The great argument of the Destructives was this:--We are the devoted friends of art--we love it--we glory in it--we cherish it: yea, we even give a guinea a-year a-piece for the encouragement of a society established for its protection and promotion;--this society pledging themselves that we shall have in return--what think ye?--the immortal honour of raising a school of painting in our native country?--the conscientious sense of a high-souled patriotism?--the prospect of future estimation at the hands of a posterity who are to benefit by our labours? Not at all: nothing of all this. We are far too great materialists for such shadowy pleasures; we are to receive a plate, whose value is in the direct ratio of its rarity, “which shall certainly be of more than the amount of our subscription,” and, maybe, of five times that sum. The fewer the copies issued, the rarer (i. e., the dearer) each impression. We are the friends of art--therefore, we say, smash the copper-plate, destroy every vestige of the graver's art, we are supplied, and heaven knows to what price these engravings may not subsequently rise! Now, I like these people. There is something bold, something masterly, something decided, in their coming forward and fighting the battle on its true grounds. There is no absurd affectation about the circulation of a clever picture disseminating in remote and scarce-visited districts the knowledge of a great man and a great work; there is no prosy nonsense about encouraging the genius of our own country, and showing with pride to her prouder sister, that we are not unworthy to contend in the race with her. Nothing of this.--They resolve themselves, by an open and candid admission, into a committee of printsellers, and they cry with one voice--“No free trade in 'The Blind Girl'--no sliding scale--no fixed duty--nothing save absolute, actual prohibition!” It is with pride I confess myself of this party: perish art! down with painting! to the ground with every effort of native genius! but keep up the price of our engraving, which, with the rapid development of Mr. Burton's talent, may yet reach ten, nay, twenty guineas for an impression. But in the midst of my enthusiasm, a still small voice of fear is whispering ever:--Mayhap this gifted man may live to eclipse the triumphs of his youthful genius: it may be, that, as he advances in life, his talents, matured by study and cultivation, may ascend to still higher flights, and this, his early work, be merely the beacon-light that attracted men in the outset of his career, and only be esteemed as the first throes of his intellect. What is to be done in this case? It is true we have suppressed “The Blind Girl;” we have smashed _that_ plate; but how shall we prevent him from prosecuting those studies that already are leading him to the first rank of his profession? Disgust at our treatment _may_ do much; but yet, his mission may suggest higher thoughts than are assailable by us and our measures.