ciple on which he can be denied the same protection as any other trader. It may happen, also, that his "poverty, and not his will," consents to such a course. In this imperfect world there is nothing without its earthly alloy; and, whilst the mind of the poet is married to a body, he must perform the divine service of the muses without banishing his dinner-service to the roof of the house, as in that Brazilian cathedral, which, for want of lead, is tiled with plates and dishes from the Staffordshire potteries. He cannot dwell even in the temple of Parnassus, but must lodge sometimes in an humbler abode, like the old Scotch songsters. With bread and cheese for its door-cheeks, Moreover, as authors-Protestant ones, at least-are not vowed to celibacy, however devoted to poverty, fasting and mortification, there may chance to exist other little corporealities, sprouts, off-sets, or suckers, which the nature of the law, as well as the law of nature, refers for sustenance to the parent trunk. Should our bards, jealous of these evidences of their mortality, offer to make a present of them to the parish, under the plea of the mens divinior, would not the overseer, or may be the Poor Law Commissioners, shut the workhouse wicket in their faces, and tell them that "the mens divinior must provide for the men's wives and children ?" Pure fame is a glorious draught enough, and the striving for it is a noble ambition; but, alas! few can afford to drink it neat. Across the loftiest visions of the poet earthly faces will flit; and even whilst he is gazing on Castaly little familiar voices will murmur in his ear, inquiring if there are no fishes that can be eaten to be caught in its waters! It has happened, according to some inscrutable dispensation, that the mantle of inspiration has commonly descended on shoulders clad in cloth of the humblest texture. Our poets have been Scotch ploughmen, farmers' boys, Northamptonshire peasants, shoe-makers, old servants, milk-women, basket-makers, steelworkers, charity-boys, and the like. Pope's protégé, Dodsley, was a footman, and wrote "The Muse in Livery "-you may trace a hint of the double vocation in his "Economy of Human Life."* Our men of learning and genius have generally been born, not with silver spoons in their mouths, but wooden ladles. Poetry, Goldsmith says, not only found him poor, but kept him so; but has not the law been hitherto lending a hand in the same uncharitable task? Has it not favored the "Cormorants by the Tree of Knowledge "—the native Bookaneer ?——and “a plague the Devil hath added," as Sir J. Overbury calls the foreign pirate. To give a final illustration of the working of the Law of Copyright, Sir Walter Scott, besides being a mighty master of fiction, resembles Defoe in holding himself bound to pay in full all the liabilities he had incurred. But the amount was immense, and he died, no doubt prematurely, from the magnitude of the effort. A genius so illustrious, united with so noble a spirit of integrity, doubly deserved a national monument, and a subscription was opened for the purpose of preserving Abbotsford to his posterity, instead of a public grant to make it a literary Blenheim. I will not stop to inquire whether there was more joy in France when Malbrook was dead than sorrow in Britain, or rather throughout the world, when Scott was no more; but I must point out the striking contrast between two advertisements in a periodical paper which courted my notice on the same page. One was a statement of the amount of the Abbotsford subscription, the other an announcement of a rival edition of one of Sir Walter's works, the copyright of which had expired. Every one may not feel with me the force of this juxtaposition, but I could not help thinking that the interest of any of his immortal productions ought to have belonged either to the creditors or to the heritage. Can there be heir-looms, I asked myself, and not head-looms ?— and looms, too, that have woven such rich tissues of romance ? Why is a mental estate, any more than a landed one, made subject to such an Agrarian law? In spite of all my knowledge of ethics, and all my ignorance of law, I have never yet been able to answer these questions to my own satisfaction. Perchance Mr. Serjeant Talfourd will be *The man of emulation, who panteth after fame. "The example of eminent men are in his visions by night—and his delight is to follow them query with a guid headed cane?) all the day long.” prepared with a solution, but, if not, I trust he will give us "the benefit of the doubt," and make an author's copyright heritable property, only subject to alienation by his own act, or in satisfaction of the claims of creditors. Such a measure will tend to retrieve our worldly respectability: instead of being nobodys with nothing, we shall be, if not freeholders, a sort of copyholders, with something between the sky and the centre, that we can call our own. It may be but a nominal possession, but if it were of any value, why should it be made common for the benefit of the Company of Stationers? They drink enough out of our living heads, without quaffing out of our skulls, like the kings of Dahomey. As to the probability of their revivals of authors who were adored, but have fallen into neglect and oblivion, remembering how the trade boggled at Robinson Crusoe, and the Vicar of Wakefield-there would be as