The American Quarterly Review, No. 18, June 1831 (Vol 9)

by Various

"Has not a new generation," our author asks, in his odd and hardly intelligible preface, "arisen? Has not a new impetus been given to the age? Do not new feelings require to be expressed? and are there not new readers to be propitiated, who sharing but in a feeble degree the former enthusiasm, will turn, not with languid attention, to the claims of fresh aspirants."

These are some of the changes which have brought about, as he imagines—the circumstances that call for the new and "less enthusiastic" school of poetry, which, founded by him, is to secure the admiration of at least part of the present, and the whole of the ensuing generation. "A poet," he says, "who aspires to reputation, must be adapted to the coming age, not rooted to that which is already gliding away." He admits that "the worn out sentiments, the affectations and the weaknesses of our departed bards, may, by the elder part of the community, be still considered components of a deep philosophy, or the signs of a superior mind." But, for this unfortunate circumstance, which militates so much against the immediate success of his new school, he consoles himself with the persuasion that "the young have formed a nobler estimate of life, and a habit of reasoning, at once founded upon a homelier sense, and yet aspiring to more elevated conclusions."

What this, as well as many other equally awkward sentences in this presumptuous preface, exactly means, it is not easy to say. Our sons, on whose admiration of his poetry, Mr. Bulwer depends for the success of his new system, are, in order to qualify themselves for relishing its beauties, to form a nobler estimate than we entertain of life, while their habits of reasoning are to be founded on a homelier sense; and yet, homely as they are to be in their reasoning, they are to aspire to more elevated conclusions! If, indeed, such inconsistencies are to characterize our sons; if their intellects are to be so utterly confused and perplexed as is here predicted, they may possibly become admirers of the new school, of which the redoubtable satire before us is to be the origin. But we hope better things of our posterity. We cannot think that their natural feelings will vary so very far from our own, as to induce them to prefer insipid verbosity and unintelligible doggerel, to the animating strains of genuine poetry, or the sprightly wit and stinging ridicule of true satire.

Since the work which was to perform such miracles has appeared, and has been found so egregiously to disappoint expectation, why do those who puffed it on trust, still continue to extol it? The expression of their favourable anticipations might be excused; for they may have believed all that they asserted. But their eyes must now be open. The most prejudiced, on perusing the work, must be convinced of its imbecility as a satire, and its insipidity as a poem. Why, then, persist in error? Complaisance to the prevailing fashion, and a desire to swim with the current, may be the feelings which generally prompt to such conduct. But they are poor apologies for wilfully deceiving the public in a matter so essential to the interests of poetical literature. The critic who knowingly recommends an undeserving poem, ought to be aware that he is contributing to destroy the public confidence in all new poetry; for when men find that tame and uninteresting works are so freely recommended, they very naturally conclude that the times produce none others worthy of recommendation.

We should think, indeed, that experience had, by this time, taught the world the little reliance which ought to be placed generally on contemporary criticism, particularly that description of it usually found in newspapers. But the wide diffusion of this species of periodical work, gives them an influence which no experience, however palpable, of their erroneous judgments in literary matters, has yet been able to counteract. The public, in truth, has hitherto had its attention but little drawn towards this subject. The fate of a new book seems to be a matter so uninteresting to any but the author and the publisher, that whether editors speak of it favourably or unfavourably, or pass over it with entire neglect, is considered of no importance. It is forgotten that good literature forms the chief and most permanent glory of a country; that its prosperity is, therefore, of much national value, and ought, for the public benefit, to be assiduously promoted. But the chance of good literature being properly encouraged, will be ever extremely small, so long as worthless productions are forced into even temporary eclat, by those ready and often glowing commendations of careless editors, which must always, more or less, give direction to public patronage.

There is an erroneous opinion, unfortunately too prevalent among all classes, that no book can become generally noticed and much praised in the periodical works, but in consequence of its merit. To those who hold this opinion, the system of reverberating praise from one journal to another, must be unknown. In this country this system is, at present, carried to a great extent. It is chiefly produced by indolence or want of leisure, preventing our editors from carefully reading and judging for themselves, aided by a desire which actuates many of them to be thought fashionable in their opinions. The literary idol of the day is generally set up in the English metropolis. Of course, the fashion of worshipping him commences there. We soon hear of him on this side of the ocean. We wait not to examine whether he be entitled to homage. We take that for granted, since we are told that he is considered so in London. With slavish obsequiousness, we hasten to follow the capricious example of the great metropolis, and shout pæans for the fashionable idol, with as much zeal as if we really discerned in his works merit sufficiently exalted to entitle him to such applause, although the probability is, that, while we are bestowing it, we have scarcely glanced over his productions.

