“That small, brick building—oh, that is the house in which William Penn lived,” said Edgar. “It was very much neglected, and was suffered to go to ruin almost, till the year 1840, when a lady of great wealth purchased a number of the old houses adjoining and opened an area around it, putting the whole house in thorough repair. She collected all the relics that remained of this great man, and placed them as fixtures there, and she left ample funds for repairs, so that there is a hope that this venerable and venerated building will endure for many centuries to come.” “And what is this heap of ruins?” said Hastings, “it appears to have tumbled down through age; it was a large pile, if one may judge from the rubbish.” “Yes, it was an immense building, and was called at first the National Bank. It was built in the year 1842, during the presidency of Daniel Webster.” “What,” said Hastings, “was he really president of the United States? This is truly an interesting piece of news.” “News, my dear sir,” said Edgar, smiling—“yes, it was news three hundred years ago, but Daniel Webster now sleeps with his fathers. He was really the chief magistrate for eight years, and excepting for the project of a national bank, which did not, however, exist long, he made an able president, and, what was very extraordinary, as the old Recorder of Self-Inflicted Miseries states, he gained the good will even of those who were violently opposed to him. He was the first president after Washington who had independence of mind enough to retain in office all those who had been favoured by his predecessor. There was not a single removal.” “But his friends—did not they complain?” said Hastings. “It is not stated that they did; perhaps he did not promise an office to any one: at any rate the old ‘Recorder’ treats him respectfully. It was during his term that copyrights were placed on a more liberal footing here. An Englishman now can get his works secured to him as well as if he were a citizen of the country.” “How long is the copyright secured! it used to be, in my time,” sighed poor Hastings, “only fourteen years.” “Fourteen years!” exclaimed Edgar—“you joke. Why, was not a man entitled to his own property for ever? I assure you that an author now has as much control over his own labours after a lapse of fifty years as he had at the moment he wrote it. Nay, it belongs to his family as long as they choose to keep it, just the same as if it were a house or a tract of land. I wonder what right the legislature had to meddle with property in that way. We should think a man deranged who proposed such a thing.” “But how is it when a man invents a piece of machinery? surely the term is limited then.”