University of Virginia Library

Nobody to trouble me, this morning, dear Stafford, so
that, without recurring to our novels, which I am heartily
tired of, I have some hope of being able to scribble
awhile longer upon our national literature.

Oh—the editor of the Galaxy. I had forgotten him,
again. His name is Buckingham. He is a strong minded
man; very honest, very sincere, and very obstinate.---
You are mistaken about his hostility to your countrymen.
He makes battle only with such of you, as are
eternally growling, like your own bull-dogs, at everything
American; and with the runaway English, who come
here to abuse us, and snarl at us, and pick our pockets.
He is a man of no education—was, for a short time, an
humble performer upon an humble provincial theatre—
then, a printer—and is now, editor and printer of a paper,
that, if he stick to it, as I think he will, must be a fortune
to him. He is a bold writer—sometimes an eloquent one;

a good reasoner—but too fond of going all lengths, when
not required; but he, even he, is not a man of a genuine,
natural, inward love or relish, for poetry. He might
have been, (as the editor of the Charleston Courier is,)
but it is too late now. He is a thousand times more than
he would believe, under the influence of education. The
finest thing in the world—prose or poetry—would run
an equal chance of being damned, by him, up hill and
down—from beginning to end;—or praised, in the same
way, without any qualification or doubt—as it happened
to be read, by him, before anybody else had expressed
an opinion—or after another, a rival editor, had praised
or censured it;—or, as the thermometer happened to be
higher or lower;—or, himself interrupted, a greater or
less number of times, while reading it. There is no calculation
to be made upon his opinion of anything. It
does'nt depend, in any degree, upon the subject itself; but
upon the state of the atmosphere, for the time—the source
through which the matter comes to him—the state of his
paper for the week—whether full or empty—the style,
in general, of his writing for the same week—whether
bitter or pleasant—whether he have set his teeth into
many or few; and, in short, upon anything and everything,
but the true merit of the question itself. His first
inquiry would be—not—How shall I treat this man, or
this question, or this book, on account of its real character.
But—how shall I treat it, or him, so as to excite
the most astonishment? Suppose it a book:—the
question is not, how shall I speak of it, on account of
the work itself; or the readers of it; or the author—but,
how shall I speak of it, to avail the New-England
Galaxy, the Editor, and the Readers, thereof. Yet,
after all, why should we scold him? All reviewers do
the same thing.

Our Political Writers are worthy of all praise.
They are apt to be too declamatory and boastful
to be sure; but, in general, their writings abound in a
more rational, practical, comprehensive, and profound
knowledge of what they are talking about, than those of
any other politicians that I know—except Aristotle—
who is, after all, the fountain of wisdom on that subject.

We have many writers, too, on political economy, of

great merit—plain, practical men; at the head of whom,
since Alexander Hamilton's day, stand Matthew Carey,
and Daniel Raymond;—the first of whom, is, undoubtedly,
the most useful writer of the time; and the latter,
except that he is a little too flippant—as most young men
are, when contending with established authority, and rebelling
against it—even to bloodshed—disdaining to
qualify or dilute—in his manner of treating Adam Smith,
abounds in more sensible, original, and rational views
on political economy, than any writer—who has not
made it the study of his whole life:—nay, that you may
not think my good opinion too much qualified by that, I
will add, that he has done more than any other man—
fifty times more than Lauderdale—in exposing the mischief
and fallacy of Adam Smith's wealth of Nations—
that text book and Bible—that urim and thummim of
the high priest of political economy—with the lovers of
theory and hypothesis.[1]

You mention our Historians. We have half a dozen—
there are Judge Marshall, and Dr. Ramsay, and Mr.
Warren, and several others, who have written the history
of our country; and twenty more, at least, who
have pretended to write the history of the individual
states—and the life of individuals. But they are feeble
and tedious in general. Ramsay is the best; but he is
too diffuse, too amiable, and too credulous. The same
idle tale may be traced, not unfrequently, through half

a dozen of them, up to some newspaper of the day; the
sagacious speculations of whose editor are always preserved,
as if they were something oracular. Judge
Marshall is a truly great man;—and, would he abridge
his life of George Washington, to one fourth of its
present size; write it all himself, and reason as he does,
sometimes, upon the bench, he would do much to redeem
us. At present, it is said, that the best history, of our
revolution, has been written by an Italian! named Botta
—shame on us.

