University of Virginia Library

EDWARD MOLTON TO GEORGE STAFFORD.

The curiosity that you express, my dear fellow, is
altogether natural. You feel, toward our American
writers, just as I do about your English ones. In return,
therefore, for your sketching of Byron, Campbell, and
your study of Wordsworth (whom I can see, with his
smooth hair, at this moment,) Hunt, Coleridge, &c. &c.
with glimpses, of their conversation and hand writing, I
shall give you something of the same kind, and as much
after the same plan, as I am able. I will begin with
them as they come to me.

Paul Allen, of Baltimore.—He is rather below the
middle size—say, about five feet six—dark eyes—dark
hair—face, deeply marked—a plain looking, nay, an ordinary
looking man; about forty or forty two, I should
think, with a character of sluggishness, slovenly inaptitude
and moroseness, all about him. Yet, there is not a
better natured fellow on the earth—bating a momentary
petulence, here and there, with a far-off politician, in the
way of trade; or a little fermentation at home, when he
has been pestered by poppinjays, a little too long; nor a
man that will write more, with less substantial information,
on any subject, in the same time. He is near-sighted;
reads with his nose on the paper—and such reading!
Lord!—I can imagine nothing more dismal, than the
reading of his own poetry, by Paul Allen. It is a continual
whine—nasal—and barbarous, beyond all conception.
No man would take him for any thing above a
hard-working tradesman, should he meet him, away
from his daily occupation; he is full of simplicity, credulous
too, as a child, and very irresolute; and yet, how he
writes! He has a strange face, strongly moulded, unlike
any that I have ever seen, in your country; but very like

that of Mr. Jarvis, the painter, in ours. He has a fine
dazzling talent; a penetrating fidgetty eloquence; and
great pungency, all which are continually to be seen in his
prose. But he has a bad notion of poetry; he is too easily
satisfied with bad rhyming, inadequate expression, and
ordinary, simple thought, which he endeavours to touch
your heart with, after the manner of Wordsworth, of
whom he is a devout admirer; but their simplicity is totally
unlike. That of Allen is never so simple, so affecting,
or so awful, as that of Wordsworth; nor is it ever so
feeble and childish.

Paul Allen is no imitator; or, rather, no imitator of
any one man; but he is of many:—and there is nothing
beautiful, sarcastick, eloquent, strange, touching, or sublime,
in another, which, when he encounters it, will not
instantly beget a correspondent expression in him. I can
always tell what he has been reading, when he comes out,
on any uncommon occasion. He is very like Burke, at
times; and throws away more genuine poetry, without
knowing it, upon the daily transactions of commercial
and political gossipping, than any living writer; and
this, too, while that which he husbands and hoards for
poetry, is often the very refuse of an exhausted mind;
the dregs and dross of a crucible, where the gold and
fire, of earth and sky, have been undergoing the most
beautiful transmutation, for the entertainment of children.
He is a man that would throw pearls and diamonds
into the furnace, to see what colour their smoke would
be; and then gather up the ashes and cinders; put them
carefully by, in a golden urn, write thereon; with all his
might, a deep and sad inscription to the emptiness and
mutability of all earthly enjoyment—and fall asleep with
it in his arms. He has no colloquial power—yet the
company of few people is more pleasant, to them that
know him intimately.

He has written, successively, for the United States' Gazette;—the
Port Folio, before it was dead and damned;
—the Baltimore Telegraph, of which he was the Editor
for many years, when it was in the zenith;—the Portico;
---a poem, called Noah;—and volume after volume, of editorial
matter, for the Journal of the Times, and the
Morning Chronicle.

He was born in Providence, Rhode Island, and educated
for the bar:—writes a sort of jumping, up and
down hand—which nobody but himself, and his compositors,
can read.

