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Here are no tolerable pictures, busts, statues, nor edifices: the very ornaments of the churches are wretchedly conceived, and worse executed. They have no public, nor private libraries that afford any thing worth perusing. There is not even a bookseller in Nice. Though they value themselves upon their being natives of Italy, they are unacquainted with music.
An author pockets ten thousand francs for his book; the making of books means the manufactory of paper, a foundry, a printing-office, a bookseller, in other words, the employment of thousands of men. The execution of a symphony of Beethoven or an opera by Rossini requires human arms and machinery and manufactures. The cost of a monument is an almost brutal case in point.
Martin's in the Fields, and patronized by Dr. Pearce, the editor of Longinus. Warburton afterwards expressed a wish that Johnson would give the original on one side, and his translation on the other. His next engagement was to draw up an account of the printed books in the Earl of Oxford's library, for Osborne, the bookseller, who had purchased them for thirteen thousand pounds.
A correspondence is a variable as Proteus. There are sympathetic inks. A young celibate has told us in confidence that he has written a letter on the fly-leaf of a new book, which, when the husband asked for it of the bookseller, reached the hands of his mistress, who had been prepared the evening before for this charming article.
The Pole roused himself from his brandy-and-tobacco Nirvana, and rolled his eyes. "I say, confound it! Has anybody ever heard anything like it? He's going to be married!" "Who's going to be married?" asked the Pole, startled by the bookseller's violence and emphatic language. "Schoolmaster Blom!" The bookseller expected a glass of grog in exchange for his news.
He passed that stiller and humbler neighbourhood, he mixed with the throng that swarmed in the more populous thoroughfares. Hundreds and thousands passed him by, and still still such solitude. He came back, lighted his candle, and resolutely drew forth the "Chatterton" which the bookseller had lent him. It was an old edition, in one thick volume.
The misfortune of his life was, that he had written a book only one single sin but it never left him, it haunted him through half the ships in the service, and finally drove him out of it. He had written this book, and caused it to be printed and he published it also, for nobody else could. His bookseller had tried, and failed lamentably. Now, Don Silva was always publishing, and never selling.
But the thunders of Roman pontiffs did not trouble the worthy bookseller, who laughed at their threats, and exclaimed, "I perspired so freely at Rome in the flame, that I must take a larger draught, as it is necessary to extinguish that flame." The same fatality befell Robert Stephanus, the Parisian printer.
Is it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant hungry talent too a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four hours? I may as well fling down my pen I am writing to no purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen.
His book is not only sold to the profit of the bookseller, but to the benefit of the public. The publisher pays for its mercantile value, but the public should reward the author for its moral and social effect, as they take upon themselves to punish, if it have an evil tendency.
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