it; and ready, with uplifted hands, to pounce upon the glorious inheritance of his children, and realize for his business-like skill and mercantile capital the vast profits which had been bequeathed by genius to the age which followed it. It is a total mistake to imagine that the profits of works of imagination, unless they are of the very highest class, ever equal those which in the end accrue to the publishers of standard works of history or philosophy. The booksellers, since Gibbon's death, are said to have made £200,000 of his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; and hardly a year passes, that a new edition of his immortal work, or of Hume's History of Eng land, does not issue from the press. The sums realized by the bookselling trade from the different editions of the Wealth of Nations, would have constituted a large fortune for the heirs of Adam Smith. What a princely for. tune would Milton or Shakspeare have left to their descendants, if any there be, if they could have bequeathed to them the exclusive right of publishing their own works, even for half a century after their own death. Look at the classics. What countless sums have been realized by the booksellers and publishers from the successive reprints, in every country of Europe, of the works of Livy, Cicero, and Tacitus, since the revival of letters 300 years ago? Why, the profits made by the publication of any one of these works would have made a princely fortune, and founded a ducal family. So true is it that literary or philosophical talent of the highest description, so far from being unproductive of wealth to its possessors, is in the end productive of a far greater and more lasting source of income, than the efforts either of the lawyer, the merchant, or the statesman. The only reason why great fortunes are not made in the one way as well as in the other, is because the labour employed on that, the highest species of human adventure, is almost always unproductive in the outset, and lucrative only in the end; and that the injustice of human laws confiscates the property at the very moment when the crop is beginning to come to maturity. They know little of human nature who imagine that such prospect of remote advantage would have little in fluence on literary exertion. Look at life insurances. How large a proportion of the most active and useful members of society, especially among the middle and higher classes, are connected with these admirable institutions. How many virtuous and industrious men deny themselves, during a long life, many luxuries, and even comforts, in order that, after their death, they may bequeath an independence to their children. Eighty thousand persons are now connected with these institutions in Great Britain, and that number is hourly on the increase. Here then is decisive evidence of the extent to which the desire of transmitting independence to our children acts upon mankind, even where it is to be won only by a life of continued toil and self-denial. Can there be the slightest doubt that the same motive, combining with the desire to benefit mankind, or acquire durable fame, would soon come to operate powerfully upon the highest class of intellectual effort, and that an adequate counteraction would thus be provided to the numerous attractions which now impel it into temporary exertion? And observe, the motives which lead to present self-denial in order to transmit an independence to posterity, by the effecting life assurances, are nearly allied to those which prompt great minds to magnanimous and durable efforts for the good of their species; for both rest upon the foundation of all that is noble or elevated in human affairs-a denial of self, a regard to futurity, and a love for others. The tenacity with which any extension even of the term of copyright enjoyed by authors, or their assignees, is resisted by a certain portion of the London booksellers, and those who deal in the same line, affords the most decisive proof of the magnitude of the profits which are to be obtained by the republication, the moment the copyright has expired, of works that have acquired a standard reputation, and of the vast amount of literary property, the inheritance of the great of the past age, which is annually confiscated for the benefit of the booksellers in the present. These men look to the matter as a mere piece of mercantile speculation; their resistance is wholly founded upon the dread of a diminution of The their profits, wrung from the souls of former authors; they would never have put forward, with so much anxiety as they have done, Mr Warburton and Mr Wakley to fight their battles, if they had not had very extensive profits to defend in the contest. vehemence of their opposition affords a measure of the magnitude of the injustice which is done to authors by the present state of the law, and of the amount of encouragement to great and glorious effort, which is annually withheld by the Legislature. The contest, in which they have hitherto proved successful, is not a contest be. tween authors and a particular section of the booksellers; it is in reality a contest between the nation and a limited section of the bookselling trade. It is, in the most emphatic sense, a class against a national interest. For on the one side are a few London booksellers who make colossal fortunes, by realizing, shortly after their decease, the profits of departed great ness; and on the other, the whole body of the people of England, whose opinions and character are necessarily formed by the highest class of its writers, and whose national destiny and future fate is mainly dependent upon the spirited and exalted direction of their genius. The only argument founded upon public considerations which is ever adduced against these views, is founded upon the assertion, that, under the monopoly produced by the copyright to the author, while it lasts, the price of works is seriously enhanced to the public, and they are confined to editions of a more costly description, and that thus the benefit of the spread of knowledge among the middle and humbler classes is diminished. If this argument were well founded, it may be admitted, that it would afford to a certain degree a counterbalancing consideration to those which have been mentioned, although no temporary or passing advantages could ever adequately compensate the evils consequent upon drying up the fountains of real intellectual greatness amongst us. But it is evident that these apprehensions are altogether chimerical, and that the clamour devised about the middle classes being deprived of the benefit of getting cheap editions of works that have become standard, is now altogether un