University of Virginia Library

EDWARD MOLTON TO GEORGE STAFFORD.

Once more, dear Stafford, I find myself in communion
with you. My heart acknowledged the approximation;
and it began to vibrate with unusual spirit, while I
was tracing your name. I have experienced much since
I saw you, much to weary and chafe a nature like mine;
and something, perhaps, though not much, to darken it.
One thing I have learnt, in bitterness; and that is, that
there is a resisting power within the human heart-- a
sort of incompressibility, which renders it stern as adamant,
when it is beset, alike, on all sides. At a single
shock, it quivers to the core; to a slight pressure, it yields.
But, increase the pressure;---repeat the shock;---encompass
and envelope it, all about, with an atmosphere of
fire, and heaviness; and it beats boldly and freely again---
like something alive, in the deep water---or our pulses
in the wind. What is the property, that upholds us, at
such an hour? Is it that God hath given to us, hidden
and secret energies, which are only to be developed in
desperation? How many have died in imbecility, who,
had they been taught to wrestle upon a precipice, had
been giants? Our faculties—what do we know of them?
Do they not spring up and lighten, against oppression
and darkness; yet perish away, and wane, under the more
gentle and delicate ministering of the elements? No,
Stafford. To become acquainted with our own strength,
we must be put to it, for life and death. No man ever knew
the use of his muscles, till he had fallen from a steep,
and caught; been thrown overboard, or shipwrecked.—
We can't learn to swim on a table. Make a creature
desperate; and who can withstand it? The mother in
her ire; the wild beast in its wrath; the tamest creature
of the farm-yard; how formidable it will become, when

the instinct of its power is disturbed. So is it with us.
And it were impious to complain of those trials, which
have given manhood and aspect to our virtues. Without
affliction; without trial, discipline, and sorrow, where
was there ever a great man?—or a great virtue? Not
upon this earth. The strongly rooted are only known in
the strong wind. The great men of the world, are those,
who have arisen in her tribulation. They are sparks,
elicited by the concussion of society—convulsed and
shaken to its foundation. Let us not complain, then, my
dear Stafford, if we are visited with somewhat that gives
dignity to virtue. But let me leave this. I am now engaged
in a serious enterprise; and, as I have promised one
or two letters of this sort, it would be well, I think, to
remember them now, lest any accident, such as I have
lately escaped from, should incapacitate me.

But first, let me reply to a postscript in your last,
which I overlooked; probably, because it was written
on the very last fold of the paper. You ask what I mean
by calling all your classical writers, cockney-writers.—
Hear my answer. In the first place, your cocknies are
in the habit of dropping the h in pronunciation. So do
your classical writers. Let me convict them, out of their
own mouths. All of them are continually writing an before
words beginning with an h aspirated, as herald, heroick,
house, harlot, heaven, &c. Now this could never
have happened—(for men write by the ear, more than
by the eye; and those, who write rapidly, often say two,
for too, or to—and formally for formerly, and vice versa)
—unless they were in the habit of pronouncing these
words, in conversation, 'erald, 'eroick, 'ouse, 'arlot.
Talking-cocknies are bad enough, heaven knows;—but
what are writing-cocknies, who have time to deliberate;
and ought to know better? I cannot forgive them.

But, perhaps, you may think this an exaggeration.
Try it—take up any book that you will, from Shakspeare
down to, to—stop, here is Crabbe. Now, I defy you
to open a page, without finding one or more of these
bow-bell-provincialisms. There!—what did I tell you?
Here I find an 'oliday; an 'elping 'and; an 'ouse; an 'ill,

(for a hill;) an 'uge 'igh 'ouse; an 'eart, &c. &c. Very
well. Now, let us open the Bible. I take it down from
the shelf. I open it, by chance. I find, almost without
looking for it—for my eye is attracted by such a thing,
just as by bad spelling; or by a letter turned upside down—
“a city standing on an 'ill.” There is Burke—the great
Burke. I open at a letter to Charles Lee, Feb. 1, 1774.
“I already have an 'igh esteem,” he says. Let us try
Bacon. “Men an hungred, i. e. an 'ungered, do love to
smell hot bread,” says he. Now open Johnson's Dictionary—look
for the illustrations of any word, beginning
with h, and tell me if I have been too severe. Thus
much on that head. I proceed to allege other examples
in proof. It is exceedingly common with your classical
gentry, ancient and modern—but, especially, with the
modern, and more particularly with the poetical class—
to say wert for wast; sate for sat; drank for drunk; and
some other words, about as barbarous, for others purely
and beautifully English.