much chance of a speculative lawyer reviving such dormant titles. For my own part, I am far from expecting, personally, any pecuniary advantages from such an arrangement; but I have some regard for the abstract right. There is always a certain sense of humiliation, attendant on finding that we are made exceptions, as if incapable or undeserving of the enjoyment of equal justice. And can there be a more glaring anomaly than that, whilst our private property is thrown open and made common, we daily see other commons enclosed, and made private property ? One thing is certain, that, by taking this high ground at once, and making copyright analogous in tenure to the soil itself-and it pays its land tax in the shape of a tax upon paper—its defence may be undertaken with a better grace, against trespass at home, or invasion from abroad. For, after all, what does the pirate or Bookaneer commit at present, but a sort of practical anachronism, by anticipating a period when the right of printing will belong to everybody in the world, including the man in the moon! Such, it appears to me, is the grand principle upon which the future law of copyright ought to be based. I am aware that I have treated the matter somewhat commercially: but I have done so, partly because in that light principally the legislature will have to deal with it; and still more, because it is desirable, for the sake of literature and literary men, that they should have every chance of independence, rather than be compelled to look to extraneous sources for their support. Learning and genius, worthily directed and united to common industry, surely deserve, at least, a competence; and that their possessors should be something better than a Jarkman; that is to say, "one who can write and read, yea, some of them have a smattering in the Latin tongue, which learning of theirs advances them in office amongst the beggars." The more moderate in proportion the rate of their usual reward, the more scrupulously ought every particle of their interests to be promoted and protected, so as to spare, if possible, the necessity of private benefactions or public collections for the present distress, and "Literary Retreats" for the future. Let the weight and worth of literature in the state be formally recognized by the legislature:-let the property of authors be protected, and the upholding of the literary character will rest on their heads. They will, perhaps, recollect that their highest office is to make the world wiser and better; their lowest, to entertain and amuse it without making it worse. the rest, bestow on literary men their fair share of public honors and employments,-concede to them, as they deserve, a distinguished rank in the social system, and they will set about effacing such blots, as now tarnish their scutcheons. The surest way to make a class indifferent to reputation is to give it a bad name. Hence Literature having been publicly underrated, and its professors having been treated as vagabonds, scamps, fellows "without character to lose or property to protect," we have seen conduct to match,-reviewers, forgetful of common courtesy, common honesty, and common charity, misquoting, misrepresenting, and indulging in the grossest personalities, even to the extent of ridiculing bodily defects and infirmities-political partizans bandying scurrilous names, and scolding like Billingsgate mermaids -and authors so far trampling on the laws of morals, and the rights of private life, as to write works capable of being puffed off as club books got up amongst the Snakes, Sneerwells, Candors, and Backbites, of the School for Scandal. For And now, before I close, I will here place on record my own obligations to Literature: a debt so immense, as not to be can celled, like that of nature, by death itself. I owe to it something more than my earthly welfare. Adrift early in life upon the great waters-as pilotless as Wordsworth's blind boy afloat in the turtle-shell-if I did not come to shipwreck, it was, that, in default of paternal or fraternal guidance, I was rescued, like the ancient mariner, by guardian spirits, "each one a lovely light," who stood as beacons to my course. Infirm health, and a natural love of reading, happily threw me, instead of worse society, into the company of poets, philosophers, and sages-to me good angels and ministers of grace. From these silent instructors— who often do more than fathers, and always more than godfathers, for our temporal and spiritual interests,-from these mild monitors-no importunate tutors, teazing Mentors, moral taskmasters, obtrusive advisers, harsh censors, or wearisome lecturers-But, delightful associates,-I learned something of the divine, and more of the human religion. They were my interpreters in the House Beautiful of God, and my guides among the Delectable Mountains of Nature. They reformed my prejudices, chastened my passions, tempered my heart, purified my tastes, elevated my mind, and directed my aspirations. I was lost in a chaos of undigested problems, false theories, crude fancies, obscure impulses, and bewildering doubts-when these bright intelligences called my mental world out of darkness like a new creation, and gave it "two great lights," Hope and Memory-the past for a moon, and the future for a sun. Hence have I genial seasons-hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thoughts; |