The New Fiction [pp. 345-354]

348 APPLETONS' JOURNAL.
that the New Fiction, so different from the Old,
made good its footing in the teeth of reasons
which remained the same, and were felt to re main the same. In plain words, the majority of
the strictly so-defined religious public have, in
admitting the novel, "sinned against light and
knowledge" (as they would say). We have, in
truth, one more episode of a very old story.
Wrong opinions (we are, of course, assuming
that the old religious judgment against novels
was wrong) rarely give way, so far as the multitude are concerned, before right reason; they are
gradually weakened by the force of circumstance;
then a new tone of sentiment grows up by degrees, rises "like an exhalation," and influences
conduct; but it is long before it consolidates or
takes decided shape, so that the new opinion
may adopt it as a garment or a shell. The subject is so curious as well to deserve treatment in
some detail, however brief.
There is a well-known work for students,
written by an American divine, which had an immense circulation in this country a generation
ago, and is still largely read. It contains some
admirably wise counsel, and not a little really
powerful writing. Thirty years ago this work
was edited by no less respectable an authority
than "the Rev. Thomas Dale, M. A., Canon
Residentiary of St. Paul's, and Vicar of St. Pancras," a writer who had, in his day, some repute
as a poet among readers who were not exacting
in the matter of verse; some of his poems, such
as "A Father's Grief," " A Daughter's Grief,"
are still prized for the purposes of the popular
selections in use among mildly serious readers.
We mention this for an obvious reason: Mr.
Dale was a man of taste; he was supposed, like
Mr. Melvill (for example), to have a peculiarly intellectual class of hearers, and his readers were
of about the same order and rank as those of
Dr. Croly and L. E. L. He might, therefore,
have been expected to append a foot-note if he
felt that what the American divine said about
works of fiction was absurd, or even very wide
of the mark. But he does nothing of the kind,
and the young English student is left to make
the best he can of despicable trash, such as we
are now going to abbreviate. The general topic
of the author is poetry and fiction:
"What shall be said of such works as those of
Byron? Can we not learn things from him which
can not be learned elsewhere?" I reply, yes, just
as you would learn, while treading the burning lava,
what could not be learned elsewhere.... Would
you thank a man for fitting up your study, and adorning it with much that is beautiful; and if, at the
same time, he filled it with images and ghosts of the
most disgusting and awful description, which were to
abide there, and be continually dancing around you
all your life? Is he a benefactor to his species who
here and there throws out a beautiful thought or a
poetic image, but, as you stoop to pick it up, chains
upon you a putrid carcass, which you can never throw
off? I believe a single page may be selected from
Lord Byron's works which has done more hurt to the
mind and the heart of the young than all his writ ings have ever done good; but he will quickly pass
from notice, and is doomed to be exiled from the libraries of all virtuous men. It is a blessing to the
world that what is putrid must soon pass away. The
carcass hung in chains will be gazed at for a short
time in horror; but men will soon turn their eyes
away, and remove even the gallows on which it
swung.
Now, it must not for one moment be imagined
that this verdict concerning Byron is one that
would be considered out of date in circles which
are the immediate successors, at this moment, of
such circles as those which welcomed invective
like the above. And the same might be said of
the verdict concerning the novel proper (as distinguished from stories in verse like Byron's).
Let it be noticed that Scott is inculpated:
"But," say you, "' has my author ever read Byron
and Moore, Hume and Paine, Scott, Bulwer, and
Cooper?" Yes, he has read them all with too much
care. He knows every rock and every quicksand;
and he solemnly declares to you that the only good
which he is conscious of ever having received from
them is a deep impression that men who possess
talents of such compass and power, and so perverted
in their application, must meet the day of judgment
under a responsibility which would be cheaply removed by the price of a world.... When you have
read and digested all that lis really valuable-and
that is comprised in what describes the history of
man in all circumstances in which he has actually
been placed-then betake yourself to works of imagination. "But can you not, in works of fiction,
have the powers of the imagination enlarged, and
the mind taught to soar? " Perhaps so-but the lectures of Chalmers on astronomy will do this to a
degree far beyond all that the pen of fiction can do.
"Will they not give you a command of words and of
language which shall be full, and chaste, and strong?"
Perhaps so; but, if that is what you wish, read the
works of Edmund Burke.
The question raised with regard to the comparative effects of different portions of the work
of a mind of the size and splendor of Byron's is
almost ludicrous; but we allow it to be thus
stated, as it opens in a convenient way a question which lies, otherwise, in our path. The
author of the book, however, is conscious that it
is over Sir Walter Scott that the main battle will
be fought, and he certainly does not flinch from
flinging his torch on to the pile at which the
auto-da-f/ is to take place:
APPLETONS' JO URN,AL.
348