There is one work, to be sure, said to be by Mr: Allen,
the poet, of which—no, I cannot permit myself to
believe such a story; and, I will not repeat it, except to
say that it was built by the job. Do you understand
the phrase?—by two poets—one Lawyer—one Reviewer
—and one Editor of a newspaper. It purports to be a
history of the American Revolution—by Paul Allen;
but, what it is, it might be difficult to tell. Mr. Allen
had little or no hand at all in it, they say.

Of our Orators—We have an army of this kind of
cattle. A republican government you know, is the
very hot bed of eloquence. There are multitudes, in
every state legislature; every court of justice; and, in
every popular assembly. Nay, in every country village,
you will find the greatest orator of America. You will
excuse my being very particular on the subject—and
content yourself with a few sketches of our most conspicuous
ones.

In the first place, there is an entire misconception, and
misunderstanding of what constitutes eloquence in this
country. It does not seem to be imagined by any one
here, that eloquence is not a distinct and given quality;
a substantial matter, having but one shape and colour.
The only notion that prevails, so far as I can understand
it, is, that eloquence consists in high sounding words,
poetry, and fluency. No distinction is made between
declamation, rhetorick, argument, oratory, and eloquence.
And, when a young man has once chosen his profession,
it never enters into his head, that eloquence must
always be appropriate to that profession;—severe and argumentative,
in the temple of justice; more hurried and

passionate before a jury, than before the bench:—more
lofty and poetical before a popular assembly:—more
studied, violent, and familiar; and declamatory by starts,
upon the stage; and more awful, collected, and unbending,
in the courts of the living God. But, they make
no such distinction. Judicial; popular; theatrical; and
religious eloquence are all the same thing to them. In
one word—the grand idea of eloquence is, that it is a
compound of rhetorick and poetry, and gesture.

Yet, I have heard Mr. Randolph called an eloquent
man. Ridiculous!—he is a distempered, rambling, acrimonius
fellow--exceedingly ambitious, without mind or
judgment—nay, he has not the power to make any man
minister to his ambition. He is fluent, witty, pungent and
burning—but he is neither a statesman, a politician, nor
an orator. He has an honest heart, it may be; but there
is no steadiness in his view; no scope nor calculation.—
He never argues, and never convinces. When his opponents
are silenced, it is by his flippancy, sarcasm, and
insolence. It is only of late, that his friends have discovered
what his enemies have long known—that he is
a man of great genius, cruelly disordered; a creature of
high faculties, jumbled together, without arrangement,
and slumbering or rebellious, like so many Persian satraps,
just as the whim seizes them; in one word, a peevish,
pestilent fellow, out of his element.

In short, John Randolph cannot be eloquent—for he
cannot reason—he never framed a syllogism in his life;
and his speeches, if a map of his mind were laid before
us; and they were traced out, with all their obliquities,
and intersections, would resemble the route of a defeated
army. His thoughts are continually rallying, and
never united. He affects to lighten, sometimes, with that
indignant spirit, which cannot, will not brook, the tedious
formula of demonstration; and he never fails more
completely. Why he has been treated with such deference,
at any one time, it would not be difficult to tell. But,
he never was respected; much less, revered; and, never
had any permanent influence; for men, who wondered at
his power; and dreaded his tartness, were afraid to trust
themselves to him, for an hour. It was, at a time of

much popular excitement. He came out from among a
great party, and publickly apostatized. He became a
spectacle, like the Jew at Vienna, who is annually converted,
at just exactly enough expense, to exhaust the
funds of the society, established there, for the conversion
of Jews, to Christianity. So much for John Randolph.
Let us approach some other of these terrible beings. But
remember;—you are to keep what I have said, constantly
in view—that eloquence, here, is considered a positive
given quality; and that, he who is eloquent in one
place, would continue to be so, though he carried the
same style into any other. Thus he, of the forum, may
go to the bench, or into the pulpit, and talk the same
rhapsodies; and nobody has the courage to call him to
account. The fact is, that we are spoiled by the Irish
fashion; and the British parliament—half of our school
boys are rehearsing from counseller Phillips—and the
other half, ransacking books of poetry, for quotations to
lug in, by the head and shoulders, whenever it is possible—and
studying the gesture, attitude, and intonations
of the stage; or, at least, of other men.