Dryden says, or said; for latterly, they have discovered
the blunder, and arrested it, at the expense of the
rhyme;—

Byron still perseveres; and so do several of your moderns,
particularly Moore and Barry Cornwall; and
all of ours, who, like Mr. Percival, are addicted, grosly,
to Byron. By the way, you have a she-poet among
you, with a more brilliant plumage, and a finer song, by
far, than any female that I ever heard of---and far superior
to most of your males. She is the author of Legends
of Lampidosa---and is called Mrs. Lehman, I believe.

Byron too, and all of that school; nay, about nine out
of ten, among all your poetical writers, ancient and modern,
are in the continual habit of saying they had drank,
for they had drunk---“Thou wert lovely,” for thou wast
lovely; corrupted from a beautiful use of the subjunctive,
wert thou lovely: and more than one, too, are in the habit
of blundering, forever, in the use of the verbs to sit

and to set---to lay and to lie. Thus, Byron writes lay,
instead of lie; for a rhyme, too, in one of those magnificent
stanzas, in his disorderly apostrophe to the Ocean,
at the end of his fourth canto, of Childe Harold.

“And dashest him again to earth---there let him lay.

Who knows, but some future commentator may reform
that; and make the line terminate in lie? It, or something
very like it, has already been done, with Dryden,
we see.

Another of the cockney-tricks, continually practised by
your great men, is this—whenever they are puzzled for
a rhyme, they change either the pronunciation of a word,
the tense, or the manner, from solemn to familiar; or, from
familiar to solemn. They will make wand rhyme with
hand—wrath with path—flood with wood;—and, choosing
the solemn style of thee and thou, for all occasions, they
cannot bear to follow it up; are willing to say thou art,
or thou wilt—but not, thou shouldst or thou wouldst; but
you should, or you would, as more manageable in poetry.
Such men will say, for example—

Or—

Does this appear so very absurd? By heaven, I can
point cut more abominable sacrifices to an indolent temper,
in any poet of your country.

I next charge all of your writers—all—I make no exception,
with a total disregard to the niceties of punctuation—nay,
with having no law at all. Dr. Blair, himself,
has no steadfast rule; and, as for the rest, they
point their own writing, in such a manner, as to prove,
that they have never thought upon the matter. Men

may differ, to be sure, in style; but, they may as well
differ in orthography, as in punctuation.

Another common blunder—which is only a refinement
upon cockneyism, among them, is of the following kind.
An abandonment of the infinitive, for some round-about
modification. They never say, for example, when they
mean, that a man expected to be at a place;—but always,
that he expected to have been; and so, too, although I admit
that to be quite an unsettled matter—they are always
blundering in the subjunctive mood. They say,
if he was, if he is, when they mean, if he were, if he be.—
The best rule perhaps, without regard to the future, is
always to use the subjunctive mood, whenever there is
any degree of doubt or uncertainty implied, or expressed,
if you can; in other words, to consider the word if, unless,
although, &c. as a sign of the subjunctive mood; in which
case, you will not be troubled, once a year, with an exception.

Another pretty trick of your classical people, is that
of leaving out the relatives, as they would poison, from
all their preparations. Blair is at the head of them, who
prefer writing nonsense, to writing which, that, whom
and who. Not many years ago, there was a foppery,
somewhat like it, very prevalent in the world of shopkeepers,
play-wrights, merchants, and manufacturers,
whose English is quite another language from the English
of other people. They left out the pronoun I; and
fancied that they could not be egotistical then, by any
possibility They would write, for example.

“Dr. Sir—Received yours of 10th ult. Happy to apprise
you. &c.” We laugh at that; but is it, one tittle, more
impertinent and foolish, than Dr. Blair's practice of leaving
out the relative? He would say, “I am happy to
inform you I am well;” or, “Sir—the man I called on,”
&c. What would one say, of a Frenchman—a scholar,
and a critick, who should write, “On m'a dit vous etes”
&c. instead of “On m'a dit que vous etes.” Yet, the
law is the same, in all languages; and, if we would feel
the ridicule properly, we should look to some language,
that has never been so corrapted, as our own.

You desire to learn something of the state of your favourite
art, here. I do not pretend, as you know, Stafford,
to understand the language of connoisseurs in the
matter; but, what I know, in the most intelligible language
that I am master of, is heartily at your service.

In the first place, you cannot be ignorant that Mr.
West; or, as you chose to call him, Sir Benjamin West,
your president, is an American. Observe, I am not
boasting of this—and, least of all, to you. But, I mention
it, as a point, from which to start, in the enumeration
of American painters. A genuine Englishman, if
you mention the fact, that Mr. West is an American born,
will “come down upon you,” as he says, with—“Ah, but
he was educated in England,” Ergo; he is an Englishman.
Just so, it was with Alexander Hamilton. We, Americans,
boasted of him, because he was nursed and bred
among us. But then, you cried out. “Ah! but he was
born in England!” So, that if he be but born, though he
never lived with you; or, if he were born here, and has
been with you for a visit, though he never dwelt among
you, you have always the modesty to claim him for an
Englishman. Nay, have you not claimed all our discoveries;
all our great men, as fast as they became conspicuous;
and, when you could not discover, that they had been in
England, or ever visited England, did you not fly to
the ridiculous expedient of accounting for their greatness,
by the operation of British laws? Thus, I remember,
that one of your reviews, remarkable for its arrogant
tone, and corrupt, barbarous English, not long since,
declared that Washington was the growth of America,
when she was a part of the British empire; and, that
since her dismemberment, she had produced no men of
such stature! inferring, of course, that a republican government,
was unfavourable to moral greatness. Had
they ever heard of Greece, and Rome?

