University of Virginia Library

MOLTON TO STAFFORD.

I hasten to answer the rest of your letter; as I promised.

No—we have no “dramatists”---no “architects”—no
“sculptors”---no “musicians”---no “tragedians.” And
why? It is not for want of natural genius. There is
enough of that among my countrymen. It is for the
want of encouragement, riches, a crowded population,
luxury, and corruption. These arts are of the last, to
which a people turn their attention. And when we turn
ours to them, we shall succeed, as we have, in everything
else, to which we have applied our hand, seriously. I
know of more than one man, at this moment, who is capa

ble of writing a great drama. We have many builders, who
have studied architecture, and would excel, if they could
feed themselves and their families upon the cameleon diet,
meanwhile. But we have not even a pretender to sculpture.
One Spaniard,[1] (Capellano,) a man of great talent---simple
and severe---and two or three Italians, have
been among us, of considerable merit; but we have no
native Americans. Sig. Causici, a pupil of Canova,
starving at Washington, under the bounty of a whole
people, is a man of extraordinary genius; but God forgive
the men that abuse it. They employed him to make
a colossal statue of Liberty: that is, they authorized him
to make one, probably, at his own risk. He made a stupendous
cast; and was preparing his mind for an immortal
labour, when he was prevented, by a touch of the annual
epidemick---economy. But, what did the great
men at Washington? I'll tell you. They watched an
opportunity, when he was away; tore down his workshop,
(for the statue was too large to be taken out of the
door;) carried off the plaster model; and elevated it, to a
place of permanent occupation, over the Speaker's head,
in the House of Representatives; where it is yet to be
seen, an everlasting libel on our nation. The artist had
well nigh gone distracted. He told me, himself, that he
would have cut his own throat, but for the hope of being
employed in some work, that would redeem his own reputation;
and shame them and their posterity, forever.
He is a fine looking fellow, with large, clear, hazel eyes,
light brown hair, full of fire and energy; and looks far
more like a German, than like an Italian. He came
from Verona. His Baron de Kalb, a little figure about
ten inches high, is the most truly elegant and vital piece
of sculpture, that I ever saw. He made it, in consequence
of another hint from the nation, only as a model for a
full length statue, designed for the Baron, by Congress;
which design, ended with the aforesaid hint. He has
more genius, by far, than Trentenova, or Capellano; the
latter of whom has more power, but is rather a grave and
serious workman---remarkable for a certain majesty of
deportment and cold dignity, in his statuary. As for
musick, it would be ridiculous for us to think of such a
thing. It is only fit for an idle and dissolute people; and
I never see a man play well upon any instrument, or
hear him sing a good song, without recalling the kingly
rebuke of Philip to Alexander, who had just finished
playing, divinely, on a flute. Are you not ashamed, said
Philip, to play so well? No, Stafford, I feel no histility
to musick; but I would not see any American, any republican,
distinguished for it. It is the growth of corruption;
the spontaneous issue and yielding of nations in
their decay. Yet, I can relish our sweet, simple, Scotch
and Irish melodies; and when I hear Mrs. French, the
very blood of my heart bubbles, to her incantation, like
a fountain. You have never heard of her, perhaps. She
is an honour to her sex; and though I love her singing,
for its passionate, sweet modulation, in “Down the Burn
Davie, love,” and such old-fashioned airs, yet there are
others who cheer her to idolatry, for her Italian flourishes
and flings. Stafford, I cannot endure it. I cannot
bring myself to admire anything, merely for its difficulty;
and when I heard Madame Catalini, (whose
shake and trill, by the way, are not a whit better than
Mrs. French's, except in their occasionally brilliant and
rapid variety.) though she took my breath away with
her execution, yet she never touched my heart. I could
not help thinking of Rousseau's criticism upon the French
musick. The French and the English, said he, are both
ignorant of musick; but the mischief of it is, that the
former will not acknowledge it, and do not know it. They
affect to criticise all Europe---and the only notion that
they have of it, is, that it consists in violent transition
and loudness. Thus, she, who can squall the longest and
loudest, is sure to be most applauded at the French opera,
no matter how much sympathy she may excite by
her contortions; and, in the orchestra, the only peculiarity
that I can remember, is, that the whole band run,
one after the other, like so many cows gallopping, or fat
geese learning to fly—after a leader.

Somewhat of a caricature, I confess, Stafford, even
at the time that he wrote in; and I confess, also, that
some of the late French operas have been translated in
Germany and Italy. But what does that prove?---the

advance of the French? I fear not. It may, with equal
probability, prove the degeneracy of the German and
Italian school. And this, I am inclined to believe, is the
case—for, it is the nature of refinement, to evaporate, at
a certain elevation. And the artificial beauty; the exquisite
delicacies and difficulties of their musick, have
been continually approximating to that point, for the
last fifty years. A man must be a professor, to relish
some of their commonest, and simplest productions. But,
play one of their learned, or brilliant ones, to a congregation
of Americans; and they would think the performers
mad—mad as march hares. To their ears, it is the
crash of broken glass; and the wailing of bruised animal.
How different is it, with our simple Scotch melodies!
I have seen a Choctaw Chief shed tears at Bonny
Doon—but that was before it had been manufactured into
a duett; and bespattered with Italian touches. I hate
these gew-gaws, and this splendid rubbish; and, though I
recommend the practice of Italian, for the same reason that
I would bid a man, that had to carry a certain weight of
armour continually, to practise, now and then, in a
heavier suit, leaping and wrestling in it—yet, my reason
would be, not that he should spend his life in leaping
and wrestling; but that he might be more at his ease,
more graceful and dignified, in the armour that was
made for him.

