Greene Halleck calls it, "an ungrateful volume of pitiful and perfidious calumnies;" is unquestionable, otherwise there would, perhaps, be plenty of Byronism existing even to this day. But there is none. Everybody knows that to have anything to do with it would be "to tender one's self a fool." It is not that we are incapable of holding up for admiration and believing in shams, for Mr. Martin Tupper's Proverbial Philosophy sells very fast. Some more of it came out the other day, and editions go off rapidly. But there is a great deal more transparent inanity taken for something not very short of Gospel than Mr. Tupper's utterances. We have plenty of old traditions yet lying unexploded. It would be absurd to say that all affectation, as connected with poetry and literature in general, died out with Byronism. Do we not yet imagine that the writers of good verse must in the act of composition have their eyes in fine frenzy rolling, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Poe told us that the most weird and unearthly poem ever penned, unless we except Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner"—his "Raven"— was constructed in as cold-blooded a manner as ever Euclid made out a problem? Not long ago many of the papers worked themselves into a fury of indignation because the street-boys would not allow Mr. Carlyle to walk about Edinburgh in a fantastical hat and preposterous coat. Mr. Carlyle is the great iconoclast of sham; but they could not perceive any sham in the exercise of his right to wear what he chose. They could not understand, that in such folly he was building himself a glass house, and consequently would not be permitted to throw stones after it was finished. They argued that eccentricities were to be applauded as the inalienable rights of genius. Mr. Tennyson must believe it, too, for he continually prowls about at night, dressed in an absurd brigandish cloak. Yet nobody says that he is affected. On the contrary, he is liked rather better for it.
Looking at the matter on any side, then, we are satisfied that Byronism has not gone out because we have too much common sense to believe in it, or that the old faith in regard to writers has departed with it. When such events will arrive, it is altogether impossible to calculate, as it is impossible to say certainly that they will come at all. They are to be hoped for. Society cannot help being largely benefitted if they do make their appearance. The disappearance of tradition in the arts, it is seen, has been of most incalculable good, and it is safe to say that its absence in other matters, if it were to be laid aside, would be likewise a blessing for which we should be grateful. It is only left us to look forward to the day.