You have heard of Mr. Wirt. He is now the Attorney
General of the United States. He affects poetry, too;
but, if the cast of his countenance, and the character given
of him, by those who know him; and among others, by
Judge Rand, of Virginia, may be depended upon, he has
mistaken his power. His attribute is strength—peculiar
strength. Yet, there is a great and beautiful proportion
in his mind. He is too fond of ornament—nay,
he is profuse and prodigal (tautology, Stafford; but, in
America, that is considered a leading beauty) of it.—
Once, this was carried to a ridiculous excess. The subject
was buried in “furbelows and flounces.” He is an
author too; and his British Spy, the first of his productions,
I believe, is deservedly ranked among the most
beautiful of our country. He has written a novel, too,
but I have never read it.[2] It is called The Old Bachelor.
But, he undertook, (by contract, too, I suppose;
what a pity that men will bargain away their immortality
for a mess of pottage!) to get up the life of Patrick

Henry, one of the truly great men of America;--a being,
who, in his power and originality, stood up like a giant,
among dwarfs; and dictated to them, in the plain, great
language of a giant—of one, that feels himself, in every
limb and blood-vessel---what they were to do. Patrick
Henry was an eloquent man. Yet, you would look in vain,
for ornament, and rhetorick, and poetry, in his sayings.
No!—his manner was above that. It was kingly. No
—It was greater!—It was republican!—His manner was
as the manner of Paul, upon Mar's Hill—or of Brutus,
before the men of Rome—or of Cato, in the Roman Senate—stern,
and full of self possession, disdaining to talk
musically, or poetically. Yet, Patrick Henry was eloquent.
The men that heard him, shook in all their
limbs; and the sweat fell, like rain, from their foreheads.
Mr. Wirt had heard of this; but he had false notions of
eloquence. He attempted to describe it—but, he described
only rhetorick. He wrote a book of five hundred
pages, octavo, to prove that Patrick Henry was an eloquent
man; and he finished, by showing that he was a
rhetorician; and that his biographer was beside himself.
There was never a more intemperate, injudicious, and
unworthy biography. Instead of pushing Patrick Henry
forward, with his limbs all uncovered; standing unmoved,
amid the convulsion and turbulence of all the political
elements of the day; he, himself, mounts upon his
shoulders; and covers him, all over, with flowers and festoons,
and fire works. In short, The Life of Patrick
Henry is a reproach to our literature; and utterly unworthy
of Mr. Wirt; although it has been daubed with
flattery, from one end of the country to the other; observe
—it has been; but the good people have just begun to rub
their eyes, and ask, where Patrick Henry is, all this time?
They look about them, but can see nothing, but Mr.
Wirt. The eloquence of Mr. Wirt, is the best and
truest, at times, that our country affords. I have heard
him, pursue, like a metaphysician, for a whole hour together,
a point of law, before the court, with a certainty
and precision; and in a style, so transcendently beyond
the technical trash of the mere lawyer, although there
was nothing inflated in it, that I have listened to him, with
amazement, and delight; nay, till I have forgotten—and
would, that I could forget, forever! that he was the
author of Patrick Henry's life.

He is a man, six feet, two inches high, I should suppose;
with a very large, heavy, but not ungraceful person;
and a countenance, of great strength and amplitude,
rather than beauty or precision;--but nothing, absolutely
nothing, except a little pleasantry of the eye, that indicates
either sensibility or genius. Yet, he has both, to a
degree sufficient for any great man. His manner is gentlemanly,
and commanding; and I have seen him, when
it was remarkable for dignity and ease.

As a speaker, his bearing is full of stout, indolent
self possession; and a sort of heavy, lounging gracefulness.
It is not easy to express my meaning, in a few words,
without an appearance of conceit—what I would have
you imply, however, is this: that, in his corporeal movement,
there is a gentleness, which is not the gentleness
of imbecility—nor is it the confidential, magnanimous
lolling of a giant; but rather that of a large and lazy
man. Observe—I do not apply this remark to the
intellectual character of Mr. Wirt. I speak, only, of
his physical operations. Yet, in those of the mind, he
wants energy. He is never daring, nor abrupt. There
are no eruptions of genius; no annunciations of the thunderer
in his eloquence; there is too much poetry; too much
proportion and harmony, in all his doings, for one of
such an athletick nature. He ought to dictate; he should
disdain to soothe. For my part, I hate wheedling, in
men, six feet two inches high; and I cannot endure their
tenderness and sentiment. I can think of nothing but
sick elephants. Yet, I have caught Mr. Wirt at sentiment,
pathos, and tenderness—altogether beautiful, it
cannot be denied; yet altogether out of place. These
things are well enough for rhetoricians and poets; but,
not for lawyers and men. It would amuse you, not a
little, to hear our sober minded, thinking people, whose
imagery and allusion, are never begotten by them, but
in sweat and anxiety; wondering aloud at the innumerable
apparitions, that came up at the bidding of Mr.
Wirt, like the battalions of Prospero, from vacancy.
To them, the operations of genius and poetry are inconceivable;

