Authors and Books.
Mr. James and Copyright.—It appears that the visit of Mr. G.P.R. James, with which we are presently to be honored, is not, after all, solely for the "gratification of the natural curiosity" of the author of the book with so many titles, as some time ago he advised one of his correspondents here. The London News observes incidentally: "The long-vexed question of an international copyright with our transatlantic cousins shows symptoms of rising to a speedy crisis. Up to a recent period the Yankees had all the advantage of the defective state of the law. They could steal freely from our literary richness; whereas, not only had they little of their own to be robbed of, but their handful of authors took very good care to secure English publishers, and, therefore, English copyrights, for their works. This defense, however, a recent law decision has wrested from the Coopers and Irvings of the States; so that English booksellers have now a perfect right to treat American authors as American booksellers have long been in the habit of serving English authors. And there is something just in this lex talionis. If Dickens, may be reprinted and sold for a shilling in New York, why may not Cooper be reprinted and sold for a shilling in London? At all events, the reprisal system will possibly incline our Yankee neighbors to listen to reason, and to favor the embassy which Mr. James, the novelist, is to undertake to the States, with a view of making preliminary arrangements for a full and satisfactory code directed against all future international literary free-booting."
Albert Smith and "Protection."—The Spectator, misled by a statement in the Morning Post, to the effect that a Mr. Albert Smith was present, by invitation, at a Protectionist meeting at Wallingford, made some caustic remarks on the supposed adhesion of the witty novelist to the cause of dear bread. The latter, astounded thereby, sends the Spectator a note, in which he says:
"The Sphinx, at which you pleasantly affirm I came home laughing from Egypt, never propounded a darker puzzle to any of its victims than you have to me. From last week's Spectator I learn, for the first time, that I was at a Protection meeting at Wallingford on some particular day, and that I wept at the prices of 1845. Allow me to assure you that I never was at Wallingford in my life: nor, indeed, did I ever attend a public meeting anywhere. I have not the slightest notion what the prices—I presume of corn—were in 1845; and I should never think of expressing an opinion, in any way, upon politics, except against that school which abuses respectability and philanthropizes mischievous rift-raff."
R.H. Stoddard is preparing for the press of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, a collection of his Poems, to include most of those he has contributed to the periodicals since the appearance of his "Footprints," two years ago. The book will be welcomed by the lovers of genuine poetry. Mr. Stoddard is a young man of unquestionable genius, and we have been pleased to observe that there is a decided improvement from time to time in his compositions, indicating the industry and wise direction of his studies, in refinement of taste, elegance of finish, and a rapid and vigorous expansion of his imagination. His masterpiece, thus far, is The Castle in the Air, fitly praised by our neighbor of the Albion, as one of the finest productions of the present time. We do not know of any poet at home or abroad to whose fame it would not have added new luster. In the July number of the Knickerbocker we find the following "Dirge," which is not unworthy of him:
There's a new grave in the old church-yard,
Another mound in the snow;