sixty years produces twice as much evil as a monopoly of thirty
years, and thrice as much evil as a monopoly of twenty years.
But it is by no means the fact that a posthumous monopoly of
sixty years gives to an author thrice as much pleasure and thrice
as strong a motive as a posthumous monopoly of twenty years. On
the contrary, the difference is so small as to be hardly
perceptible. We all know how faintly we are affected by the
prospect of very distant advantages, even when they are
advantages which we may reasonably hope that we shall ourselves
enjoy. But an advantage that is to be enjoyed more than half a
century after we are dead, by somebody, we know not by whom,
perhaps by somebody unborn, by somebody utterly unconnected with
us, is really no motive at all to action. It is very probable
that in the course of some generations land in the unexplored and
unmapped heart of the Australasian continent will be very
valuable. But there is none of us who would lay down five pounds
for a whole province in the heart of the Australasian continent.
We know, that neither we, nor anybody for whom we care, will ever
receive a farthing of rent from such a province. And a man is
very little moved by the thought that in the year 2000 or 2100,
somebody who claims through him will employ more shepherds than
Prince Esterhazy, and will have the finest house and gallery of
pictures at Victoria or Sydney. Now, this is the sort of boon
which my honourable and learned friend holds out to authors.
Considered as a boon to them, it is a mere nullity, but
considered as an impost on the public, it is no nullity, but a
very serious and pernicious reality. I will take an example. Dr
Johnson died fifty-six years ago. If the law were what my
honourable and learned friend wishes to make it, somebody would
now have the monopoly of Dr Johnson's works. Who that somebody