the fountain gushing, suddenly, with light
and inspiration; the spontaneous lustre of eloquence;
the hasty and terrifick combinations—the exploding
wrath, and beautiful splendours of the heated imagination,
are utterly incomprehensible to them; and Genius,
herself, but a pains-taking work-woman; and, even when
they are hurried away, by the rapidity and noise of her
evolutions; blinded and prostrate with her approach, as
she goes over her dominions, upon the wind; they have
that within them, which will not permit them to understand
her mystery and power. To them, all is labour
and toil. The flocking illustrations, that rush out—
thought paired with thought—like uncaged birds—from
the heart of an eloquent man, when he tears away the
veil; and you are permitted to look into it; are nothing to
their view, but laborious drudgery, happily brought to
bear, by long practice, and after many failures. You
will see them poring, amid the refuse and broken imagery,
of a natural orator, after he has done speaking;
as if there were some especial signification in every
chip and fissure:—yea, the very painted dross that is
found at the bottom of the exhausted cruicble, with all
its brilliant and beautiful disorder; and fantastick shaping,
will furnish them with everlasting matter of meditation
and astonishment; not, as concerning the opulence
—nor the wasteful prodigality of Genius—but in the
amazing wisdom, and foresight, and preparation that he
has evinced---even while the furnace of his heart was
all in commotion. Fools!---as if the lightning could
travel slowly!---as if the torrent of illustration could be
stayed!---the tide rolled back!---or the fire quenched, by
any incantation, less powerful than that of Him, who put
them into brightness and motion! As if it were not easier
for a giant to astonish you, by a continual exhibition
of his power, than to withhold it; or to slumber forever,
under continual provocation.

Such people will gather up the rough gold, that has
been rejected by the man of natural genius; or thrown
out, in the agitation of his heart, without shape or purpose,
in the careless profusion of his thought; and study
it, as they would a series of premeditated coins and medals—as

if every flaw and stain had the stamp and finish
of immortality;—yea, gaze upon the evolutions of a poetical
creature in her own element—of sunshine and blue
air—as if they were all the studied and predetermined
attitudes of a patient, laborious, and contemplative mind
—as if—heaven help the blockheads!—as if it were possible
to restrain the outpouring illustration of such a
nature, when all the fountains of the heart are broken
up. Such men will stand, while the luminous mind of a
great being is in play, like the machinery of heaven,
rolling over oceans, and among stars; and wonder, not
so much at the brightness, and noise, and velocity thereof,
as at the little expenditure of animal strength, that
is visible. To them, the mightiest operations of the human
intellect, are but experiments in manufacture or
machinery—mechanical improvements—like a saving of
fuel in a steam-boat; or an improvement in any every-day
matter of household industry. Their only wonder is,
how it can be done so cheaply, and so profitably.

But let me return to Mr. Wirt again. His language is
remarkably well chosen and beautiful; and his ornaments,
though rather profuse at times, are so free and
happy, that they appear to spring up, like fountains of
pure water, and flowers, to refresh some conquering magician
in his march:—but, I would have him less beautiful,
and more august. Let him come, full of his subject, determined
to prevail; and leave the toilet of the rhetorician,
to boys. For my part, I care but little, of what materials;
or in what fashion the harness of Goliah be
made, so that I can see the shape of the giant beneath
it:—and so that it permit him to walk about, unincumbered:—and
yet, I would rather see it of leather than of
gold:---and studded with iron, rather than diamonds.
Conquering or conquered, he should always be Goliah.
I speak plainly—warmly—I feel so. Mr. Wirt is too
fond of ornament, and poetry:—it suits not the style of judicial
eloquence. He should disdain it. A lawyer
should be characterised, by a severe simplicity—a stern,
downright, and manful exhibition of power, rather than
beauty. It is enervating to see great men occupied
with little things. Before a jury, an occasional flourish

might be well enough; but, even before a jury, it is better
to reason:—and, if a man would convince or persuade,
he will find that the less poetry he uses, the better it
will be for his client. People may be amused—astonished—but
they are never wrought upon, or convinced
by metaphor. There is a ridiculous emphasis given
to the tropes and figures of some men;—as if they were
substantial and difficult things. The barren of heart—
and poor of thought, treasure them up; and wonder at
them, till they often acquire a mistaken value, that
puts the good people, who talk about it, beside themselves.
The difficulty with a truly poetical mind,
is to withhold its illustration. It is easier, with such natures,
for they are always prodigal, to overwhelm, than
to husband. Yet, they, who are unfruitful—wonder at
the profusion and munificence of Genius; while he is wondering
at his own parsimony. Men of the former character
are, as a million to one, of the latter;—and the
consequence is, that the refuse of the imagination; the
lavish expenditure of them that cannot be spendthrifts;
and cannot be exhausted; is treasured, and stamped, and
hoarded, as something inestimable—written all over
with immortality and dominion—while, in reality, it is
worthless in general, and often counterfeit.