And when I see a sweet girl, with lips just thrilling,
as if a live coal, from Apollo's own altar had touched
them, and a heart gushing out with melody; when I see her
mingling the graces of the Italian, with the dear Scotch,
and Irish minstrelsy—my fingers itch to be at her. I
pity her; her nature is abused; and her heart is corrupted—as
much, as if she wore paint and patches, and the
false jewelry of an Italian opera girl. But why does
she this?—why?—who are her masters? That will explain
the mystery. They are either Frenchmen or Germans;
full of passion, real or affected, for the Italian
school; or Italians themselves; all of whom mock at,
and scorn, as with something of a constitutional, and political,
hatred and derision, the sweet simplicity of our
only national musick—nay, not musick, melody.—It is

not even harmony. As a matter of art, these teachers
are right. There is no science in these melodies. But
who was ever touched, to the core of his heart, by science?
There are some things, such as eloquence, poetry, and
singing, where science is detestible. I want not to be dazzled
nor astonished, at all times. I ask only to be moved,
agitated—to delirium, if you please; and science can never
do that—it is like the flourish of a white pocket-handkerchief,
in a speaker, to apprise you, seasonably,
of his design to be pathetick. No—Nature is direct.—
Her eloquence is of the blood—the crowded sky—the
thought breaks upon you, clap after clap, till your whole
nature is disordered. Call up a mother, who has just
lost her infant—bid her tell the story—look at her—study
her. There is no wearying preparation. She repeats
the same thing, over and over again, a hundred times.—
There is no poetry; no play of the imagination, in what
she says. There is not even the simplest observance
of rule—her sentences are short—broken—exclamatory—
familiar---colloquial—vulgar, it may be, and ungrammatical.
But your tears follow---and your heart heaves to
it. Can you improve it? Take it home---dress it up
into an oration---dramatize it—and lo! the essence, that
volatile and penetrating spirit, which, from the broken
hearted mother, set all your arteries weeping, that has escaped!
Nay, go to the blacksmith, at his anvil; the farmer
at his plough; put him upon his trade. He is forcible
and direct. Has he been wronged? mark his gesture---his
eyes---his hands---the variation of its countenance
and voice. That man is eloquent. For, what is
eloquence? It is the power of convincing. And he, only,
is truly eloquent, who can convince, right or wrong.
Captivation is another thing---a fool may captivate; but
it takes a giant to convince. But more of this, by and
by, when I come to speak of our orators.

Just so, it is with musick. I cannot endure what is
artificial in it. I love only what is natural. But what is
natural? That were difficult to tell. It is what is simple,
continued, and gentle. Such are the notes of a bird.
Certain notes are continually recurring. At any rate,
if I may not define what is natural, I can easily tell

what is not. The Italian musick is not. It is the very
definition of what is not.

Our NOVELISTS—You have frequently spoken of them,
with emphasis. We have no such thing with us.—I
know not why it is; but the trade of novel writing has
been of late, as if by common consent, relinquished by
men of genius and power, to women and children; and
if, now and then, a tolerable affair comes out, like these
late Scotch novels, all the world seems to run mad after
it.—It is surely not well considered, this thing. Is
it Stafford? There is no class of literature, which may
be made to have; nay which has, in reality, such an influence—upon
society;—and, if a man, who had the
strength and vividness, of a dramatist, and a poet, were
called upon to reflect and to choose, that mode of writing,
which would be most likely, if he were truly
powerful, to give him the widest theatre for a display of
that power, it is my deliberate opinion that he would
choose a novel;—and yet, in whose hands do we find this
body of our literature?—In the feeble of heart—and the
faint of spirit-the gossipping and childish. Now and then,
it is true, a Godwin will break the seals, and invoke the
genii to ascend; but it is with an uncertain aim; and
as if he were not proud of the office. So too, there is a
Maturin—he might do well; but he is haunted by the
spirit of Byron, and the devil himself, at the same time.
Such men are out of their element—novels might be
made, yet, full of distinctness; full of reality, yet carrying
the marvellous in every page.