You often boast of your superiority. I have smiled, to
hear you---even you, Stafford, whom I have heard, sometimes
forgetting the character of a well-bred Englishman,
and charging us with degeneracy. It is common to ask,
where are our Shakspeares---Miltons---Bacons---Lockes
---Newtons?

Men of England! Where is your exclusive property
in the reputation of these men? We have as free and incontestable
a title to it, as you. They are not your contemporaries.
They are not of this generation. Where
then, is your property in their fame? They stood among
your fathers. They were countrymen of your ancestors.

To this, we answer—They stood among our fathers,
too. They were the countrymen of our ancestors, too. All
the great men of Britain, who lived before our Declaration
of Independence, left, as a legacy to the whole British
empire, their crowns and sceptres; the regalia of
immortality. Till then, we were a part of that empire;
and our title, like yours, hath come to us, in the course
of descent and distribution. It is a title of inheritance,
only.

But, to the fame of men that have lived in Britain since
our revolution; to that, we abandon all claim; we ask, only
for our own. Array your strong men together. We
will array ours.---And see who overtops, or outnumbers
the other.

Yet, who shall be impartial? Not an American. No;
nor a Britain? No.---Let us appeal then, to some other
people.

Let us look among them that are able and willing to
be just. There is the National Institute of France.
How many Britons do you find there? Five. How
many Americans? Seven. Yet, you are twice as numerous
a people. Is not this a fact that speaks loudly?
But, I forhear; I allow much for national prejudice---
much, for republican partialities; but, will these account
for such a difference, where these members are all honorary
members; elected, too, the majority of them, under
a regal government; and some, in a time of actual war,
between France and America. Remember our population,
and encouragement. What are they, in comparison
with yours?

You have heard of Copely. He was a strong, homely
painter; but some of his portraits have great merit.---
There is Stuart, too; he has been among you---and you
have seen his Washington. I have seen copies of it in

Bengal, done in China. You have seen many. All are
like each other; but none are likenesses of Washington.
There is too much sublimity in the face. Stuart's
Washington, I have heard my father say, who knew him
well, was less what Washington was, than what he
ought to have been. The painter has infused into it,
an amplitude and grandeur, that were never the attributes
of Washington's face. It is true, that there was a
settled majesty;—an oppressive and great steadiness in
the countenance of Washington, that awed and confounded
men. His passions were tremendous, even in
their repose; and it was impossible to become familiar
with him, even at his own fire-side. The men that knew
him best, and had been much with him, at times, when
all mankind are brought into a kind of fellowship; in the
field of battle, and at the dinner table; in the senate chamber,
and at places of publick entertainment; always
went around him reverentially, and regarded him, afar
off, without approaching; as men might, a sleeping giant,
whom it were impossible to contemplate with composure.

Stuart says, and there is no fact more certain, that
he was a man of terrible passions; the sockets of his
eyes; the breadth of his nose and nostrils; the deep broad
expression of strength and solemnity upon his forehead,
were all a proof of this. So, Stuart painted him; and,
though a better likeness of him were shown to us, we
should reject it; for, the only idea that we now have of
George Washington, is associated with Stuart's Washington.
Yet, why should we complain? It matters not
how a picture is painted, so that the copies are multiplied
and received (if they resemble each other,) as likenesses.
There is a Mr. Charles W. Peale, of Philadelphia,
who wrought at Washington's face, at the same time
with one or two of his own sons, and somebody else: all
occupied themselves with different views, and different
features—and, out of this, has been compounded a picture,
no more like Stuart's Washington, I confess, than
“I, like Hercules.” And yet, I am well assured, that
it is a better likeness; and, indeed, the only faithful likeness
of the man, in the world. Judge Washington, himself,
I am told, has said this.