founded. It may be conceded that in the former age, when the rich and the affluent alone were the purchasers of books, and education had not opened the treasures of knowledge to the middle classes, the price of books during the copyright were in general high, and that the prices were in general suited only to the higher class of readers. Nay, it may also be admitted, that some publishers have often, by the reprint of works of a standard nature, at a cheaper rate, the moment the copyright expired, of late years materially extended the circle of their readers, and thereby conferred an important benefit on society. But nothing can be plainer than that this circumstance has taken place solely because of the introduction of the middle classes into the reading and book-purchasing public; and experience had not yet taught authors or publishers the immense profits to be sometimes realized by adapting, during the continuance of the copyright, the varied classes of editions of popular works, to the different classes of readers who have now risen into activity. But their attention is now fully awakened to this subject. Every one now sees that the greatest profit is to be realized during the copyright, for works of durable interest, by publishing editions adapted for all, even the very humblest classes. The proof of this is decisive. Does not Mr Campbell publish annually a new edition of the Pleasures of Hope, in every possible form, from the two guinea edition for the duchess or countess, down to the shilling copy for the mechanic and the artizan? Have not Sir Walter Scott's Novels been brought down, during the subsistence of the copyright, to an issue of the Waverley Novels, at four shillings each novel, and latterly to an issue at twopence a-week, avowedly for the working-classes? Moore's, Southey's, and Wordsworth's Poems, have all been published by the authors or their assignees, in a duodecimo form, originally at five, but which can now be had at four, or three shillings and sixpence a volume. James's Naval History has already issued from the press in monthly numbers, at five shillings; and the eighth edition of Hallam's Middle Ages is before the public in two volumes, at a price so moderate, that it never can be made lower to those who do not wish to put out their eyes by reading closely printed double columns by candle-light. In short, authors and booksellers now perfectly understand that, as a reading and book-buying public has sprung up in all classes, it has become not only necessary, but in the highest degree profitable, to issue different editions even simultaneously from the press, at different prices, adapted to the rates at which purchasers may be inclined to buy; just as the manager of a theatre understands that it is expedient not only to have the dress-circle for the nobility and gentry, but the pit for the people of business, and the galleries for the humbler classes. No one imagines that, because the seats in the dress circle are seven shillings, he will close the pit, which is three and sixpence, or the gallery, which is one shilling. In this age of growing wealth and intelligence in the middle and humbler classes, there is no danger of their being forgotten, if they do not forget themselves. There is more to be got out of the pit and the galleries than the dress circle. Thus we have argued this great question of copyright upon its true ground the national character, the national interests, the elevation and improvement of all classes. We dis dain to argue it upon the footing of the interests of authors; we despise appeals to the humanity, even to the justice of the legislature. We tell our legislators, that those who wield the powers of thought, are fully aware of the strength of the lever which they hold in their hand; they know that it governs the rulers of men ; that it brought on the Revolution of France, and stopped the Revolution of England. The only class of writers to whom the extension of the present copyright would be of any value, are actuated by higher motives to their exertions than any worldly considerations of honour or profit; those who aspire to direct or bless mankind, are neither to be seduced by courts, nor to be won by gold. It is the national character which is really affected by the present downward tendency of our literature; it is the national interests which are really at stake; it is the final fate of the empire which is at issue in the character of our literature. True, an extension of the copyright will not affect the interests of a thousandth part of the writers, or a hundredth part of the readers in the present age; but what then-it is they who are to form the general opinion of mankind in the next; it is upon that thousandth and that hundredth, that the fate of the world depends. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ILLUSTRATED BY THE ETCHING CLUB. READER, did you ever etch?-if not, you have something yet to do, whatever else you may have done; though you may say, "Exegi monumentum ære perennius," I have executed works whose fame shall survive copperplates. Be not so sure of that-then try steel. You may, however, still overrate your importance. A hundred to one, the brass that records your name, where you will never see it recorded, will outlive your deeds. In time, the very language that records you may become dead and unintelligible. But if you etch, and well, you will hand down to all ages a monument of yourself an undying name, and in a handwriting that shall never be obscure or obliterated. Take an example, Rembrandt-as long as the world lasts, his etchings will bear his name, and be understood and felt by all peoples and all languages. Even the pride of warriors must be humbled before the unpretending yet eternal fame of tranquil, gentle, peaceable genius. New battles obliterate the old. The same faces serve for successive great men; the names on the signpost are alone altered. Time may be when all, but "the great captain,' shall diminish. The very field of Waterloo may have scarcely a hero to vie with Waterloo the etcher. A remnant of the artist may be more sought than remembrances of the field. If you are proud, if you are ambitious of eternity of fame-and perhaps genius always engenders something of this feeling-you will, whatever your work is, indulge in reflections of this nature. And who may do so with a better chance of success than the etcher? This view is yet not the motive, but the accompanying delight of the artist he is impelled by an all-powerful love, a gift. Such thoughts cheer his labours-no, not that, for his labours are pleasures-they encourage and fan to a livelier flame the fire which, without their aid, adverse