But in our country, there is every thing to discourage
a novelist—nothing to incite him. The very name of
having written a novel—although the wise and reflecting
acknowledge, that no literature hath such an influence
upon our language, and manners—none such fascination,—for,
in its witchery, it surpasses the stage—
and is read, secretly, by them that read nothing else—
and them that are not permitted to visit the theatre—and
none so wants to be purged and purified—yet the very
name of a novel writer would be a perpetual reproach
to a man of genius.—Would that some one would arise!
and laugh to scorn, the presumption and folly, of this doc

trine—and trample it under his feet! What is to prevent
him, even in America? We have no old castles—
no banditti—no shadow of a thousand years to penetrate
—but what of that. We have men, and women—creatures
that God himself hath fashioned and filled with
character. And what more do we want? By heaven,
Stafford, if I had the power, I would, myself, set
about the work, before I slept:—I would take up
the tale, with the events of this very day—and I
would dare to say, to them that, questioned me.—Lo!
here is a proof, that we want no traditions—no antiquity—nothing
but tolerable power, to tell you a tale
that shall thrill to your marrow—and that too, without
borrowing from anybody, or imitating anybody.—You
laugh at my enthusiasm. I am sure of it. But why
need we go back to the past for our heroes?—There
is no such necessity; and he who shall first dare to
grapple with the present, will triumph, in this country.
Remember, my prediction.

Another very serious reason why, whatever were
the merit of our writers, we could not enter into
competition with the men of Europe is, that we cannot
afford to write for nothing; and yet, if we would
write for nothing; and give the copy right of a novel,
for instance, to a publisher, it would still be a perilous
adventure to him. Shall I tell you the reason?
Our booksellers here can publish your costliest poems,
and novels, and dramas, without any expense for
the copy-right. You give Byron or Moore five thousand
guineas [2] for a poem; and, in forty days, there
will be an American edition published here, for the copy
right of which, our publishers have not given a
cent. Names will sell anything. We all know that.
Here is a poem, for example, of Walter Scott, for sale
in Philadelphia, at this moment, called Hallidon Hill,
which, I venture to say, has not been read, by twenty
people in the city. And yet, the time was, when the
man who should have predicted such a thing, would
have been hooted at for a fool, or a madman. Then,
Walter Scott was, “the greatest poet in the world.”—

Now, he is not thought of, as a poet. Then, he had a
name—now, he has no name at all—as a poet. The
consequence, you will perceive, of this practice in our
country, is, that, until the authors, or publishers of European
works, have the wisdom to take out copy-rights
in this country, their reputation will be at our mercy;
they will be subject to all sorts of bookselling piracy
and trick; they will get nothing of the vast profit,
that is obtained here, by the sale of their works; and
our native authors cannot contend with them for a
day; because, it is more profitable for a bookseller, in
America, to re-publish established works, of established
authors, when the publick in England have already
past judgment upon them, and there is therefore no
risk in re-publishing them here, than to publish native
works, though they be made a present of the copy-right.

But will this last forever? No. The time is rapidly
approaching, when, it will be enough to sell a work, if
it be called American. We are getting to feel a national
pride; and men are already beginning to put in their title
pages, “by an American”—and “an American Tale”
—words, that, a few years ago, would have been as
politick, as “by a Choctaw”—or “or a Narraganset tale.”

You have heard of Charles Brockden Brown. Your
reviewers, two or three years ago, took into their
heads to call him a great novelist. He deserves the
name. Yet we, his countrymen, never knew it. He
lived and died in obscurity. His works, which amounted
to about ten or a dozen volumes, are not to be
found in America; or, rather American editions of
them are not to be found. In every publick library, to
be sure. London editions are to be had. Whenever his
name is mentioned here, at this time, you hear it accompanied
with some proud epithet; and yet, he is literally
unknown to us. Few, even of our literary men
have read him; although our North American Review,
very gallantly, undertook his resuscitation—but how?
—feebly enough—and when?---not till he had undergone
an apotheosis, at London. There is our courage.
A native author, over whose grave we have been

walking for twenty years, without any emotion, has
been dug up, and embalmed abroad---and lo, we have
to go to another people even yet, to understand who,
or what he was. We call him great, not because we
have read him---not because he was great; but, because
foreign Reviewers have called him so.---Oh, we are a
base and treacherous people—base to the reputation of
our fathers; and treacherous to the inheritance of our
children. We suffer all men to dictate us—in that empire,
where God never meant man to be dictated to,—in
the empire of genius.

Shall I give you my notion of Brown? I will. But
first, let me inform you, that he wrote piece-meal, for
the periodical papers of the day; and that, his tales
were often issued, one volume at a time, by different
publishers; so that you can find an interval of several
years between the first and second volume of some.

Brown was too much addicted to Godwin. That
was the greatest fault. But he was altogether superiour
to Godwin, in the appaling distinctness of that manner,
by which he made very trifling incidents of importance
enough to occupy your whole heart and soul, for
many pages. Like Godwin, he sought to make you
think with him—accompany him—at every step. He
was not content with telling a story to an audience—he
acted it. His novels are not so much narratives, as they
are dramas—long, continued soliloquies, which you are
made to overhear, in your participation. He is daringly
improbable; and continually forgetful of what is past.
Events occur without any order or design—he affects to
explain them, and yet he leaves you, as in Wieland, with
a feeble, teasing dissatisfaction at your heart, as if you
had been listening to one that could not get himself out of a
scrape, except by affronting your good sense, or by remaining
obstinately silent. This might be well, if there
were any dignity about the feeling; but there is not.—
It is not a yearning to know, what is to become of such
and such a character; or how such an incident took place;
but merely a kind of self reproach, that you have been
held in thraldom so long, with so little art. Occasionally
too, a simple incident, will occur so frequently, and be
made so much of, as to excite a suspicion of its reality.

