Browsing through La Petite Illustration, a supplement to L'Illustration which publishes modern French plays and novels, we found the following statement on the title page of a play by Jules Renard: "All rights of publishing, reproduction, translation, adaptation and of presentation by all methods actually known or by any which might be hither-to invented reserved for all countries." This translation lacks, perhaps, the sonority and fullness of the original French; nevertheless, we feel that it gives some conception of the farsightedness of the copyright. We only hope that, in translating, publishing, and representing it we have not laid ourselves open to the ministrations of the French secret service.

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Our Cambridge correspondent, in a recent letter from that seat of English glory, passes on the current gossip about the gloomy Dean Inge. At one time, when the famous churchman was writing for a London paper, a friend asked him: "Shall I address you as a pillar of the Church of England, or as two columns of the Evening Standard?" This story, we are told, is the very life and breath of the swank wine parties of the Colleges at the moment.

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The other day, we are reliably informed, the lion lay down with the lamb in the square; at least, it was something of that nature. An acquaintance of ours was walking slowly down Mass Avenue, staring into space, and carrying in his hand a new, unwrapped, strikingly striped club tie. Suddenly, at a corner, a small, ferret-like individual bumped into him, nearly bowling him over; in the confusion, the tie dropped into the gutter. The small one, before our friend could move, darted to pick it up. Its owner muttered thanks, and extended his hand for the object. But its rescuer withheld it, moving slowly back and examining it intently; finally, when our friend was beginning to lose his grip, the other handed him the tie and said: "Thanks. I've always wanted to see one of those things close up." Then he swung off, as rapidly as ever.