say that "bookkeeping is recording the dealings of a business," or is " a history of business transactions." What mercantile house would give a cent for a set of books unfitted for ready reference, names, dates, dollars and all so methodically and painstakingly arranged as to be momentarily accessible to gain any point of knowledge or fact therein contained, not of to-day merely, but from the time the business was born. This is the wisdom of bookkeeping, to put it down in black and white and so that it may always be readily found.

Yes, indeed, there is more to the science of the accounts than the equalization of debits and credits, the greatest feature of bookkeeping is its wonderful adaption to ready reference.

The subject of legibility, as it relates to shorthand, is worthy of more earnest attention than has hitherto been bestowed upon it. Legibility has its limits; it can never quite equal longhand, but even the most legible forms of shorthand are not so clear as they might be made.

The legibility of a system is best measured by the readiness with which it can be read by pupils who have hitherto only written it. This may be called the innate legibility of a system, and it is at this stage that our interest in the investigation of the subject ought to centre, for, with time and experience, distinctions become less marked, so that ultimately all systems seem to be read by their respective writers with equal facility. Yet, who can doubt that the natural legibility of a system is of permanent advantage to the user,

as

or that some systems are ever read " through a glass, darkly," while others impose less strain on the sight and on the mind? Even within the Pitman system the degree of legibility is as variable as are the many varieties of which that system is the parent. The innate legibility of the older forms of these is proverbially small, while that of some of the later varieties may well challenge comparison with anything afloat in the shape of shorthand.

What, then, is the secret, or what the conditions of this desirable property as already realized and susceptible of further development in the Pitman system? Assuredly the solution is not to be found in vowel-expression, for legibility actually grows as the importance of vowel-marks diminishes; the reporting style, as I know it, is more legible than the corresponding style ever was. The secret does not lie in making the alphabet itself a multum in parvo or in crowding the maximum of meaning into a word, after the manner of Mr. Strickland, for we regard our alphabet as a mere foundation, and, in our outlines, only the bolder features of wordssurds rather than sonants, the body rather than the soul of the language-are represented. In phonography, as fitted for reporting, there is but little truth in the claim that we write by sound.

The sources of legibility are pretty well understood, and might be stated in a few words, but its realization in full measure is open to those only who are prepared to throw prejudice aside and carry out details in harmony with those principles.

The pernicious doctrine that excessive brevity is essential to speed is responsible for much of the difficulty experienced in reading shorthand. Culminating in Graham, the influence of that long-established style of writing affects and impairs all other forms of phonography. There is hardly a text-book that would not be greatly improved by lengthening many outlines and ridding it of begrahamed word-signs and contractions.

Then, again, the incorporation (when practicable) of first-class mechanical improvements, by whomsoever invented, is much needed in some quarters to set off to advantage the many featureless forms of forty years ago-outlines that are striking, angular or flowing (but not meandering); not too brief, but, above all things, easy of execution.

These are the kind of outlines-outlines that will stand rough usage-for which Mr. Dement constantly calls, but can never hope to obtain within the "old system."

It is needless to discuss here, before unwilling eyes, the part that the so-called "new vowel-scale" plays in promoting legibility, but to me it seems as important as any principle that can be named. The degree of innate legibility in any scheme of shorthand can be quite approximately determined by experiment, and it seems to me that all teachers should be interested in knowing just how it stands in that respect with the shorthand they are teaching.

It would be rash to suppose that joinedvowel or other systems are necessarily less legible than the Pitman has become-they usually claim to be more so-but happily there is no longer any excuse for mere assertion; plausibility should give place to proof.

More Truth.

BY OLD TRUTH HIMSelf.

No. 5.

Assuming that you have secured a competent and honorable instructor, what is the next point to be considered? Has it never occurred to you that a student owes a duty to his teacher, fully as significant and important as the duty which the instructor owes the pupil? This statement is logically and undeniably correct. You have no right to cause a waste of your teacher's time, energy and mentality, by reason of your willful inattention or your obstinate carelessness. You pay him dollars, and you demand of him the value thereof. He can not give you this value, if you prevent him from so doing. You must place no obstacle in his pathway. To the high-minded, zealous instructor, reputation is very dear. It is his capital, far more so than the money he expends for furniture and accessories. This reputation is like a pane of glass, a breath will mar its purity in the eyes of casual observers. If a pupil prevents him from accomplishing the full measure of his power, the results will be detrimental to the reputation of the teacher. By discharging your full duty to your instructor, you will be also doing your duty by yourself; for you owe yourself the best that lies in you. Your motives can not be too honorable, your ambition can not be too high. To

be sure, all should be tempered by modesty. It is not essential that you should consider yourself a genius, merely because you aspire to the accomplishment of great deeds. Base all your acts and calculations upon the rocks of sincerity, uprightness and progressive determination, and you cannot go far astray. Then your success or failure will be determined solely by the conditions over which you have no control.

Stenography and Composition.
By JAMES H. COUSINS,

Author of " Ben Madighan " and other poems.
Editor of The Phonographic Bulletin,
BELFAST, IRELAND.

