University of Virginia Library

MR. JOHN E. HALL, AND THE PORT FOLIO.

Sir—I send the following to you, rather than to any Editor in our
city, for several reasons; first, because the Editor of the Port Folio in
overhaling me, has thought fit to attack two or three other people;
and yourself, probably on MY account; and, secondly, because, as I have
no personal acquaintance with you, you may not be influenced in your
judgment about publishing it; and thirdly, that he may be met on his
own ground; not so much, because he is worth trouncing any where,
or because I do not perfectly understand his motive, in trying to blackguard
himself into notice—as that two or three innocent people, who
have been abused by him, on my account, may not be left underfended.

“A damned good natured friend” of mine; such as abound every
where, on such occasions, put the last number of the Port Folio, into
my hands about an hour ago, advising me not to read something in
it, about myself. It is not once a year, that I see the Port Folio—nor
once in five years, that I read a page in it; but such an invitation, so
given, was irresistible.

When I had finished, he advised me to reply—me—to Mr. Hall—
(John E. Hall, I believe his name is.) What had I to do with him,

pray? I have no objection to his abusing my poetry, or myself—at this
distance. It might be another matter, if we were both dwelling in the
same city. No—I have nothing to do with it, or him. The author of
Logan and Seventy-six, may take him in hand if he will; and yet, if I
were he, I should be a little wary, I think; for, as I live, I think that
Mr. Hall has given a very favourable extract from the latter work.
To my notion, if his criticism be unjust, it is the very thing for the author;
and if just, what has he to complain of?

Saying this, I left my friend, with no intention of replying in any
way, to Mr. Hall. But, after a little reflection, I have changed my purpose—
for the sake of others—not for myself.

I am sorry that he has ventured upon the repose of Niagara—
I had hoped that the ghost of that work, which, if his judgment be
true, has been “buried and forgotten,” for a long time, was laid for ever.
But I am more than sorry, at the unprovoked allusions to other people,
that I find in his criticism on it; and, as I have it in my power to
explain the cause thereof, perfectly to my own satisfaction, I will do it.
It may save Mr. James G. Percival; and you, Mr. Editor; and the author
of Logan and Seventy-six, some angry feeling.

Some years ago, when I was a boy, I wrote an article for Mr. Hall's
Port Folio, out of a desire to benefit a friend, which, Mr. Hall, while he
affected to be carried away in his admiration for it, so cruelly misunderstood,
and misrepresented, by his blundering, that I could never think,
either of him, or, of his Port Folio afterward, with common patience.

Mr. Hall made an immediate attempt to engage me for a regular contributor
to his work. But, at that time, I was under engagements
with the Portico, here; a rival journal, which would have prevented
me, even if my respect for myself would not, from acceding to
Mr. Hall's proposition. That was the first offence.

Mr. Hall was rather sore, and suspicious, for a long time afterward;
and the next thing that happened to disturb his fine temper, was a
novel—a most unlucky one, I confess—called Keep Cool, of which a
friend of mine, for whom he had, or affected to have, the greatest admiration,
wrote a review; after getting a promise from him (I believe)
to insert it.

But, about that time, Mr. Hall had thought of a very ingenious expedient
to replenish his subscription list; he had given notice to authors,
that, if they expected notices of their works to appear in his Journal,
they must enclose the price of one year's subscription—six dollars.

I did not send him the six dollars, and he did not publish the review.

I then published a second edition of Niagara—in which I did Mr.
Hall the honour to mention him, among half a dozen other block heads;
and gave him some friendly advice; advice, which the present reputation
of the Port Folio and its editor, proves to have been honest and judicious.
I did not actually advise him, in so many words, to go and hang himself,
it is true; but I did advise him to abandon literature—which would,
probably, have resulted in the same thing. I laughed at him—pitied
him—and let him off, at last, in downright compassion; but, with a
compliment to him as a lawyer; and to his Law Journal, as a law work
—for which I am now heartily ashamed and sorry; and which nothing
but my inexperience and presumption at that time, would be any
apology for. That was the third offence.

As for Logan and Seventy-six, I have nothing to do with them, now. If
they deserve half the abuse that they have received, it would be very
foolish to abuse them at all. My name could be of no advantage to the
author:—and, while I confess, that, with all their faults and follies, I
should be proud of them; I cannot but reprobate the impertinence
and rashness of those, who dare to ascribe them to me, on no better
ground than conjecture.

There are some things, that I could say to Mr. Hall, and of him, if I
would permit myself to forget the dignity of a gentleman, which would
fully reconcile the persons, who are associated with me, in his remarks
—to any thing but his approbation. But, as it is, while I tell them
that the true reason of their being abused, is, because one of them has
praised a work, supposed to have been written by me!—because
another's real name is like one of my assumed ones! and, because Mr.
Hall suspected me to have written, or aided in the writing of Logan
and Seventy-six!—While I do this, I cannot part from Mr. Hall again,
without repeating the substance of my advice—which, I assure him,
is kindly meant; and he will find it so. It is, that he should let
polite literature alone; and, particularly, all the higher branches of it;
abandon the Port Folio (in retaliation upon the subscribers); forget
his old antagonist of the Portico, and the Telegraph; leave off puffing
himself and the Port Folio, in the Baltimore newspapers; and mend
his manners. In which case, if he give up the Law Journal; leave off
writing, and talking; destroy all that he has ever written; and stick to
the business of translation and compilation, in the humbler departments
of law—(such as Hall's Emerigon and Hall's Justice; books that are
not worth the binding) he and his doings may be forgotten. And what
more could his best friend—his own father—wish for?