University of Virginia Library

EDWARD MOLTON TO GEORGE STAFFORD.

I cannot reply to your kind letter as it deserves—for,
just at this time, I happen to be very busy; but, in a
brief way, I will try to answer some of your enquiries.

What do I think of our literary journals, authors, reviews,
and editors?—you say; and what are they about?

In answer, I say, that by and by, I shall enter more at
large, into their characters. At present, I can only relieve
you, by saying, in general terms, that they are a
cowardly, mercenary set. Not one in a hundred of them,
has the courage to take a decided stand, in pronouncing
any judgment. They content themselves—and by they,
I mean now, such men as “Robert Walsh, junior, Esquire;”
they content themselves in retailing the imported
literature, and the imported criticism too—would you
believe it? of your unprincipled journals. Even he, who
has the impudence to set himself up, as one of the guardians
of American literature, as one of them, to whom it
is authorized to look up for countenance and protection,
is consuming his strength, in the manufacture of a daily
paper; and in the monthly compilation of a museum, made
up, God help our patience! of the refuse haberdashery of
Great Britain.—O, that such men, with the present editor
of the North American Review at their head, were,
for a little time, held up to the indignant rebuke of the
American people, as they deserve! What do they pretend
to do? What have they undertaken? And what
have they done? What have we permitted them to do?
—Stafford, my blood is all in a tingle, at the thought of
their presumption, and our abjectness. I tremble, all
over, when I think of what they have dared to undertake,
and dared, in the desperation of their audacity, to do.—
But, I am ashamed, and could weep, for vexation, to think
how tamely a great people have submitted, to whatever
they have chosen to do, with them, and for them.—
Robert Walsh, for example, is put, by his friends, in the
first rank of native criticks. The others publish, what
they call a North American Review. But of whom do
they write—for whom?—Not of Americans—not for
Americans. They abound, chiefly, in original reviews of
works that are forgotten, merely, because it is the
fashion at Edinburgh, and London, to deny our erudition;—and
to be very pedantick, where there is the least
danger of exposure or contradiction; or they, now and
then, enter the lists with the English and Scotch reviewers,

in praise of some poem or novel of the day—published
in your country, not in ours—which never makes
its appearance here, or perishes in the first edition—and
then fancy that they are establishing the reputation of
American literature!---Blockheads---what care we for
the present race of English writers? Are our reviews
to be made upon that side of the atlantic, and republished,
under the title of Walsh's Museum?---Or, as in the
North American, are they to be confined to the works of
another people; and now and then, as it will sometimes
happen, of a native writer, after they have been
amazed at meeting with his name in some European
journal. There was Brockden Brown, for example---
and the Federalist. Our American reviewers took up
the cudgels in their favour, most gallantly---but when?
how?---when there were no longer any body to contradict
them; when there was nothing to apprehend---and
when it would have been infamy, to forbear.---Stafford,
I am an American---I glory in the name. Were I an
Englishman, I should glory in the name of an Englishman.
But then, as now, I should lift up my voice, in unqualified
denunciation of such conduct in my countrymen.
What!---shall these men be paid, by our best people, for
a continual violation of their duty, their avowed duty?---
Shall they be permitted to transgress forever? to set their
very title page at naught? to sneak away from all accountability?
to lie by, and cower, and skulk, under one pretence
and another, when a new American work appears?
to shuffle away from a decided opinion, on any American
work, until the publick have pronounced their judgment?