Washington Irving.—He is about thirty-nine, now
—about five feet, six or seven inches in height—a little
clumsy—very pale—fine blue eyes, continually shifting
through shadow and light—very white teeth—and a
charming smile—very black hair, and heavy black eyebrows;
with all the air of your old fashioned, high bred
gentleman;—by that, I mean not, that he is old fashioned,
in the common meaning of the phrase; but, that he is a
gentleman, without being a puppy. He is neither a macaroni—dandy—exquisite—nor
corinthian, names which
mean the same thing, through all the successive changes
of folly, from the time of Queen Anne, to the present.
His manner is full of composure and gentleness. He was
educated for the bar;—was born in New-York—a few
miles from the city, I believe,—made two or three attempts
at the bar—and abandoned the profession, in despair,
from a total inability to undergo the coarse, and
continual exasperation of conflict and rivalry. His
friends have thought his modesty and timidity a disqualification—stuff!
The profession of the law is the best market
in the world for both; and, to my notion, it argues
no great degree of modesty—whatever people may say
of Cowper—Curran—Garrick, before the court as a witness—Mr.
Bayard of Delaware—or Mr. Irving of New-York—that
each and all of them, were overwhelmed
with confusion in their first attempt at speaking, in a
new situation. To my thought, it looks much more like
the natural effect, of entertaining too high an opinion of
one's self. He, who believes that all eyes are upon him
—that every thing is expected from him—that no allowances
will be made for inexperience, embarrassment and
alarm—must fail.—But he, who is modest enough, not to
attempt a miracle—nor to expect that others are looking
for one, will be likely to succeed.

Washington Irving is, emphatically, an amiable man,
without being a weak one. He takes every thing—short

of what would darken the heart of any human creature,
disappointment in love, or fame, or ambition—all in good
part; and even the rest, he takes like one, that is too good
—not too proud, to repine. In early life, I have heard it
said, that he lost the woman of his heart, by death. That
were enough to account for the beautiful shadow that
abides, forever and ever, upon the landscape of his affection.
His manner and style are his own. He is precisely
among authors, what your Westall is among painters. I
cannot imagine, and do not know a truer parallel.

He has written part of Salmagundi—Knickerbocker's
New-York—Biographical Sketches of the American
Naval Commanders, during the last war—the Sketch-Book,
and Bracebridge Hall—with sundry little things,
“Recollections of a Student” in the New Monthly—and
some criticism on Campbell, in a very sensible way.

Paulding.—A little, slender, sharp, dark-looking
man, with an expression of habitual discontent in his eyes
—strong natural talent—and a happy, though not a fine
turn, for sober irony and sarcasm. You would swear
that he was forever fretting, and quarrelling at the heart,
with all the world—from the very countenance of the
man—and that it never could be otherwise. He is the
very opposite of Irving, with whom he was associated in
making up Salmagundi; and not at all companionable,
or social. There is an air of constitutional disdain of
the world—with a great deal of artificial disdain, for
that very world, which he is continually courting, indirectly,—in
all that he does and says. Yet I would
trust to his heart, I think, rather than to Irving's, if I
wanted a friend that would go to the devil for me. He is a
fellow of strong mind—without brilliancy—and a little—
a very little playfulness: but a homebred talent—vigorous—pure
and lasting. He has written a good deal—
only a part of which, I can now call to mind—the Backwoodsman
(a poem) a satirical novel, telling the story
of our revolution—part of Salmagundi—and “Letters
from the South.” He was born in Connecticut, New-England.

Neale.—It is impossible to know this man well. I
have taken a good deal of pains to understand his character,
from those who have seen him, every day, for many
years; but no two of them seem to have the same opinion
of him. By some he is thought to be all that is bad—
short of being an outlaw; by others, all that is noble and
high of heart. The majority, by a thousand to one, are
of the former opinion. I confess, that he is continually
baffling me, in my estimate, not only of him, but of his talents,
they are so various, contradictory, and capricious.
Yet, I do believe that he has great power, and a good heart,
which, if it be not dampened by continual disappointment;
and kept down by a mighty pressure, at the hazard of
crushing all its principles of vitality, will either purify
itself, at last, in its own fires, or be consumed to ashes.
Nay—there are those who expect to see it fall in, every
hour, alleging that it has been for many years, inwardly
consuming. He is a yankee too—a self educated man—
born in Massachusetts or Maine—whose whole life has
been a tissue of wild and beautiful adventure. He was
born of poor parents; put apprentice to a shopkeeper,
without education—ran the gauntlet, it is said, through
half a dozen professions; and, finally, at the age of twenty
three or four, sat himself down to study the law, without,
at that time, understanding the rudiments of English
grammar.