Now all this is, on our parts, exceedingly ridiculous and irrational. It not only exposes our servility, but it betrays our ignorance of many of the temporary excitements in favour of certain authors and their works, which take place in London. It shows that we are not aware of the fact, that, in the majority of cases, the rage for a new book, is owing to circumstances not at all connected with its merit. An influential and enterprising publisher,—a striking or a popular subject,—a sounding title,—a bold,—a wealthy or an eccentric author,—and, above all, a continued series of well-managed puffs, invariably do much more towards making a new book fashionable, than any excellence it may possess; and the inducement to purchase it is more frequently the knowledge that it is fashionable, than the conviction that it is good. Hence, it is to their title-pages, rather than to their nature or quality, that new books are mostly indebted for their immediate success. Their permanent success—that is, their enduring fame—is another matter. Merit, and merit only, can secure that; for it is the result of the cool and deliberate approbation which is awarded by the judgment of mankind, when the adventitious circumstances which first excited attention towards the book, have passed away, and can operate no longer on curiosity. The history of literature amply proves this. Books have often had, for a time, great mercantile value, and been highly profitable to the booksellers, that have been utterly worthless in a literary point of view. Of this fact the book-dealers are so well aware, that, rather than risk the expense of publishing the most beautiful composition of an unknown author, they will pay largely for manuscripts of the merest trash, from the pen of one to whom some lucky accident has already drawn public attention. Many of our well-meaning echoers of the London puffs of new books, are certainly ignorant of this circumstance, or they would not lend their aid to give circulation and temporary repute to much of the vile literature, which, under the names of novels, poems, travels, &c. the press of London has so largely poured forth, during the last eight or ten years, to the great deterioration not only of the literary taste, but of the manners and morals of the age.

It is indeed a sad mistake to suppose, that nothing but the literary excellence of a new book, renders it saleable. Yet it is a mistake so very general, that the booksellers find that the most effectual mode of recommending a new work, is, to allege that it sells rapidly. Who does not know, when a book with the reputation of being in great demand, comes amongst us, the eagerness with which it is sought after? No matter how dull it may be, while it is considered saleable, it is perused with delight. A thousand beauties are discovered in it, which cool and unprepossessed judgment could never discern; and, as to faults, although they should stare the deluded reader in the face, as thickly and visibly as trees in a forest, he will doubt the accuracy of his own sensations, rather than admit that he perceives them. Such, over weak minds, is the magic influence of a fashionable name,—nay, such is the influence, when the name is only supposed to be fashionable.

That the work before us would sell well, at least for a season, let its poetry be ever so bad, was to be expected, from the circumstances under which it appeared. Its publishers, Colburn and Bentley, are now the most fashionable in London, and are considered to possess more influence over the periodical works, than even the magnificent Murray; its author is a man of bustle, boldness, and notoriety, who has acquired considerable repute as the writer of three or four novels, which got into extensive circulation by professing, however untruly, to give genuine and unsparing delineations of fashionable life. To speak technically, his name was up; and, by the aid of this lucky elevation, his active publishers could not fail to dispose of an edition or two of his satire, in despite of its worthlessness as a literary performance.

We have thus, we imagine, satisfactorily shown that it is possible for a work to be, for a time, noted, saleable and fashionable, without possessing any great share of literary merit. We may, therefore, be allowed to deny, that the present demand for this poem, which, we believe, will be of but brief continuance, is any evidence of its deserving that unlimited homage which its author claims for it. That it will ever effect the great poetical revolution which he so modestly anticipates, we imagine that, by this time, few are more inclined to believe, than ourselves. From its appearance, therefore, we feel no alarm for the stability of that reputation which our favourite bards have gained by those immortal works, to whose noble and animating strains, the hearts of millions have so often responded!