 | A sketch of old England |  |
LETTER XXIII.
Much of the lighter kind of literature here, such as poetry,
novels, and the like, having no bearing on politics, is dependant
on the patronage of the booksellers, between whom, and the
authors, there is a good deal of bye-play and management. A
combination of booksellers can easily produce a gale of popularity,
that will frequently waft a book through half a dozen
editions. When they find a poet somewhat better at a rant
than his fellows, or a novel writer gifted with a more than ordinary
talent for caricaturing human nature, they commonly
unite to give him a run, as it is called, for a season at least,
because it is indispensable to the profits of their business, that
there should be some few authors, whose names alone will ensure
the sale of their works.
You are to understand, that there is abundance of second
and third rate reviews and magazines, in one way or other partially
under the influence of booksellers, and who will, at any
time, say a good word for a book, if the author or publisher
will only send them a copy, with a polite note, complimenting
their taste, and calling their review or magazine, “your valuable
publication.” These are set to work to inflate the reputation
of the fortunate authors, selected by the trade for a run
for the season. The impulse given by these means in London,
soon extends to all the provincial towns. Edition after edition
is put forth with inconceivable rapidity, and the author becomes
laugh, it may be, in their sleeves, and pocket the money.
Here, in London, the people of real taste, who are not led
away by this whiff of popularity, laugh at all this mummery.
The provincial towns, however, oftener yawn than laugh over
the book, without daring to dissent from the unquestionable
award of the London Literary Gazette, or the anonymous testimony
of some newspaper critic. In a little while they wake
up, and after rubbing their eyes and yawning some twenty
times, begin to suspect that they want taste, rather than that
the author lacks talents, or the reviewer judgment. As no man,
however, can permanently cherish the idea of being a blockhead,
without becoming either a sage or a madman, these
doubts settle gradually into a conviction that the book is deficient
in merit, rather than the reader in taste. The delusion
is then over—the bard or the novelist walks quietly into oblivion—the
booksellers jingle their money, and prepare to start
another of these overgrown yearlings. Thus runs the race of
this species of literature, and thus are honest England and
simple America played with by reviewers and booksellers.
There was, a few months ago, a genius called the Rev. Mr.
Croly, that always wrote upon the hot crust of a volcano,
who was patted on the back, until he actually stood beside
some of the great poets without blushing. On the contrary,
he determined to make hay while the sun shone, in the true
spirit of a modern bard. He wrote poetry faster than the
“great unknown;” and, by means of divers blasts of the reviewers'
trumpets, actually made a little fortune, before the
town discovered he had asses' ears, and was a most lusty
brayer.
Literature, like almost every other trade in this country, is
not only overstocked with workmen, but with a vast many very
indifferent ones, and it is with their books as with other manufactures—if
they did not find an extensive market in our country,
one half of the artists would starve. It is inconceivable what
a vast literary taste there is in England; that is to say, a taste
for literary scandal, tittle-tattle, reviewing, and magazining.
The number of these publications are as the leaves of the trees,
the sands of the sea; and their contents of such a nature, that
to look into them is like looking for a grain of wheat in a hundred
bushels of chaff. Opinions of books that the critics never
read, and of things they cannot comprehend; trumpery provincial
antiquities; puffings of quack authors, quack politicians,
quack philanthropists, and quack doctors—new revivals
of old absurdities, or new discoveries of exploded and forgotten
things—anecdotes familiar to every general reader—together
murders and executions—these constitute the great mass, among
which, however, will occasionally be found an able scientific
article, a well written essay, and a capital engraving. Indeed,
it may with great truth be said, that these publications owe
their greatest beauties to the engravers. The horses, dogs,
fiddlers, players, and great men, are beatifully done.