He is about five feet, eight or nine—well made—light
brown hair, light complexion; small, clear, serene, blue
eyes—large mouth—very high forehead—stooping in his
gait;—about thirty now, with a settled expression of
haughtiness, and proud discontent—in his very tread-look,
and tone. His eyes are full of it—his forehead is full of
it—his voice—nay, every thing about him, gives note of
an unquiet spirit, continually at her incantations. Rouse
him, and you hear his voice, like an alarum in your
blood. He is certainly unamiable—and, in the opinion
of women, very ungenteel;—exceedingly positive, loud,
abrupt, and imperious; and yet, I am told that no human
creature is gentler—or fuller of frolick—or more of a
boy, than he, when he is at home with them that have
long known him. His contempt for the world is more

natural than that of any other man, whom I ever knew;
yet even his, I am sure, is partly affected. Else why
that continual effort for the notice of the world? Why
so ambitious?—studious?—headlong? Men may say
what they will about being above the opinion of the world.
They cannot be so. Such men would instantly die.—
They could not live for a moment in a world, about whose
opinion they cared nothing; they would be like some animal
in an exhausted receiver. They would ascend to
the skies by their own levity—their own impalpability.
The law of attraction could not operate upon such spiritualities.
No—no—the flame of ambition cannot burn for
a moment, where the breath of the world cannot reach it;
and, wherever you see an ambitious man, you may be
sure, that you have misunderstood him, or that he lied,
when he talked about a carelessness of the world's opinion.
They say that he is overbearing and quarrelsome;
and, if so, of course, he is cowardly. The public opinion
is very much against him—so far, I mean, as mere
popularity will go;—but, the most that I can learn of
evil in his character, except what is to be inferred from
general prejudice, I should be inclined to think had
grown out of his haughty temper; his vanity; his unwillingness
to soothe and conciliate, what he calls the rabble;
and a wounded and impatient spirit, sore with continual
buffeting—gored into warfare—and determined never to
yield. I ask them if he is melancholy—low spirited—or
troubled with ill-health, like other men of a literary or
poetical habit. But I am told that he is never melancholy;
never low-spirited—that he is never more than serious,
angry, or stern;—sustained by unexhaustible animal spirits---and
never sick.—If such be the case, he may do
something to redeem himself, after all. Let him learn a
little discretion---subdue his hot temper---hurry less, in
his manifestation of feeling, and---who knows if he may
not die a very decent sort of a man.

He has written more books, I believe, than are either
known or read. He can write a variety of hands---
and, in a variety of styles---but does, generally, write in
a fluent, illegible, positive, perpendicular scrawl;--and in
a style overflowing with start and turbulence. I have

seen a few pages, I confess, of his, that were full of a deep,
quiet beauty; but, in general, I would as soon think of amusing
myself, with a regiment of your horse guards, each
blowing his own trumpet with both hands, and galloping
about me, continually over a cast-iron pavement, as with
one of his furious set-to's, in what I dare say, he thinks
fine writing.

He wrote Keep Cool; Niagara; Goldau; Otho; and
was editor of the Telegraph, and one of the editors of
the Portico, I have heard, for a long time. Some other
works are attributed to him.