As surely as the little leaven leaveneth the whole lump, so surely will the stenographic art spread its influence through every branch and department of our being. Professional and commercial life, broadly speaking, have long ago drawn into their fibres the enlivening sap, and it only remains for that old leveller, time, to send it, with all its blessings, right along into the smallest twig and tiniest leaf. To those who have been longer in the field of stenographic activety than I, it has been a matter of much interest to watch the steady and irresistible manner in which it has found, and is still finding, its way into all sorts and conditions of places and uses. To the whole world, of course, its use for newspaper purposes-in the old world at any rate-has been apparent. Well can we recollect the time when we immediately set down every one who knew shorthand as a "reporter," the mind seeming at once to draw the inevitable conclusion that everyone who could write shorthand must needs do it for the newspaper. But, when we were children we thought as children, we acted as children; now, however, when we are-ahem-men (the "ahem" is personal), we think as men, and we know that this entrancing art is applicable to every conceivable-aye, and inconceivable-phase of modern existence.

But, as regards the litterateur-and I wish my readers to mark that I draw a broad line of demarcation between the reporter, as ordinarily understood, who takes notes of proceedings and utterances, and dishes them up for the daily or weekly, and the man whose writings are the product of his brain either

in prose or verse; who whets his appetite on inspiration and satiates it on thought. I say, as regards its utility to the latter, but little has been said compared with other subjects which have been hackneyed from mouth to mouth, and have long since reached, so to speak, the barrelled-organ stage.

Primarily, of course, its chiefest use is in the capture and preservation of thoughts, which, if allowed to pass, are lost-perhaps forever. The human mind the world over, whether the body that enshrines it swelters in the scorching beams of a tropical sun or freezes beneath the icy breath of Boreas, though differing in quantity, quality and power, is governed by certain ruling priniples common to all, and I think I am safe in saying that there is not a single literary man, who, when a subject is conceived, does'nt swing the telescope of his mind round and round the horizon of his intellectual knowledge in search of thoughts and ideas bearing upon the subject, and who has not to expend some portion of time in considering and marshalling them to the best advantage. How useful, then, is a practical knowledge of stenography which will enable him, when an idea is detected, to instantly commit it to paper without fear of its escape, and allow him to rush on to the next which crops up, for, when a literary man is at full pressure, especially if he be of that electrical temperament which is sensible of the slightest breath, his pace is anything but a slow one.

Or, again, he may have his subject dealt with and thrown aside; or he may have pickled it, as it were, and set a watch-dog at the door of his mind, with one eye closed and the other just a little bit open to light on any stray morsels passing which might be suitable for the subject; then, ashore or afloat, afoot or astride, in train or team, or, it may be in that dreamy state between sleeping and waking, something may appear suddenly in sight; instantly the dog jumps and siezes it, or, to come down from metaphor to plain English, the stenographic skill comes to his aid, his note book is whipped out-or, if he hasn't one at hand, the rim of his hat or his cuff will suffice-and a number of curly-wurlies appear, embodying the comet like thought.

Or, perhaps in the rush and roar of business, when the mind is occupied and

strained to its utmost tension by some matter foreign to literary work, an idea, startling in its beauty and vividness, suddenly pokes its nose right in the middle of a sheet of crooked figures or just at the tot-up of a knotty balance sheet; out pops the pencil, and on anything convenient, even to the wall or floor, down it goes like a diamond in the rough-to speak figuratively again— to be polished when leisure permits, and the line of figures progress as if nothing had happened.

Let me give an instance from my own short life which will directly convey my meaning, and the lesson I would desire to teach to those not yet initiated. On a warm, warm day one June, at a little seaside town, twelve miles from my native city, I was stoping on a certain Sabbath. In the course of the day when passing the steps of one of the churches of the town, I observed a man kicking what appeared to be a fluttering rag down those steps to the street. The rag, however, continued to flutter, and on a closer examination I found it to be a poor, little swallow, bleeding and dying, its wing having been broken by some unknown means. My heart was touched and I attended the patient sufferer almost until, with the setting of the Summer sun, the grim conqueror closed its pleading eyes. The incident passed from my mind; twelve months or more afterwards I was, in the dusk of another Summer evening, passing along a quiet country road. I know not how it was, but the witching hour of twilight had thrown its magic over me, and the wheep of a swallow, as it skimmed by me, brought up with increased vividness that reflex action of which Wordsworth speaks, the whole circumstance connected with the treatment and death of the swallow, and in a moment my note book contained the characters representing the following:

"No more shalt thou, sweet harbinger of Spring,

Soar in the radiant glow of Southern skies,
Or sportive chase a birdie's dearest prize
In Summer's golden eve on lightning wing:
Soon shall thy panting heart feel death's
sharp sting,

And dark oblivion settle o'er thine eyes;
Peace never-ending soon shall still thy cries,
And coming night Eternal rest shall bring."

Here I was stopped and the remaining six lines of the sonnet were left unfinished. A short time afterwards I had occasion to journey by train to the self-same town, and, during the course of the journey, the clouds which had lowered overhead began to discharge, and a drop of rain lit on the window just beside my face. With the motion of the train a corresponding train of thought started up in my mind, and in two minutes the remainder of the sonnet on the swallow was dotted down as follows:

Think not no pitying eye thy fall did see;
Ah! hear you not the patter on the pane?
The Heavenly Father drops a tear for thee.
Now, little bird, thy wearied eyelids close,
While I press on to face new cares and
woes.")