It may possibly be news in your retired village to tell you
that the editor of Blackwood's ferocious and bouncing magazine,
is the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and that he exceeds
all living creatures in puffing his worthy father-in-law. It was
he that christened him the “Great Unknown,” if I do not mistake,
and on all occasions he is foremost in his offerings of incense
at the shrine of his idol. One might suppose that a sense
of decorum would restrain him from this unblushing adulation;
but they don't mind these things here, where it is almost as
common for an author to puff his own book in the magazines,
as for a quack doctor to be his own trumpeter in the newspapers.
It is related to me, by persons whose opportunities of
information are unquestionable, that if you could trace the approbation
or censures of these magazines and reviews to their
true source, they would, nine times in ten, be found to originate
in personal, political, and religious antipathies or attachments,
or in some holy alliance for mutual defence and mutual praises.
In fact, such is the notorious prostitution of these reviews, that
the real admirers of literature, who are not wedded to some
political party or other, pay no sort of attention to their decisions,
from a conviction that they originate in impure motives.
A great many books, which were barked at by the whole
pack, have attained an extensive circulation, in spite of the
hue and cry of canting hypocrisy, and canting criticism. Such
has been the case with Lady Morgan's late works, even in
spite of that fantastic affectation of style for which her ladyship
is so notorious. On the other hand, a vast many books,
which they have attempted, with all their might, to impose
upon the patronage of the public, have already sunk into the
bottomless pit of oblivion. It begins to be understood that
this reviewing is a trade, and that their conductors must not
fail to please their customers at all hazards. Hence, when
any obnoxious opinions come abroad, and especially any that
smack of republicanism, if the book be written with the pen
of an angel, it stands no more chance of receiving quarter here,
than a heretic among so many monks of the twelfth century.
The author will be served by these literary judges like poor
Naboth; he will be accused of blasphemy, and lose at least
his reputation, if not, the harvest of this little vineyard. On
in the world, he may be sure of a good word, if he will only
calumniate the whole mass of mankind, except the rich and
noble, by calling them “deluded wretches,” and placing their
exertions to obtain bread to the account of an unprincipled
disregard of all human obligations. It is in this way that
writers attain to honours and rewards in England, just now,
without the display of a single talent, except the talent of
glossing over the corruptions of the higher, and insulting the
distresses of the lower, orders.
Sir W. S. owes much of his success, and still more of his
knighthood, to his politics, which are high tory. A curious
affair came to light the other day, which lets us into the secret
of Sir W.'s merits in the sight of my lord the king. People in
America think he was knighted for his genius. It seems a
paper was not long ago set up in Edinburgh, called the Beacon,
which turned out even more libellous than Blackwood's Magazine,
and exceeded that excellent production in its praises
of Sir W. Almost every person of note, obnoxious on the
score of his opposition to the court politics, was libelled in
the grossest manner. Among these was a Mr. Stuart, who, in
the course of his inquiries as to the persons responsible for the
attack, discovered that the paper was patronised by an association
of loyal persons, each of whom had signed a bond to
contribute a hundred guineas to its support in case of necessity.
Among these munificent patrons of literature were Sir
W. S., and the lord advocate, each of whom had subscribed
his hundred guineas. Upon this discovery, Stuart opened a
correspondence with the lord advocate, which resulted in his
lordship's discovering the libels on Mr. Stuart. The association
for the encouragement of literature, hereupon finding the
affair was likely to turn out rather serious, cancelled the bond,
and dissolved partnership. The sole object of the Beacon was
to single out persons, obnoxious from their opposition to the
court, as objects for personal defamation. It attempted also a
contest with the Scotsman, the most powerful and ably conducted
newspaper in the three kingdoms. As was to be expected,
it sunk under the struggle, and confined itself altogether
to libels afterwards.
I have seen it stated in print, and not contradicted, to my
knowledge, that Sir W. is actually co-proprietor and co-editor
of Blackwood's Magazine, which praises him so lustily. I
merely give you the fact, without vouching for any thing.