Everett.—This young gentleman, with a countenance
like a boy, and the ambition of a giant, is about
five feet, seven; reddish brown hair, smoothed aslant over
his forehead; and fine eyes. He is at the head of the
Everett school—a body of foolish young men, who have
counterfeited his gesture, tone, carriage, and manner of
wearing his hair. He is a man of fine talent---great pedantry;--a
rambling sort of imagination, and a sickly
taste for the ancient and obsolete. He is now the main
conductor of the North American; or, rather, the head
of a class, made up of rich young blockheads, whose fathers
were rich old blockheads; patricians, graduated and
patented, by the lump, at the University of Cambridge,
who have been endured by the publick, in the high places
of literature, till they really believe that they have a
right there.—He was a clergyman, and would be a politician.
I know nothing more of him. His works are
brief essays on Architecture---Theology---Greece---Himself---and
matters and things in general. He is a yankee,
too, about thirty. He has a brother, who, I am told, is
quite a poet---and an adventurer, in the most heroick
meaning of the term.

Pierpont.—This man is six feet high—thin—black
hair—bushy eyebrows—dark, expressive eyes—about
thirty-eight or forty—writes a hand like copperplate—
talks remarkably well—but rather too sensibly—makes
poetry in the same way, generally:—an imitator of
Campbell, Beattie, and Darwin—with a talent equal, if

not superiour, to either—and has been satisfied with doing
about a thousand lines of very pure, agreeable, quiet
rhyming, with, here and there, a magnificent burst of
light, or a vivid picture, sparkling with regular vivacity
—as much out of place— nine times out of ten—as an
eruption of rockets would be, at a concert of flutes and
pianos, where people look rather for “bottled velvet,”
than Champaigne. He is a clergyman, now—was a
merchant—after practising as a lawyer;—born in Connecticut,
New-England. Thus you perceive that our
literary men here, are nearly all New-Englanders, or
YANKEES—and, generally, under the middle size.

Dana.—Here is another of the amiable school, who,
of late years, have made pure poetry so very commonplace;
and all the pestilent inquietudes of life, so beautiful,
in their patient yielding to them, that we have no
heart to pity a man, though he be dying in a consumption,
when we have once heard the comfort and consolation,
attendant upon such a death, described by Percival
or Dana. He is a yankee—light hair—light blue eyes—
middle stature—feeble of health—and author of the Idle
Man, a work of uncommon merit. He was the editor
of the North American:—and was turned out, for writing
the best thing that ever appeared in it—a review of your
Hazlett on the British poets. Dana is a poet—but not
one of them that dazzle and confound you, by their eagle
flights—rushing, headlong, through the skies—nestling
among the stars—and roosting with constellations. He
is more swan-like; contented with floating over the blue
waters of the wilderness, through sun and shadow, starlight
and cloud—gathering wild flowers with his bosom,
while he is drifting down the current—till he falls asleep
in the ambush of his own nest—an entrenchment of water
lilies and flowering weeds. He too, was educated for
he bar.

Percival—I don't know. But I hear that he is feeble
of health—has been a doctor—a lawyer—and is about
to be an editor. He is a Connecticut man, too.

Walsh---Is a small, cold, sober, quaker-looking creature,

having a good deal of unaffected simplicity about
him, with a face well characterised; and, I should think,
from the expression, a very good sort of a man. But
more of him, by and bye. He is about five feet, six—
rather deaf---pale---dark hair and eyes---wears spectacles---talks
like a book, but without passion---and seems,
generally, a good deal dissatisfied with all the world.---
I do not know him well---personally, I mean. He is a
Marylander; and was intended for the bar.

Walter.---This young man was little known. He
had a brilliant, but confused beauty, at his heart;---a
great deal of downright poetry, and was one of the most
elegant men, in his manners, that I ever saw. I met him
once in Boston. He was educated for the ministry; but
there was more of the man of the world, in all his doings
and sayings, than of one who should be set apart from it.
His character was not fully developed when he died, although
it was at the age of twenty-six or twenty-seven.
He was five feet, ten, at least---light brown hair---large
hazle eyes---and a fine melancholy face. He wrote Sukey,
and some smaller poems. He was born in Boston, and
educated at Harvard.

Good bye---I must throw by my pencil.