our journey to see both Edinburgh
and London at the worst possible season. We should have been here in
April, there in June. There is always enough to see, but now we find
a majority of the most interesting persons absent, and a stagnation in
the intellectual movements of the place.

We had, however, the good fortune to find Dr. Andrew Combe, who,
though a great invalid, was able and disposed for conversation at
this time. I was impressed with great and affectionate respect by
the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate
knowledge, accompanied, as such should naturally be, by a large
and intelligent liberality. Of our country he spoke very wisely and
hopefully, though among other stories with which we, as Americans, are
put to the blush here, there is none worse than that of the conduct of
some of our publishers toward him. One of these stories I had heard
in New York, but supposed it to be exaggerated till I had it from the
best authority. It is of one of our leading houses who were publishing
on their own account and had stereotyped one of his works from an
early edition. When this work had passed through other editions and
he had for years been busy in reforming and amending it, he applied
to this house to republish from the later and better edition. They
refused. In vain he urged that it was not only for his own reputation
as an author that he was anxious, but for the good of the great
country through which writings on such, important subjects were to be
circulated, that they might have the benefit of his labors and best
knowledge. Such arguments on the stupid and mercenary tempers of those
addressed fell harmless as on a buffalo's hide might a gold-tipped
arrow. The book, they thought, answered THEIR purpose sufficiently,
for IT SELLS. Other purpose for a book they knew none. And as to the
natural rights of an author over the fruits of his mind, the distilled
essence of a life consumed in the severities of mental labor, they had
never heard of such a thing. His work was in the market, and he had
no more to do with it, that they could see, than the silkworm with the
lining of one of their coats.

Mr. Greeley, the more I look at this subject, the more I must
maintain, in opposition to your views, that the publisher cannot, if
a mere tradesman, be a man of honor. It is impossible in the nature of
things. He _must_ have some idea of the nature and value of literary
labor, or he is wholly unfit t