Thus, in Clara Howard, I believe; and in Ormond; and in
Edgar Huntly, there is the same bill of exchange and misapplication
of money, with much the same reflections.
The incident is too natural; and the pertinacity of the author
suspicious. It not only leads one to doubt his invention,
but to believe that, some such incident must have
happened to himself, in reality; for men are apt to make
their own calamities, a little more conspicuous, than
they ought to be. I could mention some other faults of
the same kind; but it gives me more pleasure to think
of his excellencies; contrary to my general rule, which is,
to look for the bad in what is good; and, for the good,
in what is bad—for faults, in the work of a master; and
for beauties, in the labour of inferiour genius. My first
canon in criticism, is to discover, if I can, what was the
object of the artist. Till I have discovered that, I am
dumb. If he have done what he attempted, he must be
praised, whatever were his attempt. We may dislike
his taste; condemn his judgment; but, we cannot pretend
to say, that he has not that—which, of itself, is greatness
—the power to do what he undertakes. It is hard to
condemn a man for not doing, what be never attempted.

By this canon, let us try Brown. He attempts only
to agitate, for a time. He succeeds. He has no poetry
in his heart—or, at least, nothing that the world mistake
for poetry, the beautiful and pathetick:—the tender or
dazzling: but he is altogether compounded of the distinct
and earnest; the expressive and terrible in morals. He
is never humorous—never rhetorical—never splendid;
he never attempts the descriptive, except it be the descriptive
in passion, which he shows, rather by its effect;
and in its meditation, than by any detail. He is generally
mild, and thoughtful; or profound, and direct; but,
often very sedate, and very dull. Extraordinary things
occur continually, for no other purpose, it would seem,
than that the author might make his hero meditate aloud,
for a time, upon the mystery:—and this propensity
Brown was undoubtedly led into, by his love of Godwin
and his Caleb Williams; but he forgot that, throughout
that admirable novel, there is a continuity of design,
which will not permit you to doubt the scope of any incident,

however trivial. What Brown might have been,
but for Godwin, it were easy to say. He would have been
only a narrator of marvellous tales, chiefly remarkable for
plain, direct management, and a tone of serious conviction,
as if he believed what he was saying. What he would
have been, after having his mind imbued with the dark,
and beautiful waywardness of Godwin, whose faculty
of making trifles momentous and tragical; and improbabilities
probable, was never equalled by any other
man, if he had not yielded himself too unreservedly, in
his admiration of him; and become an imitator in all his
forcible works, it would have been no difficult matter to
foretel. He would have been one of the few great novel writers
that the world has ever seen. No one would have had a
more distinct and formidable character. No one would
have dealt more unqualifiedly, or more unsparingly, with
the terrible and the dramatick. As it is—Charles Brockden
Brown does not deserve his present reputation.—
His Clara Howard and Jane Talbot are paltry tales,
distinguishable only from the mass of such productions,
by a more thoughtful tone, and heavier probability. His
Edgar Huntly is a tissue of agitating adventures, put
together in patch work, with amazing talent at times;
and, again, at other times, with a slovenly and shameful
indifference. His Ormond, or the Secret Witness,
does not correspond at all with the title. One would believe
that he had written the work, without having once
thought of title; and that, then, he had put in a little note
containing the only incident, where anything like a
Secret Witness may be found, merely as a kind of justification
for the title. His Arthur Mervyn and Wieland
have some awful features in them—but they are
frightfully indistinct; and his principal character is always
the same---always Carwin---always an adventurer---and
always doing what you cannot expect. Thus,
the hero of Arthur Mervyn, we are led to believe at one
time, will prove to have been the schoolmaster, who many
years before, had destroyed Arthur's own sister. There
cannot be the least doubt, that it was the intention of
Brown to follow up the hint, at the time; but he forgot it,
when he took up the tale again; and has left us to complain
of his having invaded the unity of his own design, and
forgotten his own purpose, in a very childish manner.

But let me forbear. You perhaps have heard of the
Spy. There is another imitator. The author has fallen
so much into the manner of the Scot, that, if there
were some good tedious Scotch dialogue in it, few people
would he able to detect the counterfeit. It is a very
good novel; but they are making such a fuss about it
here, that we shall become ridiculous abroad, when they
come to read it, where the Scotch Pedlar, in the Antiquary
(the original of the Spy,) has been before. The Spy,
like the Pedlar, is omnipresent; always appearing when
not expected—nor wanted. Some parts are capital—the
death of the Skinner—the character of the Irish woman;
some of her dialogue; the escape of Wharton, after he
gets into the saddle:—and some points in the men of Virginia.
But, as in the Waverly writer, there is a distressing
barrenness of invention; and no poetry at all. The
two principal characters escape from death, by a similar
expedient; one, in the disguise of an old woman; and the
other in that of a negro; and that too, from the centre of
an armed camp, with watchful sentinels all about.
Whenever the author is in a scrape, too, he sets fire to
the chief mansion house—or introduces General Washington—as
if, just on the point of doing some very foolish
thing—and deterred from it, page after page, by some
impertinent trick of authorship, to prolong the tale, and
protract the catastrophe; just as if his manuscript had
fallen short of his contract with the printer—and then:
too, Washington—George Washington is profanely introduced;
and always profanely employed, in situations
totally unworthy of him—perilous—foolish—and ridiculously
mysterious;—and the Spy is made to outlive the
times—and fight and die in the war of 1812—which was
another after thought.