circumstances, disappointments, and griefs of life are perpetually damping, and would put out. Every branch of the arts is facinating-nothing more so than etching, The hand and mind go together. All mankind have the gift of handiwork; fingers are nature's instruments, and will not be idle -they will make or mar. It has been said, that some people provide bits of stick and knives for their idle guests,. that the natural propensity to do may be indulged in. Boys increase in mischief the older they get, instinct signifying that their hands look out for work; give it to them, or they will find it, and more than is perhaps good. It is next to a miracle to find an idle hand. The most indolent pull to pieces what others have done, rather than not do. Set a fashion of employment-how it spreads! Busy workers are every where ; add to it a little ingenuity, a little contrivance, a pattern, an intricacy, and you invent a new pleasure. Can you have a more striking instance, than the modern fashion of ladies' work, or rather works, for they are infinite? Go a little further, add thought-give the work to be done an intellectual character; let mind in its higher faculties and the hand work together, and the poet arises and grows in the operation. The worker, maker, poet is the happiest in the exercise of his own great gifts, and is richest in the means of imparting amusement, and more than amusement, to a large world, and generations to come; creating and pass ing on beyond himself a perpetuity of pleasure. Was there ever child born of civilized parents, that did not delight to scratch with pen or pencil, objects of familiarity or affection that did not put forth his little delineating fingers to indicate his mimetic nature? It is observation at his finger-ends-the action of the hand contending with speech for mastery in power of expression, it being doubtful which is the least perfect? To draw, then, to delineate, is a first instinct, and, like many other noble and useful instincts, it becomes deteriorated, as the world's business demands a stronger and more continual grasp. All right enough, too; but as it is an instinct, there must even be a propensity to it, and its better power may be recovered by those who have taste, energy, and leisure. So there is a germ of the arts in us all. It is worth while to cherish, to nourish it; for beautiful are its blossoms. We say, then, to the reader, if yet uninitiated-if you seek a new pleasure, take to the better needlework, and etch. We have been led to preface thus, by the enjoyment received in studying a portfolio of etchings by the "Etching Club"-the subjects being from the Deserted Village. The choice could not be better-genius is aptly employed in illustrating that fascinating poem. Other works we admire; but if there be one that all, young and old, grave and gay, may be said to love, it is "The Deserted Village." We fear we love it for its untruth. It works up in our minds a delusion of a condition that existed only in the poet's imagination. It is a pastoral of a new kind, seemingly more accordant with rural feelings and manners, and therefore more natural, than the old; but it is in reality perhaps as untrue as the world of Strephons and Philises. It is philosophic, imaginative-an ideal-a rural ideal, with nicest art spun from homely materials. It never allows the melancholy of its tone to take too deep possession of the reader-the glimpses of happiness, even though it be of happiness past, are sufficient sunshine; and if there be some deep shadows, there is more of half tone-and so sweet is the feeling, that he who reads it, if he is not, wishes to be amiable and better. It is full of pictures, and therefore nothing could be more fit for illustration. This is the age for illustration-every thing is "pictorial." The art of engraving has, in many respects, reached a very wonderful perfection in finish, and extraordinary nicety. There are works, and works of the greatest importance, we would not see represented in any other than the best line engraving. It is admirably adapted for the transcription of highly perfected works, and, united as engraving is with etching, in the same plate, both power and freedom is obtained. We so admire line engraving, that, beautiful as are the lithographic works of our day, we have a jealous fear in our pleasure, lest encouragement should be removed from the more perfect art, line engraving. For the perfect transcript of the paint er's work, let us have line engraving; and if it be landscape, with a very considerable portion of it the work of the needle only-in that branch, indeed, the less the graver appears the better. But painters' etching is another thing. It is the free sketching of the artist, it is the very hand of his mind, if we may be allowed the expression. There are a thousand turns in the lines of original conceptions which the hand obeys, and the mind is unconscious of the operation; many are the passages from idea to idea, ere there is completion, all of which have their traces in the mind and from the mind; and if their order can be rendered less evanescent, there will arise from their delineation great beauty, and a certain satisfaction from the obedience of the hand to the nicer variations of thought. There is, therefore, a peculiar power and beauty in painters' etchings, which are thought's autographs, that distinguish them from engravings of any kind; and it has often been a subject of regret to the lovers of art, that our painters have neglected so fascinating a mode of giving the very stamp and impression of their genius. Had this been cultivated by our best artists, we are persuaded that a better taste, even in line engraving, would have arisen. Finish, which is so beautiful, and exquisite workmanship, would not have been so exclusively admired; for it must be confessed, that the art has followed this object too often with a sacrifice. Let us go back to other days, for example, and to landscape painting, when Wollett's wonderful mechanism drove, as it were, his betters from the field. There was more done, unquestionably, by him; but for this advance, how was freedom-how was expression, sacrificed? Vivares, Wood, Mason, were etchers: more is indeed left in their works to imagination-so far they might be considered less perfect; all is not so filled up as by Wollett, but all is evenly done, no part is worked up above others, and the expression, the essential nature of every object, is infinitely more perfectly given. The works of these men, as they were published by Pond, are more like painters' etchings than engravings; they most happily imitated the very handling of the originals; a style of work, that, since finish has been considered |