No Stafford! I say this—and, Englishman as you are,
you cannot but agree with me. I say that it is the duty
of an American reviewer to take some notice—long or
short—for, or against—every work that appears. If he
cannot do it himself—let him get somebody else—or
abandon the name of an American reviewer. And I say
that, to nothing but cowardice or incapacity, should a
failure to do so, be attributed. Can you wonder at my
warmth. Our press, young as it is, abounds in the
bright prodigal issue of authors, that only want to be
taken notice of, to become competitors with the best and

proudest of yours. You smile—I can forgive you—for
one who has been accustomed, as every American of my
age has, for twenty years past, to the more insulting
doubt of his own countrymen, cannot be angry with a
foreigner, for doubting that we have common sense.
Take up one of our last numbers of the North American—or
the Museum—or Port Folio—another paltry
counterfeit. Look at them. What do you find in them?
Remember that they are American publications, professedly
written, or compiled by Americans, in the hope of
advancing the reputation of the country! Heaven, what
a bitter sarcasm upon our quackery and pretension; our
yankee tricks—and all our honesty and intellect, are
the mere title pages. One, you will find made up from
Campbell's cast-off Magazines—and the newspapers of
the day;—another of stupid reviews—stupidly remodelled
—the other, a body of prize essays, written, one would
be tempted to think, to prove to the people abroad, that,
barbarians, as we are—we are able to translate the title
pages of very learned works, in Italian, French, German
and Latin;—but let me explain myself. First you
come upon a review of somebody—an Italian;—whose
name it may be, that the editor of the North American—
while upon his travels in Greece—without an allusion to
which, he cannot blow his nose—happened to hear. The
title page, of course, is given to you in Italian. The
next will be a mass of erudition—having about enough
to do with the subject, to make you believe it a transcript
of some student's common place book—diligently copied,
and adroitly tacked together—probably with a running
title in German or French. Pshaw—I have not patience
with such foppery. If we are ever to obtain a
literary character, it must be by a bold, high handed
carriage of ourselves. The Scotch have been trodden
into coalition—like muscles in the mud;—and, after a
time, if kicks and cuffs won't do, we may have the same
good luck.

But, by the way, I would not have you utterly misunderstand
our literary character. The North American
Review, as it is now called (in derision, one would
think) is no longer what it has been. Time was, when

the hands of mighty men were to be seen, even in the
clumsiest of its decorations. It has been (if you will allow
me to amuse myself for a moment) a great Banking
House—a Treasury—where you were sure to find ore,
and ingots—and bars, though the former might not always
have been purified, nor the two latter coined or
stamped. Then there were the most powerful, rich, and
beautiful issues from it, whenever the pressure was
greatest. It could have withstood then, the run of all
North America. But how is it now? Not much unlike
the Bank of Amsterdam, after the eruption of Napoleon
—a place of subterranean darkness and emptiness: a place
of discount and deposit for bad paper (which were better
fitted for any other place of deposit)—drawn by bankrupts
—who live by overdrawing—countersigned by Mr. Everett—and
endorsed by him, when very questionable—
upon the patience, folly and good nature of a publick,
who only want to be run upon for five minutes, to become
sensible of their own precarious situation—to check
100 per cent. at least, off hand; and to dishonour, forever,
every future draft of the concern. In short—to say all
in one word—There were such men as Daniel Webster,
Justice Story, Mr. Dana, and Mr. Sparks, among them
—and there are now, only the Everett and company, to
manage the institution.

But there are nevertheless, two or three scientifick
works of great merit in our country—at the head of
which we may place, Silliman's Journal. More of him
anon—and of Cleveland too (an honour to our country)
—and of Hayden, a devilish clever fellow in his way.

Good by, Stafford—Good by—but, in mercy to our
reputation, do not believe that either Mr. Walsh, or Mr.
Everett, or their solemn retinue of essay writers, form
any part of our natural born Americans. No—they are
creatures of another element, unworthy of breathing the
same atmosphere. Where is their manhood? They have
none. They are always in the rear of publick opinion
—always hesitating—always qualifying—so that, happen
what may, they are never in a great peril—of being either
remarkably right, or remarkably wrong.

But is there nothing—absolutely nothing, to commend,
in the North American? Yes—now and then---by some
strange accident, they do get a sensible essay into their
paper, which smacks of America; and not unfrequently,
you find a page or two, that seem to have something to
do with the subject. But---farewell---farewell, for the
present---hereafter I shall put several of these gentry in
training. They deserve it; and, if you please, you may
publish what I say---and give my name, on demand, to
all who have the heart to ask for it.