of Parisian lorettes. Those of the Roman flower-girls.still left over migrate in summer to the neighboring villages in com. pany with the models, and return in autumn to sell bouquets to strangers. Few of the latter who visited Rome within the past decade can have forgotten the manifold importunities and sonorous beseechings with which they were plied by the youthful floriste, chiefly gathered around the doors of the jewelryshops in Via Condotti. A famous little band, composed of three comely girls and a little boy, dressed in the gayest of mountain-styles, continue to besiege all lunchers and loungers at Spillman's, Nazzari's, Café Greco. Agatha, Santa, Maria, Giovanni, are as universally petted under the royal rule as they were under the papal régime-perhaps more, for now their competitors have fallen away. In their capacity of celebrities the members of this little band reap a rich harvest of pennies by selling their own photographs equally with the violets and roses out of their baskets. The money made by all young flower-girls and models is, to the last soldo, handed over to their parents, and they are severely punished if, during the day's operations, they make the least outlay without permission. When at home at night, in the wretched dwellings around the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, they are subjected to the strictest discipline, fed on the coarsest, scantiest food. Their sale of roses yields them no bed of

roses.

is no denying. The native virtuosi are shedding sorrowful tears because, as they allege, foreigners are doing their utmost to spoil those indigenous beauties which they would heartily like to see preserved. The model folks themselves are conscious of the immense decline in toggery, and of being left gradually high and dry on the sands while so many are imitating Paris.

Nowhere else as in Rome is artist-life so free and easy, and uninterrupted by the whims and exactions of fashionable society. Until the four years and a half just passed, only two callings might have been said to exist in the city, viz., religion and art-the artist standing next to the pope and his cardinals. They dress and live very much after their own fancy, whether at work in their studios, at home in their apartments, loitering in fashionable circles, or peering after their wants in the labyrinth of dingy, narrow, crooked vicole, corners, and dens which form that portion of the city known as "Old Rome," lying between the Corso and the Tiber. Surrounded, as in the past, on all sides by the precious relics and monuments of classic and madiæval art, sculptor and painter find in them a continual incentive to put forth all the effort of which they may be capable: for recreation or study they have only to step into the most famous and well-filled galleries and museums, kept constantly at their disposition by the state and the historical families.

One of the most availed of delights for artists residing at Rome consists in frequent excursions to the neighboring country, in the lovely environs just outside the walls, or over the majestic, solitary plain of the Campagna into the Sabine and Alban slopes of the Apennine chain. These short excursions are generally made on Sundays or other festive days when workmen abandon the studios; and an impromptu jaunt extra muros at any time is always hugely enjoyed. On these festive and sketching trips material for work and fun is secured from every and any thing encountered, not omitting the very donkeys bestraddled. The old crumbling aqueducts, standing, after two thousand years have passed over them, as monuments of the rule of consuls and emperors, are climbed over and sketched from every point; old ruins in process of excavation, as the villa of Hadrian near Tivoli, and the buried seaport town of Ostia, are examined, when perhaps coins, medals, statuettes are picked up, pocketed, and borne off as prizes to ornament the studio; rare nooks and out-of-the-way grottoes and chapels are visited, and the day's performance is liberally interlarded with omelets, sausage, cheese, black bread, and white wine-vino sincero- under humble but ex

In these days of travel and casy access a loud and bitter wail arises from among the cultivators of art in the peninsula over the vast and increasing crowds of clegantly and fashionably equipped tourists who throng in its renowned and quiet temples and retreats "to do" the wonders of sculpture and painting. No art curiosity is held sacred or free from the wayward inspection and clatter of the fashionable gentry, who, it is not to be denied, do contrast frightfully with the surroundings. The ribbons and curls of modern attire now flaunted on Italy's pavements do seriously interfere with the tasteful and well-designed costumes handed down from the tunic - toga era of the Cæsars, as also from the fanciful days of Raphael and Titian. Art decrees the beggar, street-child, old man or woman, though ragged in the few remnants of the unadulterated but fast-fad-tremely picturesque roofs and reed-thatched ing national garments, to be infinitely above the overdressed travelers turned out of bandboxes by Paris tailors and modistes. There is truly a stunning difference presented, even to profane optics, by the two types, as seen side-by-side in the dingy gondolas of Venice, the shady Cascine of Florence, the palace-girt Corso, the crowded Toledo of Naples. The frocks, swallow-tails, and trousers of Poole, and the traceries and fretwork of Worth, will not stand up in the studio-of this there