Every thing is done for effect. Some fine incidents
occur; but they are too often clap traps, stage incidents.
A woman, for example, is shot through the heart—and
dies, the Lord knows why. It does not help the catastrophe,
except that it lightens the obligation of the author,
who has no talent in the pathetick, or passionate,

though a good deal in the humorous, and an uncommonly
fine one, in the descriptive—not of the human
heart, but of nature—and the individual things—of nature.
The Spy too, when hunted for his life, is made
to fire at people, and then throw away his gun, merely to
terrify them: to sit upon a rock, and eat chinquipin berries
within pistol shot, almost, of his mortal enemies—to talk
wildly about his father, without telling us why, although
great interest is excited—and we are made to expect an
important result; and finally, to destroy a protection given
to him by Washington, at the very moment when it was
to be used—aye, when that case of mortal emergency
had arrived, which was the only object of the protection,
where nothing else could save him—the Spy—merely that
he might utter a few mysterious words, and make a stage
flourish, pulled it out of his pocket, and swallowed it.
—Such tricks are contemptible. The author, I hope,
will never repeat them. He has good talent, as I have
already said—but he must not believe what the people
tell him of it. It is not a great talent—and never will be.
He wants originality—passion—poetry—and eloquence.

His Precaution, the first of his novels, no mortal,
but a critick, could get through with. It is a tedious, intertangled,
boarding school tale. His Pioneers (by the
way, I would have you remark the order of these productions—
Precaution—the Spy—the Pioneers—and the
Pilot—one would believe that he meant to lead his
countrymen into an enemy's territory,) which is just
abroad, has disappointed the sensible and “thinking
people” prodigiously. The first volume is mere stuff—
laboriously beaten out; but the second is very good.
Most of the characters of the Spy are repeated. And some,
under the same names. Sergeant Hallester and wife,
for instance;--and then, there is the same old maid; and the
yankee, from Connecticut, in both—and the same negro
in both:—and one character taken from Brace-Bridge
Hall (I mean the character, if it may be called one, of
Mr. Jones, who is the identical bachelor of Irving,) and
another compounded from Rip Van Winkle, and the vagabond
itinerant; the former of which Irving, himself,
borrowed, or stole from an old German tale, which I remember.

There is a battle too, surprisingly after the
fashion of Irving in Knickerbocker, to avoid bloodshed.
There is a Frenchman, however, in the Pioneers, who
talks not only broken English, but broken French
enough, to convince you that the author is not at all familiar
with the French; and a Sailor, whose character
is well supported; but whose language is a compilation
of sea phrases;—and both appear to have been made up,
without understanding their application, from some
wretched vocabulary. Elizabeth is a fool—Miss Grant,
who was meant to be the heroine, is let alone, at last, in
a laughable, author-like way, as if she were forgotten.
But there are some capital things in it--capital. The fire
on the mountain, which, to be sure, is too exceedingly
like the sea-shore escape in the Antiquary—where, for
the Beggar, we are to read the Indian Leatherstocking;—the
death of the catamount---the shad fishery, (too
like the whale-killing in the Pirate, though)—and the
christmas shooting, which is faithful and masterly—and
the stag hunt—are equal to any thing in the history of
novel writing, for vivid description. They are, to be
sure, not overpowering—but they are very distinct; and
even sublime, circumstantial, and terrible, now and then.

But the best joke, after all, is—and I will put my reputation
on the fact (being anonymous!) that the Wilderness,
a Tale of Braddock's Times, is another novel by
the author of the Spy and Pioneers. I have heard nobody
say so. I have never heard it conjectured—but I
am sure of it. The style is the same—the chief incidents
the same (the death of the catamount and the
death of the Indian, after the Rhoderick Dhu school
—and the extracting of a ball, two or three times,
are the same)—the character the same—an Irishman,
who talks tolerable Irish—another, who talks just about
as much like a Scot, as the sailor does, like a sailor, in
the Pioneers; and a Frenchman, who talks anything but
French. How pleasant it is. Mr. Walsh, I dare say,
has never read the Wilderness—or, if he have read it,
has thought it, what it is, a paltry tale—utterly destitute
of merit,—and yet, had the title page borne the legend,
“By the author of the Spy,” he would have thought

it, no doubt, quite an honour to the country. I say first,
that it is—by the author of the Spy. I care not who
contradicts me; and I say secondly, that it is better than
Precaution—and as good as nine tenths of the Spy and
the Pioneers—and in style, precisely the same. So
much for a name.—

On the whole, however, I am afraid that the author
has done himself up; and I feel sure that, if his Pilot be
not worth a dozen of the Pioneers and Spy, that he will
be overhaled with claws of iron, by his warmest admirers.
At present, they expect too much. Of course,
they must be disappointed.