Thus much is certain, however, that this magazine is considered
as the most virulent partisan of principles entirely at
war with the happiness and prosperity of our people; that it
of private individuals; and that it is noted particularly for
its offensive articles concerning our country. In a late number
of this work, is a tale, called “the Floridian Pirate,” grossly
libelling and calumniating the people of the southern and
western States, and in which it is boldly insinuated, that to tie
a planter to a tree, set fire to his house, and commence a piratical
warfare against white men, are not only justifiable, but
meritorious acts of heroism.
Of a similar character and principles, is the New Monthly
Magazine. It is not so open and offensive in its hostility, but
still there is scarcely a number appears, that does not squint
ill-naturedly towards our country and its institutions. Ridicule
of the peculiar habits of the people, their sanguine anticipations
of the future, and other little peculiarities, are fair exercises
of ingenuity and wit enough. This is what all nations
indulge in towards each other. But when this satire degenerates
into malignity, and proceeds, under the cover of various
disguises, to undermine the respect of foreigners for our government
and its institutions; to give distorted and offensive
sketches of persons and things, calculated to degrade and disgrace
a whole people, it passes the bounds of authorized
ridicule, and becomes a distorter of truth and a mis-stater of
facts. It becomes unworthy of our toleration, much more of
our patronage.
I regret to see Mr. Campbell lending his name to such a
publication as this. Though it may, perhaps, be for his immediate
interest to implant in our country, a rooted antipathy
for his name, and a lasting contempt for his principles, it might
be worth his while to recollect, that the affectionate admiration
of a new world is not to be lightly forfeited by one who values
his immortal fame. To be read, admired, and cherished by
growing millions. as the author of “Gertrude of Wyoming,”
the “Pleasures of Hope,” and “Erin go Bragh,” is something
better in the end, than to be remembered hereafter, by perhaps
thrice as many human beings as Britian now holds, as the petty
editor of petty squibs and sarcasms, contemptible, indeed, in
themselves, but deriving point and consequence from peculiar
causes, that will possibly preserve them from merited oblivion.
Men like Mr. Campbell would do well to bear in mind, that
the time is not far distant, when they must look across the Atlantic
for by far the greater proportion of their admirers, or
enemies; and that the people of the United States are among
those, of all others, the least likely to select, as objects of respect
and veneration, writers who ridicule their institutions, or
caluminate their country.
Next to the trade of magazining and reviewing, I find the
biographers of the middling sort of great men in the greatest
profusion here, and every day reminds me of Cowper's admirable
epigram:—
To names ignoble, born to be forgot.”
“So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burnt to tinder a stale worn out News,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire,
There goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire;
There goes the parson, most illustrious spark,
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!”
The particulars of these biographical budgets also call to
mind a passage in an old author, where “Memory” complains
thus:—
“I remember, in the age of Assaracus and Ninus, and about
the wars of Thebes, and the siege of Troy, there were few
things committed to my care but those that were well worth
preserving; but now, every trifle must be wrapt up in the
volume of eternity. A rich pudding wife, or a cobbler, can't
die, but I must immortalize them in an epitaph. A dog cannot
commit in a nobleman's shoe, but it must be sprinkled in the
chronicles; so that I never could remember my treasury so
full, or so empty, of honourable and truly heroic actions.”
One might be almost tempted to believe the writer of the
foregoing passage had anticipated the present taste of the
English public. If a clergyman, through the patronage of
some great man, rises to the distinction of a stall; if a doctor
practises physic with tolerable success; or a country squire
owns a famous racer, or hunts a pack of staunch hounds, he is,
in good time, pretty sure of a biography either in the magazines,
or in quarto. Indeed, any man can have a place in the
former, if he would only find his own likeness.
