Revenge—and that in my own good way;—
A dwelling I’ll touch—it shall be my prey—
And a city shall burn to ashes!
REVIEW.
“The Partisan,” a Tale of the Revolution. By the author of “The Yemassee,” “Guy Rivers,” &c.
There are two ways of acquiring literary reputation—the one is by an author’s real merits, the other by his puffs. Of the former method nothing need be said, but the latter merits the severest censure.
Puffs, have become the publisher’s, and in a great degree the author’s, living. So completely is it the publisher’s trade, and so firm withal is his hold upon the nose of that stupid gull, the public, that he can make a book, which contains one page that will be read in a newspaper, as an extract, “the best novel of the season,” and can exalt “the most stupid ass that brays on paper,” to a place “among our first novelists.”
Authorship has, in fact, become a trade. The writer presents his manuscript to the publisher, with information that another novel is in the works. The latter prints it, and sends it forth, with a few feeble puffs, “damning with faint praise,” and the poor bantling, fathered by a head without brains, is worse than still-born. But the parties concerned are not a whit uneasy; they know of a revivifying principle, all powerful. In a short time, another work is announced, by the same author. Now all is “ripe for the harvest.” The well paid journals and periodicals are loud in their praises. “This work fully answers the high expectations raised by the author’s first production. The uncommon genius and talents displayed in that, led us to expect nothing less than the work before us. Owing to the author’s want of celebrity, his first effort did not meet with the success which those acquainted with its merits had anticipated. This might have discouraged a genius of lower order, and less conscious of its powers, but the second trial promises an ample reward for both—in fame, as well as profit.” The scheme works. The greedy public swallow the dose, and smack their lips—for they are told that it is good. Both of the works go off with a rapid sale, and the author is now sure of reaping profit, and, for the time, fame, from whatever trash he inflicts upon the community, for “his name is among our first novelists,” and he himself puts on “the distant air of greatness,” puffed into the belief that he is a genius.
This is labor most unproductive to the country. It is but forging titles to literary fame,—it is climbing in some other way than by the door of merit,—a practice most disgraceful in itself, and most poisonous to our literature and literary reputation. This latter effect is full obvious, for the system brings dullness to an equality with genius and merit, and even gives it an advantage over them. They will not stoop to such means for success, but shrink back disgusted and discouraged, unable to compete with their inferior rival. It could not have been a rival of itself, but, backed by such base allies, dullness becomes too strong for the single arm of genius. Nor is this all. We have spoken chiefly with reference to novels and novelists. Novels supply much of the reading of youth, and by them, therefore, in a great degree, the taste of the young is formed. Their own judgment is not ripe, and youth rely upon that of others, to furnish suitable models of taste. By the recommendations of those who should be judges, they are too apt to adopt the trash with which the press is teeming, and their judgment is affected and taste formed by its influence. Not only their style, but the mind itself is affected. False standards of literary merit arise, and literature itself must become corrupt. As the country is young, and our literature forming, those who are readers now, will soon become writers,—theirs will be the pens, which shall, in no small degree, give us literary character, and every taste and style thus perverted, will by so much detract from our reputation. The evil is one, therefore, which every literary man, who desires for our country a literary renown of which she may be proud, should be active in subduing, lest our fame be sacrificed to the money speculations of the selfish.
Among the authors, who, with their works, have been puffed into notoriety, the author of “Martin Faber,” “Guy Rivers,” “The Yemassee,” and last of all, “The Partisan,” stands conspicuous. It may be said, that this is a bold assertion to make of a popular writer. It certainly would be, if we did not know that popularity is no sure test of merit.
When “Guy Rivers, a tale of Georgia,” by the author of “Martin Faber, the story of a criminal,” was announced, although we had never before heard of this same “story of a criminal,” yet such hearty praises accompanied the announcement, that we hoped indeed another Cooper had raised the “torch of genius,” and was about to dazzle the world with its rays. An enthusiast in our wishes for the glory of American literature, we were delighted with the prospect, and eagerly sought to complete our happiness by perusing the promising volumes. We read and were not satisfied, yet looked forward for better things; for we had noted the motto of the book—