But the older hands, who constitute the members of the “Mutual Admiration Society”—those disappointed aspirants, who in all ages and countries assume the criticism of art and authorship—could see in Maynard’s writings only “sensation.”
Drawing their inspiration from envy, and an influence not less mean—from that magister, the leading journal, whose very nod was trembling to them—they endeavoured to give satisfaction to the despot of the press, by depreciating the efforts of the young author.
They adopted two different modes of procedure: Some of them said nothing. These were the wiser ones; since the silence of the critic is his most eloquent condemnation. They were wiser, too, in that their words were in no danger of contradiction. The others spoke, but sneeringly and with contempt. They found vent for their spleen by employing the terms “melodrama,” “blue-fire,” and a host of hackneyed phrases, that, like the modern slang “sensational,” may be conveniently applied to the most classic conceptions of the author.
How many of the best works of Byron, Shakespeare, and Scott, would escape the “sensation” category?
They could not deny that Maynard’s writings had attained a certain degree of popularity. This had been achieved without their aid. But it was only evidence of the corrupted taste of the age.
When was there an age, without this corrupted taste?
His writings would not live. Of that they were certain!
They have lived ever since; and sold too, to the making of some half-dozen fortunes—if not for himself, for those upon whom he somewhat unwarily bestowed them.
And they promise to abide upon the bookshelves a little longer; perhaps not with any grand glory—but certainly not with any great accumulation of dust.
And the day may come, when these same critics may be dead and the written thoughts of Mr Maynard be no longer deemed merely sensations.