It is amazing to see with what facility a great book is here
compiled concerning a little man. The incidents of his life;
his good or evil actions; his importance, or his want of importance,
are of no sort of consequence. These biographers
are like French cooks, or Spanish inn-keepers, who can make
an excellent dish out of a tom-cat, or a cow's heel. If the
little man had any great men for his contemporaries, or was cotemporary
with any great events; if he was at Oxford, Cambridge,
Eton, or Harrow, with any body of distinguished rank,
or who afterwards distinguished himself, and dropped him a
letter now and then; or if he was a member of some half-a-score
of learned societies, provincial or foreign; either of these fortunate
coincidences is sufficient for a quarto royal. It he was
if with great events, the author can pounce upon the history of
the times; if a member of learned societies, all the learned persons
belonging to them may be made to contribute to the dignity
of the hero; but if he corresponded with illustrious men
—the letters—the letters, my dear brother, are treasures of
biography. If they were written in confidence, so much the
better; the little tittle tattle, the free opinions, domestic disclosures,
and private scandal, are inestimable treasures, as furnishing
irresistible attractions to the present literary taste.
Another characteristic feature of the present school of English
literature is, the incredible appetite for black letter books, and
old trash of every sort, which derives its sole value from its
scarcity. More than one nobleman here, owe all the eclat they
enjoy, independently of their rank and fortune, to their munificence
in patronising old authors and printers, who have been
dead for centuries. The worse a book is printed, and the more
ridiculously quaint its title, the more they will give for the
treasure. If they meet with a book, for instance, entitled and
called “The dolefulle Tragedye and delectable pleasaunte
and merrie Comedye of Goodye Twooe Shooes,” or some
such trumpery, printed with wooden blocks, they will give a
couple of hundred guineas for it, provided it be the only copy
in the world. But if there should chance to be another extant,
its value is diminished a hundred fold. I happened, not long
ago, to be present at the sale of the Duke of Roxburgh's
library, where Locke, Newton, Milton, Shakspeare, and others,
went off for little or nothing, while a copy of “Most righte,
rare, and truly dyvertynge Ballads,” such as the beggars were
wont to sing of Yore about Tower Hill, was purchased by a
Mæcenas for a few hundred guineas, and a most valuable
series of old play-bills brought still more. I must not omit to
mention, that the fortunate purchasers not only had the pleasure
of gaining the valuable acquisitions, but also got complimented
in all the periodicals and diurnals, for their munificence
in the encouragement of literature.
At this sale there was a most laughable contest between his
grace of — and the right honourable earl —, for
no less a treasure than a black letter copy of the history of
the Three Wise Men of Gotham, printed by Wynkyn de
Worde, in his worst manner. These noblemen were just beginning
to nibble at the treasure, and the auctioneer, as well as
the heirs of his grace of Roxburgh, were in expectation of a
great windfall, when Sir —, a famous physician, who
is a sort of black letter oracle, observed, with an appearance
of great indifference, that he had seen a copy at Lackington's,
was a death-blow to the “Three Wise Men,” who were
forth with knocked down to some obscure person for little more
than twenty times their real value. Since then it has been
ascertained, that neither Lackington nor Grub-street can boast
a copy, and it is shrewdly suspected Sir — raised the
report with a view of purchasing the book himself, had he not
been called off at the moment to attend the lap-dog of lady
D—.
Let us now talk of little Walter Scott, who, though a tory creature,
is one of the most pleasant, unaffected specimens of the
Genus Irritabile in the world. By the way, he is a little lame,
a circumstance that may account for the halting irregularity of
his verse. Lord Byron, too, labours under a similar impediment
in his walk; and, as his verse partakes of the like infirmity,
it might be a curious speculation to inquire into the occult
connexion between a lame leg and a lame couplet. But I must
leave this matter to the dabblers in cause and effect. I believe
there is no doubt of Sir Walter Scott being the person, who, in
the bombastic phrase of the critics, is called the “Great Unknown.”