How strange it is!—Thus we get accustomed to a certain
image, no matter how it is created, by what illusion,
or under what circumstances; and we adhere to it, like a
lover to his mistress. If George Washington should appear
on earth, just as he sat to Stuart, I am sure that he
would be treated as an impostor, when compared with
Stuart's likeness of him, unless he produced his credentials.
At Mount Vernon, there is a picture of him, just after
his marriage with Mrs. Custis[1] . I have studied it
with attention. It is that of an ordinary man. There
is not a single feature, or expression of greatness in it.
Yet it is said to have been a remarkable likeness. I
have often thought of the probable reception which that
picture would meet with, if exhibited, now, as the portrait
of Washington. It would be laughed at. I say—
of what importance is it, whether Stuart's portrait of
him be a likeness or not, so that all the portraits of him,
are by Stuart, or copies of Stuart. It matters not, for
example, how a word may be pronounced, so that all
agree to pronounce it the same way. So too, say the
lawyers, it often matters not what the law is, so that there is
a law. And how know we that the pictures of Napoleon,
which we have seen, are likeness of him? He never sat
but once; and then, only for a few minutes to Gérard;
and, during the whole time, kept walking about the room,
with a cup of coffee in his hand. The artist lost his temper,
as well he might, and painted the sketch only from
memory. Yet, if they are alike, we are satisfied.---
Thus too, we get a strange notion of nature, from
certain standards. A man goes to the theatre for the
first time. He sees the first actor of the age. All his
conceptions of nature are outraged. The passions are
all caricatured; the sentiment exaggerated. Again, he
visits a theatre—he sees some other actor. He no
longer thinks of nature—he only thinks of the stage.—
Instead of comparing this man's performance with the
conceptions of his own mind, he compares it now with
the acting that he had seen before. In time, he thus acquires
a theatrical nature—a nature totally unlike and

distinct from the naked and great nature of humanity.
To this standard—that of his favourite actor, he applies
all other acting. The test is insupportable. It is ridiculous.
It is that spirit, which makes men always believe
that the first way, in which they have heard a story,
is the true one:—that their way is right; and all the rest
of the worlds' wrong. Thus you have heard the same
song sung to a dozen different tunes, and as many different
words; and the same story located[2] in a dozen
places, by as many people, each of whom verily believed
that it happened where, and when, and how, exactly as he
had heard it. Thus, a man inexperienced in the art of
painting, is shown a landscape. He examines it. There
is not a spot of bright green in the whole picture. He
retreats—he recognizes some familiar prospect. Yet—
it is not nature. But who is the master? Claude Loraine—Ah—“Well,
really it is very natural!” and,
ever after, instead of comparing pictures of the green
earth, with the green earth itself, he compares them with
the green earth of Loraine. Merciful powers---whither
have I rambled. I began with the head of Washington
—and I have followed I know not whom, round the
whole world.

I meant to give you a history of our paintings—and,
to-morrow, if I have leisure, I will attempt it; but at
present, as I am upon the character of George Washington,
I will try to set you right on some of your opinions.
Your theory has always been, that our faults are
in proportion to our virtues. And you have regarded
him as an exception—an anamoly in nature. You were
mis-informed, Stafford. George Washington had his
faults; and they were terrible. Nay—did he never blunder;
and grievously too, in his warfare?—Look at the
escape of Long Island. It was a desperate and unmilitary
affair. He exposed his whole army to destruction,
in case of defeat. But these are not the faults, of which
I speak. They are of a deeper nature—they are constitutional.
His temper was the whirlwind in its wrath.

Let me give you some examples. At Kipp's Bay, immediately
after the battle on Brookline heights, on Long
Island—he lost all command of himself. His men behaved
like cowards; and Washington flung the reins
loose upon his horse's neck,—and struck at his men with
his sword; and snapped his pistols at them;—nay,
would infallibly have been taken prisoner, had not his
family officers seized his horse's head, by force, and
turned him back.

Again—while the enemy were storming Fort Washington,
he, with his principal officers, embarked in an
open boat, from fort Lee, on the opposite shore of the North
river; and they were all in a fair way of being captured,
every man of them, when he came to his senses—and returned.

Numerous examples are given of his violence; but they
are mere personal affairs:—yet his conduct at the battle
of Monmouth—his treatment of Hamilton—his rashness
at Princeton—all this, show that George Washington
had his infirmities, in the same measure as his virtues.
And thanks be to God, that he had! Now we have an example
to encourage us. Were he perfect, we should be
repelled, intimidated and discouraged. You will be astonished,
Stafford, to hear that his character is not understood
by his own countrymen; but it is not. They
have so long listened to hyperbolical eulogy, intemperate,
and unmeaning praise, that he has lost to their eyes,
the chief attributes of humanity—and become a God.
For shame—Gods are manufactured by the feeble of
mind, who, having no discrimination, no power of analysis;
find it easier to take all their clay from one bank,
than to compound it judiciously, of many, when they
would exhibit the workmanship of their hands. Good
night. To-morrow, in the same rambling way, I shall
probably, undertake an account of our paintings—and
painters. If I do it not, to-morrow, I hardly know when
I shall be able to do it—for that will be a leisure and
anxious day to me; as I am waiting the crisis of a tremendous
disorder.