In autumn, winter, and spring, they lead an entirely out-door life in the streets of the capital, basking in the warm sunshine, or playing games while unengaged on their sittings in the studios. During summer, when malaria or fear of fever drives foreigners northward, the model crowd also proceeds to the country to summer on their native patches and slopes, to eat figs and soothe cares with wine after the Horatian pattern, if not degree. Their little home-hamlets are always dearer to them than the great city, and are affectionately called la patria. The villages of Saracenes ca, Subiaco, Olevano, etc., are all in all to the inhabitants thereof; and each village is jealous of the other. If the vil lagers even know the meaning of the word Italy, it weighs nothing beside la patria. Such intense specimens of local attachment and steeple-love could scarcely be found outside of the old States of the Church. Withal,

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stands by the wayside. Excursions of this kind require only a single day, the points aimed at being Albano, or Tivoli, or Subiaco, or Frascati, or Monte Cava, or Tusculum (celebrated for Cicero's villa and orationswith very little of these lying around, although the villa's foundations are pointed out), or Ostia, or Civita Vecchia, or Velletri, or Monte Rotundo, or, nearest to the city, Ponte Molle. Traffic or signs of business in the highways or paths leading to these places

are not to be seen; they are either quite deserted or dotted over with excursionists, mounted on troops of donkeys, attended by their drivers, and sundry field-peasants leisurely wending their way to or from "town." Sometimes many days or weeks are consumed in these charming trips; and there be artists who flee to the villages and mountains in order to "bury themselves alive." In the summer season extended voyages are made to Venice, Perugia, Urbino, Siena, Capri, Pæstum; but those who thus stray far off are very glad to get back to their studios in Via Margutta, Via Babuino, Via SIstina, Piazza Barberini, etc., and the November day of their return is one of jubilee not only for themselves, but for the workmen, flower-girls, models, cabmen, and boot-blacks, as trade then revives and business grows brisk apace. One of the first cares of the returned holidaytakers is to revisit the art bric-a-brac market on the old open square called Piazza d'Erbe, which formerly served as a vegetable-market. The treasures of antiquity and curious relics spread out on benches and tables, and on the ground, in beautiful disorder—so dear to the heart of the artist-on this famous piazza twice every week, present an odd, unique array.

The artists ransack these collections unsparingly, and generally find something to suit their fancy, if not precisely what they started out in search of.

Such inestimable facilities, familiar haunts, fascinating scenes, and solid advantages, fasten with hooks of steel the resident native and foreign artists to old Rome.

FREDERICK DANIEL.

THE AGE OF GOOD.

HAD a vision of mankind to be:

I saw no grated windows, heard no roar. From iron mouths of war on land or sea;

Ambition broke the sway of Peace no more. Out of the chaos of ill-will had come Cosmos, the Age of Good, Millennium!

The lowly hero had of praise his meed,

And loving-kindnesses joined roof to roof; The poor were few, and to their daily need

Abundance ministered. Men bore reproofOn crags of self-denial sought to cull Rare flowers to deck their doors hospitable.

The very bells rang out the Golden Rule,

For hearts were loath to give their fellows pain.

The man was chosen chief, who, brave and cool,

Was king in act and thought. Real power is plain, Despising pomp and show. He seemed to be The least in all that true democracy.

O Thou, the Christ, the Sower of the seed! Pluck out the narrowness, the greed for pelf;

Pluck out all tares; the time let come, and speed,

When each will love his neighbor as himself.

The hopes of man, our dreams of higher good,

Are based on Thee; we are Thy brotherhood. HENRY ABBEY.

EDITOR'S TABLE.

is the jealousy," remarks an English “IT writer upon American affairs, " of a democracy against culture and character, and all kinds of personal and hereditary superiority, which has wrested power from the hands of the natural leaders of society, and ostracized wealth and intellect, and hereditary influence." This sort of thing is said so often, not only by foreign critics but by many of our own people, that it ought to contain some measure of truth. But while the iteration and reiteration of a falsehood may give it credence with the multitude, they never can affect its character with those who look into things clearly and think for themselves. Now, it is true that the tendency of affairs here is to withdraw power from the "natural leaders of society," but the reason of this does not arise from "the jealousy of a democracy against culture and character, and all kinds of personal and hereditary superiority." There is undoubtedly a jealousy of "hereditary superiority," that is of power and position derived wholly from hereditary names and influence; democracy believes that every man should stand on his own and not on his ancestors' merits; but we deny that there is with the mass of the people any prejudice against "personal superiority," or any "jealousy against culture and character." The majority do not appreciate culture as highly as they ought in all instances, no doubt; they have a not altogether misplaced confidence in the superiority of common-sense and character above the over-refinements of dilettanteism; but in truth the reverence for education in America amounts almost to a superstition—often, indisputably, an ignorant reverence, with a disposition to unduly exalt the practical above the æsthetic; but, nevertheless, a reverence that would never dream of jealousy against any of the attainments of study.