It is a fact tolerably well known, and if there were
any doubt, the extravagant adulation of Blackwood's Magazine
would resolve it. His reasons for preserving this affectation of
the incognito, are quite clear to me. He wrote himself down
in poetry before he began with prose, and that in a good measure
by prematurely disclosing his name, and thus depriving his
readers of the pleasure of wondering, than which nothing communicates
a higher zest to a book. The benefits of invisibility
are invaluable to authors, who can neither be hit by the critic,
nor wounded by personal attacks, so long as they remain unseen.
Besides, authors are a sort of divinity, very apt to turn out an
Egyptian stork, or arrant mumbo jumbo, if you approach them
too near. They should always keep out of the way, that the
public may see nothing but the beauties of their minds. Like
the famous chess-playing automaton, lately detected, genius loses
half the admiration of the vulgar, so soon as they find there is
a man in it.
Do not imagine, from these observations, that I am not a potent
admirer of the “Great Unknown,” alias, Sir Walter
Scott. I have received too much pleasure from his prose writings
not to feel grateful. Many an hour of ennui in this land
of blue devils hath he whiled away—and many a lonely day of
sickly confinement hath he made tolerable to me by the exertions,
or, as it would seem, the relaxations of his genius. Shall
not the sick man be grateful to him who administers to the mind,
as well as to him that administers to the body? Besides, every
character, notwithstanding his being somewhat obnoxious
on the score of his toryism. His pleasant, unaffected, unpretending
manners are exemplary in a man—but, in a successful
author, they are little less than miraculous. His heart, I am
assured, is free from a single spark of that jealous irritability
which divides men of genius, and prevents them from governing
the republic of letters more despotically than a senate of
Venice.
But for all this, I cannot allow him to be equal either to a
Fielding or an Edgeworth, whatever may be the fashionable
verdict of the day. In this opinion I am supported by the
authority of those judges of the secret tribunal I spoke of,
whose approbation, after all, is essentially necessary to the permanent
fame of every living author. I will give you an abstract
of their opinions, mixed up with some of my own, which last I
desire you will hold in especial reverence. No doubt my fair
cousin * * * *, who, as you inform me, not long ago set
the bed-curtains on fire at two o'clock in the morning, by falling
asleep over the Abbot, will be greatly affronted at seeing the
Great Unknown so sacrilegiously undervalued.
The author of the Waverley novels has pursued a path,
which saved him, in a great measure, the trouble of invention.
The principal characters, as well as events, are historical; and
where he has filled up the chasm with incidents of his own, I
appeal to the judgment of reflecting persons, if he has not deviated
into the wild impossibilities of romance? Where the characters
are not absolutely historical, they are derived from old
plays and ballads, which also furnish models of language for the
actors. Indeed, it may be observed here, that not only the
Great Unknown, but a vast number of the present race of poets,
have poached pretty liberally in the old plays of Queen Elizabeth
and James the First. These, after lying in oblivion, except
in the care of these industrious poachers, for two centuries,
have at length begun to excite attention, and will probably before
long be sufficiently known to ensure the detection of modern
plagiarists. Without descending to particularize these borrowings
of the Great Unknown, it cannot but strike every reader,
who takes the trouble to reflect on the incidents of the tale of
Kenilworth, for instance, that they are principally taken from
Miss Aikin's Court of Elizabeth, where they are purely historical;
and that where the author has attempted to sketch from his
own resources, he has almost invariably deviated into common
place or caricature. Indeed, to me it appears, that through the
whole of the work there is an air of reckless extravagance, a
daring disregard to probability, that takes from the characters
every characteristic of improbability.
With the exception of Sir Hugh Robsart and Tressilian,
there is almost a total absence of interesting characters. Queen
Elizabeth is nothing but a coarse virago; Leicester a miserable
dupe of a clumsy astrologer; and Sussex, Blount, Antony
Foster, and the rest, very common persons. The originals of
Lambourne, Giles Gosling, and Demetrius, may be found in a
dozen of the old plays; but where to find Wayland Smith, the
mysterious blacksmith, and Dicky Sledge, is more than I know;
not within the limits of nature, certainly. I cannot tell how it
is, but Dicky seems the identical Gilpin Horner of the Lay of
the Last Minstrel, merely divested of his supernatural features.