But the most amusing part is yet to come. I have
heard two of these very works attributed to the author of
Niagara, Goldau, and Otho, of whom I have already spoken:
nay, I have heard a man say, that he knew him to be
the author of the Spy. I smiled; because, if I understand
that writer's character, he could not have written either
of them;—and if his pride and vanity be, what they are
said to be, he would never have published them, if he
had written them; he would consider them as altogether
beneath him. And this reminds me of another report,
which, I confess, to be far more probable, that he is the
author of Logan and Seventy-six, of which I have already
given you my hasty opinion. They have been
ascribed to several; but to no one, so generally, or with
such pertinacity, as to him. But are they his? Let us
examine the evidence. It is conceded that they are
both the production of the same person, not so much
from any unequivocal internal evidence, as from the fact,
that the author of Seventy-six avows himself to be the
author of Logan.

The reasons that I have heard assigned, in proof that
he is the author, are, chiefly, the following:—First, the
style:—secondly, the incidents:—thirdly, the general
opinion of the publick:----and, fourthly, the fact that he
does not deny the authorship.

And first, for the style. I admit that the style of this
author is very remarkable. And yet, how varied it is.
In the length of twenty pages, you will find a variety of
different styles; now argumentative, and now declamatory;—now

broken and abrupt, and now, mild, temperate,
and well sustained. For myself, I cannot deny,
that I like his writing, with all its passion, vehemence,
brokenness and extravagance; because, I have persuaded
myself, that he, who agitates me, must himself be
agitated. But grant, if you will, that his style is very
remarkable, and very faulty. Is it not, for that very
reason, the more easily imitated? Great peculiarities are
easily counterfeited. Lord Byron—Dr. Johnson—M.
G. Lewis have been successfully imitated. The profoundest
men of the time—criticks—were deceived by
Irelands' imitations of Shakspeare. And Bonaparte
confessed, that a spurious work, purporting to be
written by himself, was so amazingly like him, that
it might not only deceive others; but, that there were
passages capable of deceiving himself. I can readily
believe this. I would undertake to imitate the style
of any man, if he be at all remarkable, in prose or poetry,
so as to deceive any critick. And this, if you
please, my dear Stafford, does not imply any equality;
but rather a little ingenuity in the imitator. He has
but to seize on the peculiarities of the writer, and obtrude
them, continually, in as adroit a manner as he
can, to be sure, upon the reader. There never was a
greater blockhead than he, who, for a time palmed off
certain minor poems upon your publick, and ours, for
the poetry of Byron.—The Farewell to England is one
of the number, I believe, that yet passes for a genuine
Byron. I do not distinctly recollect, but I believe that
that is one of several, which passed for Byron's, from
the first, and which were avowed by the author, who
was an Englishman, in his preface to a volume of
wretched stuff that he published in Philadelphia, a year
or two ago.

Is it safe then, to depend so confidently upon style;
particularly where that style is remarkable, chiefly
for peculiarities, that are so very easily imitated, as
abruptness—boldness and arrogance. As we grow older,
do we not become more distrustful of all evidence?
Do we not learn that, to copy is one thing; and
to imitate, another; and that, even copies, in painting for

example, are not infallibly known; and that imitations,
by a tolerable artist, of a great master, are far more
difficult to detect; and may pass through the whole
world for original. How long, for instance, has the
world gone on ascribing the Venus de Medicis to Praxitiles,—and
yet, we are now beginning to believe that
it is not his—and that, all the sculpture, within our
reach, is but the workmanship of a degenerate age.

Style and manner then, are not to be depended upon,
so implicitly, as they would seem to be, at the first glance.
Men are unequal. Men of genius are particularly so:
consequently, they are more easily imitated—and their
imitations are more difficult to detect. The author of
Niagara and Otho is, certainly, a man of genius. That
will not be denied. Every page is full of inequality,
confusion, and darkness. It is easy to be unequal,
confused and dark. Logan is remarkably so.—I can
take passage after passage from Logan; and compare
them together, before your eyes; and you will perceive
that they are as unlike each other, as any two things
that were ever written. At most, therefore, if you depend
upon style, you will be driven to admit that all of Logan,
and Seventy-six cannot have been written by the
same person—nor by the author of Goldau, and Otho;
and Niagara.

But let me come to facts. I can refer to several articles
in Blackwood's Magazine; and to several in the
Monthly Magazine; altogether in a similar style, and
particularly to one in the latter, respecting hypochondria,
from the use of opium, which appeared simultaneously
with Logan, that—if we might depend upon style,
and even thought, one might swear was written by the same
man; nay, I have heard it almost sworn to, by an
acute critick, and an intimate friend of Mr. Neal.
And yet—I have good reason to believe that Mr. N.
is not the author of any one of them.