How, then, it will be asked, is it that the better class of our people are not found in politics? The responsibility for this much-tobe-regretted fact largely lies with these "better people" themselves, who permit demagogues to usurp the place they should fill. There are not a few good reasons for their doing this: nothing comes save from due and adequate cause; but the fact remains that the withdrawal from politics of our best men is wholly voluntary. They are not driven. out by a "jealous democracy;" they are not "ostracized; "" they are simply deserters. They have deserted because they dislike the fire and heat and disorder of the battle-field. Politics in America is too rough and fierce for their sensitive natures; there is too much acerbity, scandal, reckless lying, and rude

denunciation, to render a political career specially inviting. Moreover, the rewards for all these disagreeable experiences are not very brilliant, unless the aspirant has the "itching palm." The professions or commerce have greater promise, and those who follow them are secure from unfounded suspicion and all the heart-burnings that pertain to a struggle for political place or leadership. So generally are these facts recognized that the last thing a father would think of selecting for his son would be a career in politics. Every young man is warned against politics; distrust is always excited if a young lawyer or a young merchant evinces a too eager interest in political campaigns. How in the world can we hope to see power in the hands of the natural leaders of society," when within the circle of this class it is never the example of statesmanship, but the warning against politics, that is made the precept? If our better class of men would enter into politics, they would do much not only to redeem many of the evils of the state, but their presence and influence would go far toward stopping a good deal of the dirt- throwing which the lower politicians have encouraged in their partisans. As for the people as a whole, they are not probably very fastidious nor always accurate judges, but we may confidently believe that they would rather see in high places men of character than men of buncombe.

In his book "On Actors and the Art of Acting," just from the London press, Mr. George Henry Lewes gives the opinion "that there is a vast and hungry public ready to welcome and reward any good dramatist or fine actor; but, in default of these, willing to be amused by spectacles and sensation pieces." In this brief sentence there is condensed a truthful and complete response to all the wordy clamor about the decadence of public taste with which ignorant and unobservant critics assail our ears. A great deal of this talk, whether literature or art is concerned, arises from the notion that the public is a unit. There are, of course, many publics: a sensual public finding delight in gross spectacles, and a cultured public gathering to applaud chaste plays and intellectual acting. But there is also, no doubt, a large body of people who, in the absence of high dramatic art, are willing to be amused by trifles; who even prefer good spectacles and strong sensation plays to bad renditions of what is called the legitimate drama. There is, however, no instance in recent periodsif any can, indeed, be found at all—when a really good actor in the higher drama has been neglected because of the attractions of spectacle or sensational pieces. In these things public taste is not cultivated to a very

high point, perhaps, but really good dramatic art has that within it which makes the whole world kin; and it compels the suffrages of even those who have only sensibilities of average keenness, or tastes of no more than ordinary culture. There is, in fact, always a public for first-rate execution in any of the arts.

So far, indeed, from there being a decline of taste in regard to the drama, there is now a great revival-a revival more noticeable in England, perhaps, than here, but we are not without certain profound stirrings in the matter. Mr. Irving recently gave, in London, his two-hundredth consecutive performance of Hamlet, an achievement unparalleled in the history of the stage; and not only unparalleled as a popular success, but very rarely has any performance caused so much elaborate criticism and such wide discussion. Tennyson's "Queen Mary," it appears, is to be acted; and this announcement is exciting the English literary and dramatic world intensely. Well it may, for the accession of a poet like Tennyson to the ranks of the dramatic writers is something very noteworthy and significant. If "Queen Mary" prove a success as an acting play, there is not a poet anywhere that will not be tempted into the same field. There is no success so fascinating nor so substantial in its rewards as a dramatic one; and hence, under this Tennyson example, we may yet see Swinburne, Buchanan, and Morris, in England, and Longfellow and Lowell here, employing the stage and the actors as their media for reaching the public. In England new plays are continually appearing; here very little is done in this way, and those who do this little would render a service to the community if they withheld their hand. Our national poverty in this particular, however, would soon be followed by a happy harvest, we may hope, should our men of literary mark coquet a little with the dramatic muse. Why should not Holmes and Aldrich give us each a comedy? Why should not Lowell, or Longfellow, or Stedman, or Stoddard, consult with Booth and Barrett in regard to a tragedy? If our poets do make an essay in this direction let them be governed by Bulwer's wise example

and take into their confidence some experienced actor whose professional knowledge may serve them in the stage-requisites of the play. These poets would not fail in the fire, the passion, the wit, the poetry; if they should succeed in wedding these to good construction all would be safe. There is, as Mr. Lewes says, a hungry public for good plays and fine acting; the public waits, the theatres are ready, the actors are eager-let the poets now come forward and lift our dramatic art, in which there is now so much awakened interest, to a level of that of any other land.