Raleigh is a fine personage in history; but apparently rather of
too high an aim for our author, since the only incident of any
consequence, illustrative of his character, introduced into the
work, is that of the cloak, familiar to every school-boy. Raleigh
is, of all the personages in the piece, the one of whom the
author ought to have made the most, and he has made nothing.
The Pirate has just come out, and has shaken the popularity
of the author so sensibly, that it begins to be rumoured, he will
shortly proceed to give us a third edition of the old beauties of
his mind, in the shape of a series of plays. This is certainly
making the most of one's wealth, and reminds me of a cunning
fellow of the beau monde, who lately passed the same quantity
of silver through two editions, once in the shape of a service of
plate, and once as a beautiful tea set, after which he coined it
into money, dashed away in a curricle to the admiration of every
body, and died game at last.
But Julia Mannering, Mr. Pleydell, and every character in the
whole of this series of novels, which appertains to the class of
real, actually existing beings, such as we live and move amongst
at present, are destitute of all claim to vigour or originality. It
is only necessary to place them beside those of Miss Edgeworth,
to perceive at once, how much more easy it is to draw materials
from history and tradition than from actual observation of life
and manners. So with those incidents and events which can be
referred to beings like ourselves, and to which we can apply the
test of our own experience and observation. Nearly the same
deplorable tameness and common-place characterize them all;
and it is only when the author envelopes himself in the mists of
time, and the obscurity of provincial tradition, that he attains to
a new species of fiction, compounded of improbabilities stretched
on the rack, and characters not altogether human, nor yet quite
supernatural, such as abound in the records of popular superstition.
Hence the apparently wonderful facility with which the author
compiles these novels. The experience of a whole life furnished
Fielding with the characters and incidents of Tom Jones; but
traditions and ballads of old times supply the “Great Unknown”
with ample materials for this kind of writing. The very notes to
Walter Scott's different poems, contain a mass of border lore,
amply sufficient for half a-dozen novels like “Guy Mannering” and
“Rob Roy.” If there be any exception to these remarks, it is in
“The Heart of Mid Lothian,” which presents to us two characters
that belong to all times, and are perfect in their kind: I
mean old Davie Deanes and his daughter Jeanie. They are
sufficient to redeem all the old half-bred witches, and half-bred
wizards, in the whole series, and possess an interest derived from
the purest springs of nature and probability, far more intense and
legitimate than all the rest of these extravagant creations of ignorance
and superstition.
But with all these drawbacks, if such they be in the eyes of the
present age, the Great Unknown is still a pearl among swine. He
and Miss Edgeworth are the twin stars of Bœotia, and not
only shine by their own light, but by the reflection of surrounding
darkness. The one, as a painter of life as it is, the other of
life as it was, is without a rival in the present times. The
author of Waverley is a great second-hand artist; a capital pencil
in copying old pictures, and colouring them afresh. What I
particularly commend him for is, that though a friend to the government,
he does not think it necessary to cant. There is a
glow of vigourous freshness about him, so different from the
faded, sickly, green and yellow tribes of cotemporary novelists,
that to read one of his tales, is like contemplating a rich landscape,
with the flowers of the spring, and the dews of the clear
mellow morning, blooming and glittering upon it, and the pure
and fragrant breeze playing in our faces.
But I cannot help thinking it is placing him where he ought
not to be, to put him on a level with Fielding, Smollett, Goldsmith
and Miss Edgeworth. He belongs, I imagine, to a different
class of beings; to a class of authors, who, when the charm
of novelty expires, and curiosity is satisfied in the development
of the story, will never be much relished or sought after for other
and more lasting beauties.
SHACKELL AND ARROWSMITH, JOHNSON'S-COURT, FLEET-STREET.
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