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— “Who wants A sequel, may read on. Th’ unvarnished tale That follows, will supply the place of one.”