Well then—we cannot depend upon similarity of style.
It proves too much. It is only a circumstance; but, as
a circumstance, entitled to great consideration, I admit.

The next question is—whether we can depend upon
the incidents. Many of them are said to be incidents
of his own life:—and the people who know him, pretend
to find in it, his own wayward and adventurous
journeying, shadowed throughout. Who can believe
this? What would be more ridiculous? Yet nothing
is more common. I have been gravely informed that
the character of Echo in Keep Cool, is a faithful portrait
of the author; and seriously assured by one, who
knew all the parties well, that all the characters were
real; and that Earnest, in the same novel, was drawn by
the author, for himself!

I would ask what are the incidents in Logan? are
they very remarkable? are they known? Certainly—
they must be known, or who could recognize them in
a novel? Is the author a fool or a madman? The
world are divided in their opinion, perhaps. There
are many, it is true, who believe him to be both; but
I am not of that number. These incidents are known
—there can be no doubt of it; and they must be remarkable,
or nobody would remember them:—consequently,
they are the legitimate property of the publick,
and subject to the appropriation of any novel-writer,
whatever.—I have heard a good deal of them;
and if they be true, it would be rather difficult, I think,
for any man to persuade the world, that an author
would so far publish his own shame; or so foolishly
imitate the notorious Byron, who is always the hero
of his own tale, as the world are charitable enough
to believe—or to declare, whether they believe it, or
not: and last of all, an author so ridiculously extravagant
as Mr. Neal, in his love of originality.

But remarkable as the incidents in question are—
I am told of two facts, that go a good way to destroy
my confidence in their testimony.

The first is, that, when Lady Morgan's Florence
McCarthy appeared, I am assured, that the friends of
this very Mr. Neal, found his portrait, in the ridiculous
coxcomb, De Vere. I believe this; because I have
been told so, by two literary men, who were in habits of
intimacy with him. And they both spoke of it, as a

portrait. One extraordinary coincidence certainly does
appear in that character. De Vere, very unnecessarily,
is made to mention his birth day.—Who ever thought
of such a thing. It was the twenty-fifth of August.---
It is odd enough that Mr. Neal was born on that very
day. De Vere, you know, was a bad drawing of Lord
Byron. So too was Glenarvon, which, by the way,
in America, has been charged to Mr. N. as one of his
productions,---beside being admitted by many, to contain
a portrait of him, in the character of the scoundrel,
who is the hero.

But the best of all is---that, about the time when, it is
alleged, that certain transactions occurred in his life,
which, for his own sake, he should have been discreet
enough, if they have not been misrepresented to me, to
keep forever concealed; there was a novel—a pious, dull
thing—with some very fine parts in it, called No Fiction—which
made its appearance; narrating, with an
accuracy, almost too astonishing for belief, if it were
accidental, merely, the very same incidents, which are
the ground, on which he is charged with the authorship
of Logan. And yet—that was accidental, I verily
believe. In fact, it must have been so—unless he
were the author; or knew of its publication, at least;
for, it appeared in London before the transactions occurred
in America, which are so exceedingly like a part,
that are related in the book.

Can we depend now—upon these incidents—or resemblances
of character? More remarkable ones have occurred,
we see, where there can be no doubt of their
having been accidental.

But, it is not even necessary to suppose that they
were accidental. If I am rightly informed, Mr. N. who
is really thought to be a downright madman, with an
occasional lucid interval, by many people in the city
where he is living—has made no secret of them.—
He has spoken and written freely of them, but not ostentatiously,
if I may judge by one of his letters, which I
have seen. What would have been easier, therefore, than,
for another person to introduce them; and colour and
exaggerate them; and then—for nothing is more common,

to circulate a report that they were not altogether
imaginary, merely to give the work a run: for, we all
know, that the obscurity or insignificance, of the unfortunate
or wayward, are not always an antidote to the
publick appetite for the exciting and uncommon.

So far then, we have gone into the examination of
the two chief witnesses. Give them all their weight;
and, to what do they amount? The style is equivocal;
and the incidents publick property; and the coincidences,
not so remarkable, as others that were not, and could not
have been, other than accidental.

Let us now look at the publick opinion. Can we
depend upon that? No. The longer we live, the more
doubtful we become of our own judgment, in matters of
mere taste. Of what weight then, should be the judgment
of the mob? I know that they have ascribed many
things to people, that never wrote them. I have reason
to believe—that Mr. N. has had volumes attributed
to him, that he never saw; and that much of his writing
has been attributed to other men. So it is, with
all authors. Of my own knowledge, I know that he is
not the author of one work, that has been ascribed to
him; and that he is the author of one more, that is ascribed
to another man. This, I happen to know.

