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It hath been a mooted point with that class of philosophical
inquirers, which so usefully occupies itself
with discussions that can never be brought to a conclusion,
whether the age gives the tone to literature,
or literature to the age. It is a knotty question, and
not being of the least consequence to any practical
purpose, it will be passed over with the single remark,
that it is quite useless for an author to write in good
taste if the public won't read, and equally idle for the
public to cherish a keen relish for polite literature, if
there are no authors to administer food to its appetite.

It is certain, however, that owing either to the
excessive refinement and intelligence of the age, or it
may be, to causes directly the contrary, the present
taste of the venerable public is exceedingly

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carniverous. If any conclusion can be drawn from those
classical productions which are so industriously hawked
about by the genuine representatives of the illustrious
“Dicky Doubt,” who, by an allowable figure of
speech, may be called the handmaids of the Muses,
there must be an exceedingly voracious appetite in the
reading community for all sorts of breaches of morality
and breaches of the peace, not omitting smothering,
poisoning, and suicide. Authors do not mind committing
murder in cold blood, or perpetrating any other
atrocious crime, any more than they do borrowing an
idea from some old, forgotten writer; and the most
timid, delicate, nervous lady in the land, who would
shriek at the apparition of a caterpillar, or run away
from a butterfly, is now so accustomed to battles, robberies,
poisonings, and assassinations, that it would
not be altogether surprising if we some day hear of
one of the elite, after going the rounds of polite literature,
and committing a few murders in the way of
poisoning, together with some other fashionable et
ceteras—not proper to mention by name, though the
thing itself is highly aristocratic—should make a brilliant
exit by blowing up a whole square of houses
and perishing in their ruins.

There was a time—it was in the dark ages, previous
to the apotheosis of phrenology and animal magnetism—
there was a time when the records of crime, and
those exhibitions of human depravity, which disgrace
the name of man, and make angels weep, were confined
to the romance of the police, and the last dying

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speeches of convicted and converted murderers. A
taste for these was considered as characteristic only of
the vulgar and depraved, and they seldom ascended to
the parlor or the drawing-room, except by stealth. At
present, however, it appears that the most fashionable
species of romance is a sort of Newgate calendar, in
which the crimes and depravity of the lowest and
worst species of real human beings, are cast into the
shade by the creation of imaginary monsters.

The reader, however, is not to conclude from these
preliminary remarks that we meditate the presumption
of finding fault with the prevailing taste for blood
puddings, and concentrated soup of depravity. On
the contrary, with the amateurs of thorough-going
barbarity and wickedness, we are perfectly willing to
defer to the taste of the venerable public for that species
of meritorious romance, which, if anything can
achieve it, will assuredly, in the shortest possible time—
with the aid of the “diggings” of California—bring
about that Golden Age, when the saint and the assassin
shall lie down in peace together; when the sword
shall be turned into a bowie knife or a revolving pistol;
firemen meet at midnight conflagrations without
broken heads and bloody noses; and last and greatest
miracle of all, the bright star of Bethlehem cease to
be the torch of discord.

We are full of hope that the time is not far distant,
when the human heart shall become so mellowed and
humanized by being accustomed to these pictured
horrors, these atrocious crimes, and this total

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degradation of the human species exhibited in polite literature
that certain portions of select readers should in time
lose all perception of the distinction between virtue
and vice, and the good and bad mingle together in
perfect harmony. Thus the world might at length
be brought to a perfect good understanding, and no
more blood be shed, except in romances.

Doubtless the experiment is worth the trial, and we
propose in this our second volume to flourish the besom
of destruction somewhat liberally. Hitherto, we have
only killed two or three honest people, in fair fight,
and, as yet, not one of our actors is qualified for a hero
of romance. But we shall do better in future, by
introducing, in due time, a gentleman so utterly
divested of any attribute that might redeem him from
abhorrence, that he cannot fail to conciliate the favor
of the judicious reader. It shall go hard with us, too,
if we don't commit a most exemplary murder soon. If
it comes not in our way, we will seek it. If we can't
kill by retail, which is much the most emphatic and
striking, we will go at it by wholesale, and demolish
entire communities without regard to age, sex, color
or condition. Should all our resources fail, we will
murder our story and smother ourselves with charcoal
to escape public justice.

p316-242

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