Thus my sonnet was finished, and, of course, afterward cleaned up-and thus in a hundred different ways can stenography be made the servant of the person of a literary turn of mind.

There are undoubtedly many other things to be said, but inspiration, time and space have run out, so I leave the matter here, to be dealt with in other ways by those more capable than I.

The Canadian Shorthand Review, Vol. 1, No. 1, May, 1894, published at Toronto, Canada, by T. B. Benness, just received.

MRS. M. V. LONGLEY, of South Pasadena, California, was elected vice-president of the Populist convention recently held at Sacra

mento.

E. J. SHALVEY, who is well known by many of our readers as the stenographer to the Grand Jury of New York City, writes as follows: "Enclosed please find $1.00 for subscription to the best of stenographic magazines.” Thanks, Mr. Shalvey, for your generous words of appreciation.

Silent Pain-Joyous Joy.

JOHN WATSON.

In pain, howe'er severe the smart,
Silent, and locked within my heart,
I bear it as something all my own,
Trust it and share it with God alone,
For even if my heart would break
No song can I sing, no comfort take.
But, O what a change! with happiness here,
I long to shout it in every ear;
From heart to heart to bear it along,
Nor will have I to suppress my song;
Each pleasure a poem 'twere surely sin
If silence should hold any part therein.
-From the German.

Where to Keep Extra Shuttles for the Hammond Typewriter.

EDITOR STENOGRAPHER:

"I would like to suggest, for the benefit of those of your readers using the "shuttle" Hammond machines, and who, like myself, have extra shuttles which they desire to have handy for instant use, that they can keep these extra parts where they can always be found immediately, by cutting a straight or curved slot in the base-board of the machine on the right or left side (or both), nearly underneath the ribbon spools. Over this hole screw a thin metal cover to the base-board so that it will swing over the recess, thus forming a receptacle for the shuttle when not in use.

"The cover could be made to slide over the hole if desired. Any good mechanic could make the change in the base-board very quickly, or, if desired, a box could be made of metal (tin), and fitted in the slot nicely.

"If the cover was nickel-plated it would in no way detract from the finish of the machine, but would rather add to it, and would save much hunting among papers and desk drawers for an extra shuttle when a change of type was desired. When the shuttles are kept in the little paste-board boxes in which they are received from the factory, there is great danger of there being ruined by a book or some other heavy article falling on them.

Yours truly,

MOSQUITO."

Munson's Phonographic News and Teacher for June, contains much interesting matter.

"Leave out all that Chaff."

"WH

HY do you put in the word 'louder or make use of that term in this transcript?" The official replied: "I put it in, in the first place, to show that the witness spoke so indistinctly that the lawyer did not hear it or did not understand it, and if he failed in that I want to let him see that my ears are no larger than his, and that I am just as liable to misunderstand the witness as he is; more so, in fact, because I have got to hear without listening-that is, the sense of hearing is more or less diverted by the act of writing, on my part, while he has nothing to do but listen, so the only safety for me is to put it all in." The answer is repeated to show that the witness complied with the request. Excluding that I should be obliged to leave out, on the cross-examination, all reference to the the fact that the witness had said so repeatedly. It verified what went before and showed that I had made no mistake in my work. If the answer appeared but once there might be a question about that very thing, but as it is repeated, it clinches and corroborates the whole statement, and I do not believe that the stenographer has a right to exercise what he may be pleased to call his judgment, as to whether any part of a sworn record is important or not. "Leaving out" is like a lie-an offence once committed there must be repetitions to support it.

Now there are many ways of straightening out a doubtful record, and here is one instance, and while not to be too highly

recommended, the narrative may be relied upon as to its absolute accuracy.

Q. "Was it $10 a week that your husband allowed you after you separated?" said an attorney to a lady who was plaintiff in an action for absolute divorce. The answer

appearing on the record was, "Yay-iss."

The stenographer was a man who took chances; had he written "iss-kay-iss," he would have known at a glance that the answer was $6, but, looking at the comparatively fresh notes, he was in "swithers" whether the lady witness meant to answer in the affirmative, "Yay-iss," meaning, "Yes, it was $10," or that she corrected the question by saying "6"; in short, the answer was either "6" or "yes" (6 or Yay-iss). The scribe was not exactly a fool, and knew it would never do to admit that he was wrong and ask the counsel what the witness said. Imagine the poor man making this confession of weakness to the lawyer: "Say, I have got a mark down here on my notes and I don't really know whether the witness meant to agree with you that she got $10 a week for her support or whether she corrected your assertion as to $10 by simply saying $6. Will you please help me out by telling me which it was?" Oh, no! he resorted to no such thing, but in a casual conversation with the lawyer he got around it this way: "That wasn't very much that fellow allowed for the support of his wife and child, was it?" "No," replied the unsuspecting lawyer, dropping easily into the little hole the other had dug for him, "No, $10 a week don't go very far in supporting a