But why does'nt he deny it! say the world. That
were very easy, one would think. But, without seeking
to account for his not denying it; I can readily
give many reasons, why any man might not deny it.
In the first place, in a country like ours, where there
are so few authors, and they universally known; it is
common to ascribe any new publication, in the newspapers
of the day, to one or the other, immediately, on
its appearance. In this way, if each take the trouble
to deny the authorship, he soon reduces the real author
to the necessity of standing alone. A man might
regard the work so attributed to him, as beneath his
genius; and then, if he were really a man, he would
disdain to contradict a report, that would more naturally
perish of itself, than by any attempt of his, to destroy
it: or, he might think it an honour to him; and, if
a vain man, or a mischievous one,—or one that was

willing to promote the concealment of the author, he
would never deny it. Or—he might really know the
author—have contributed, perhaps, a very little to the
work—or written the preface—(as I have known to be
done, in Allen's Revolution)—or corrected the proofs.
On either of which suppositions, he would be held to
such a course, as would best avoid publick remark or
inquiry—publick newspaper speculation;—for,---when
the friend is known—or the corrector of the press—or
the writer of the preface, it is no very difficult matter
to find the author. The difficulty of concealment then
would be immeasurably augmented. Conjecture would
amount to certainty. But there is yet another reason,
why a man might refrain from denying the authorship
of any work. By continually denying whatever was
wrongly ascribed to him, he would put it out of his power
ever to write anonymously; for, if he should refuse to deny
anything, no matter what; to no matter what impertinent
questioner---he would be immediately established, as
the author: and all would refer for proof to the fact of his
uniform denial before, on like occasions. So much for
the fact that he does not deny the authorship.[3]

But are there not other facts going, indirectly to be
sure, but very strongly, to prove that he is not the author?
He abandoned poetry some years ago; and, notwithstanding
every temptation, has never written any
since.—That would argue some self denial. He is very
ambitious, I am told; and established, in a lucrative,
and respectable practice: is very remarkable for his
diligent attention to the science and philosophy of Law
—and an indefatigable student. If this be true; and
I believe that it is; it is hardly reconcileable with the
character of a rash and headlong novel writer, which the
author of Logan and Seventy-six, most unquestionably
deserves.

Stay----I have lately heard something, which I can
depend on. Some publick paper once declared that he
was the author of Logan, Seventy-six, and some others.
I am told, that he laughed when he saw it---and said
that no human being lived, who knew him to be the author

of any work that he had not avowed, publickly, and
unhesitatingly. And the best of all is, that, while his
friends are seriously alarmed about the matter, and
anxious to vindicate his reputation from the charge of authorship,
he gives himself no kind of trouble about the
matter; and, I am told, thinks very highly of the works
themselves!

I have made a tremendous letter to be sure, dear Stafford;
it is almost a book; but when I get upon a temperate
and agreeable theme, it soothes my blood, and alleviates
the unpleasant throbbing of my arteries; and I love
to dwell upon it.

Perhaps a word or two more, on the character of these
novels, may not be amiss. The first is no novel. It is
a wild, fiery, protracted dream--a tale--not, perhaps “told
by an ideot,” not “signifying” absolutely nothing---but,
“full of sound and fury.” It would seem rather a vehicle
for the peculiar and daring opinions of the author, than,
any connected, and intentional development, of a preconceived
design. It is a great void, peopled with phantoms.
And when the author wants to terrify you; or
provoke you, by any startling paradox, or a discharge
of sky rockets, he makes the occasion, heedless of all consequences.
The whole book is full of darkness, repetition,
anachronism and extravagance. Nobody can read
it through, deliberately, as novels are to be read. You
feel fagged and fretted to death, long and long before
you foresee the termination. It is not dull---nor common
place; but it is too exciting. The author won't let you
cool off, for a moment, in your ascent. He has you, forever,
under whip and spur. We can live, year after year,
you know, on bead and water---in literature—as in diet;
but we should soon starve upon sweetmeats and cayenne
pepper. High seasoned dishes are disagreeable, after
a little time, to the jaded appetite. So, with the aliment
of the mind. So with Logan. There is material enough;
and spice and fire enough in it, for fifty volumes, such
as the populace are fond of. The author appears to have
written, only, while the fit was upon him; and always to
have forgotten, what he had already done; and, finally,
to have collected all the loose and flying fragments, and
tacked them together, any how—to make a book. To
my view, it is rather a great, troubled poem, than a

novel—and rather a common place book than either.
It is a world in confusion, where, to borrow one of his
own thoughts, the fountains of the human heart are broken
up, like the fountains of the great deep; where reptiles
are crawling about, over gold and coral;—and seagems
and skeletons are all jumbled together.

It is a torrent, that comes down upon you—thundering
through the mountains—stained with subterranean
ore; and encumbered with the wreck and ravage of a deluged
empire.

His Seventy-six, however, saving some laughable
blunders, in the way of authorship, is altogether superiour
as a novel. But I have no leisure to criticise that,
now. The first tale is told by an Indian, (a descendant
of Logan,)—the second by an old revolutionary soldier,
who gives fair notice, that he shall write just as he
pleases. Perhaps this fact may account for their incoherency;
and for an appearance, which I can only explain,
by saying that—because people, in conversation,
do not always finish their sentences, this writer does not;
and that, many pages look, as if they had been written,
without points, and without thought—and then pointed,
by a blind man, as well as they could be, at hap-hazard.

Good night.