receive, in money value would absorb the national surplus, about which so much fuss is made.  There is really no objection to this—­the terror of the surplus is a sort of nightmare in the country—­except that it destroys the simplicity of the festival, and belittles small offerings that have their chief value in affection.  And it points inevitably to the creation of a sort of Christmas “Trust”—­the modern escape out of ruinous competition.  When the expense of our annual charity becomes so great that the poor are discouraged from sharing in it, and the rich even feel it a burden, there would seem to be no way but the establishment of neighborhood “Trusts” in order to equalize both cost and distribution.  Each family could buy a share according to its means, and the division on Christmas Day would create a universal satisfaction in profit sharing—­that is, the rich would get as much as the poor, and the rivalry of ostentation would be quieted.  Perhaps with the money question a little subdued, and the female anxieties of the festival allayed, there would be more room for the development of that sweet spirit of brotherly kindness, or all-embracing charity, which we know underlies this best festival of all the ages.  Is this an old sermon?  The Drawer trusts that it is, for there can be nothing new in the preaching of simplicity.

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WRITERS

It is difficult enough to keep the world straight without the interposition of fiction.  But the conduct of the novelists and the painters makes the task of the conservators of society doubly perplexing.  Neither the writers nor the artists have a due sense of the responsibilities of their creations.  The trouble appears to arise from the imitativeness of the race.  Nature herself seems readily to fall into imitation.  It was noticed by the friends of nature that when the peculiar coal-tar colors were discovered, the same faded, aesthetic, and sometimes sickly colors began to appear in the ornamental flower-beds and masses of foliage plants.  It was hardly fancy that the flowers took the colors of the ribbons and stuffs of the looms, and that the same instant nature and art were sicklied o’er with the same pale hues of fashion.  If this relation of nature and art is too subtle for comprehension, there is nothing fanciful in the influence of the characters in fiction upon social manners and morals.  To convince ourselves of this, we do not need to recall the effect of Werther, of Childe Harold, and of Don Juan, and the imitation of their sentimentality, misanthropy, and adventure, down to the copying of the rakishness of the loosely-knotted necktie and the broad turn-over collar.  In our own generation the heroes and heroines of fiction begin to appear in real life, in dress and manner, while they are still warm from the press.  The popular heroine appears on the street in a hundred imitations as soon as the popular mind apprehends her