He

"You are aware, sir, that a grateful nation granted, through Parliament, half a million to build the Palace of Blenheim for the great

duke whose services were thus rewarded. What services have the present duke and duchess rendered to the state that they should enjoy this property? Yet they do enjoy it; and nobody grudges them its enjoyment; but if the descendants or representatives of John Bunyan were to claim property in his bookswhich would probably, if it were granted, cause the cheapest edition of the 'Pilgrim's Progress' to be published at half a crown, to the extinction of the little rag that is now sold in the streets for a penny-we should have a pretty noise over it. Why, you dolts and asses,' says one (and really, sir, this is pretty much how they address us; but we don't mind it, for the reviewers have accustomed us to it), 'don't you know the difference between corporeal and incorporeal property; between property that is visible and tangible, and property that is merely an ideal right, existing only by virtue of the law? The land exists; it is there and tangible; it must have an owner. Copyright does not exist at all except merely as the creation of the law.' But then, sir, I thought they told us that all property was the creation of the law? The land exists, certainly; do not 'Hamlet' and 'Ye Mariners of England' exist also? The land must have an owner, certainly; but there would be no difficulty in finding owners if the state were to seize it and sell it sixteen years The after the present proprietors' death. ownership of land, which the law guarantees forever, is in reality just as much an incorporeal hereditament as the ownership in a book, which the law guarantees for a few years. It is quite as intangible and invisible a creation of law as copyright is. It has nothing to do with the occupation of the land, as many folks seem to consider; many ladies and gentlemen enjoy the ownership of land which they never saw at Nice or Mentone they carry about with them the invisible but highly-valuable ownership of land in the Hebrides. The occupier and tiller of land, the farmer, is in re

lation to its ownership precisely as the pub

lisher is in relation to the temporary ownership in a book-with this difference, that the farmer does not find that, after a certain number of years, he or anybody else can work the land without paying any thing for it, whereas the publisher, after a certain number of years, finds that he or anybody else can deal with the book as he pleases."

This is really very convincing. It is claimed that, inasmuch as the state guarantees and protects rights in literary property, it is permitted to give that guarantee under such conditions as it may see fit to impose. But in truth the state does no more for this kind of property than for any other. The peculiar nature of literary property is such that the common law of property cannot protect

order to secure the writer or holder against infringements. But this special statute in no wise alters the attitude of the government toward this kind of proprietorship; it is simply an enabling act, whereby the authority and protection of government may be extended over a class of things which in its ordinary operations it cannot reach. And inasmuch as the sole legitimate purpose of government is for the protection of its citizens, it is rather extraordinary to see it making terms, in special instances, and imposing conditions for the protection that it guaran

tees.

We cannot attempt to touch upon all the arguments that are advanced in favor of the present system. The theory that the public welfare is advanced by confiscating literary property is a presumptuous one; it would be just as fair to confiscate lands for public parks as to seize upon an author's writings for the public benefit. It is fully as incumbent upon people collectively to pay for what they use as it is upon individuals to do so. It is, moreover, a mistake to assume that an author's copyright would have more than a very slight influence upon price. Books are cheap or dear according to demand. We find popular, low-priced editions of Tennyson in England, and of Longfellow here, notwithstanding that these are copyright works. It is very clear, we think, that literary proprietorship should be as lasting as all other kinds of proprietorship. Assuredly an author's descendants have as much moral right to enjoy the fruits of his labor as the descendants of a cotton-spinner have those of his.

The "Puzzled Novelist" from whom we

have been quoting says: "About the year 1840, if I am not mistaken, Wordsworth told a friend of mine that all the money he had ever got for his poems did not exceed three hundred pounds; I should say that if the copyright of these poems existed at the present moment it would be worth two thousand pounds a year." Here we find an author wholly inadequately paid for his productions during his life, and by the time his books become of any decided monetary value they are confiscated for the public use. If this is not rank injustice, what is injustice?

MACAULAY'S (or rather Mrs. Barbauld's) New-Zealander, who is some day to sit akimbo on London Bridge and moralize over the ruins of London, will perhaps listen with incredulity to the legend that this nation which abolished slavery in ber colonies, and put down the slave-trade, also forced opium upon a vast people by sheer force of arms. We who are nearer the events of fourteen years ago, however, know that it is but too