Sit down and repeat, to an eloquent man, some of the
beautiful thought, that he has uttered before you, in the
inebriety of his spirit; and he will laugh in your face.—
He sees nothing remarkable in it. In his common conversation,
he will say finer things. You may remember;
but he has forgotten them. They cost him no toil. To
him, it is a matter of surprise that men can ever think
so abstractedly, as that one idea alone, unaccompanied
by its associates and resemblances, shall be present to
them.

There!—I have now done with Mr. Wirt. Read over
what I have said, and see if you have any definite notion
of what he is, apart from that which you have obtained
from a few plain words. I have sought to be very poetical—and
what is the consequence? You are bewildered
in the profusion of imagery. Could I give a better illustration
of that distempered rhetorick, which is the fashion

of the day?—the disordered and brilliant dreaming
of men, drunk with adulation, like Charles Phillips—or
yielding, like Mr. Wirt, to a fashion that they despise?

But you have inquired particularly about Mr. Pinkney.
And no wonder; for we are not at all backward
in our pretensions to national eloquence, on his account
alone. Yet Mr. Pinkney is not an eloquent man. He
is convincing, to be sure; and that is to be eloquent in
one way; but he would be more—and fails. What he
may have been at an earlier day, I know not, of my
own knowledge; but, if any faith may be placed in tradition,
there has been a time, when your blood would
quake to hear him. That time is past. Nay—so
well do I know the natural disposition of mankind to
exaggerate whatever is rare;—whatever they have seen,
or heard, of the wonderful, when there is nobody to contradict
them; that I am strongly inclined to believe that
he is now more eloquent than ever. Till I had heard
him—patiently—watchfully—reverentially, again and
again, I could not dispossess myself of the awful belief
that I was listening to the most eloquent man of America—if
not of all this world. I had heard it said so often;
and by men, so well fitted to judge, that I could not
doubt the fact—until I was obliged to break away from
the infatuation that enthralled me, and judge for myself.
Follow me, and you shall know the result. Nothing
can be further from eloquence; if, by eloquence, be understood,
any thing that is persuasive, beautiful, dignified
or natural, than the declamation or reasoning of
William Pinkney. There is no captivation or beauty
of manner, tone, or gesture about him. His
best speeches are a compound of stupendous strength;
feeble ornament; affected earnestness, and boisterous,
turbulent declamation. His deportment is brutal, arrogant,
“full of sound and fury;”—but the fury of no
man ever signified so much, I do believe;—unnatural
and vehement; accompanied with the rude and violent
gesture of a vulgar fellow, of uncommon personal
strength, in a violent passion; and transitions of voice,
so sudden, and uncalled for; as to jar your whole system:
and action, that you cannot imagine the purpose

of, except it be to prove that he has the use of his arms,
It is never illustrative—never correspondent to the
thought,---never dignified—and never gentlemanly.—
Yet—yet—my friend—Mr. Pinkney is a great man—
a truly great man.—His mind is adamant, clamped
with iron---a colossal pile of granite, over which the
thunders of heaven might roll; upon which, the lightnings
might exhaust themselves, without shaking, or harming
it. And were he contented with such a reputation,
as no man that knows the structure of his intellect,
would deny to him, he would have no rival. He knows
that he is, decidedly, the greatest lawyer of America;---
but this would not content his ambition. He would
monopolise the immortality of a kingdom. He would
be not only the greatest lawyer, but the greatest orator
—and the greatest statesman.—A statesman, he might
have been; and, probably, one of the profoundest that ever
lived:—a lawyer he is; and one, whose might is unquestioned.
But—God never meant him for an orator.—
He has no property of mind or body—no, not one—
calculated to give him dominion in eloquence; and
were it not for the prodigious elevation, solidity, and
amplitude of his mind, which makes the great overlook
his pretension as a speaker; and the mob to echo
their judgment without understanding the reason of
it—he would not be tolerated for an hour. No—
God never meant William Pinkney for an orator: but
he meant him for something more; and, but for a
strange perversity common to all men, which sets them
toiling hardest, for that reputation, which they are supposed
least likely to obtain—dissatisfied with whatever-measure
of fame their fellows may award to them, unconditionally
as their natural and indisputable right,
—and makes them anxious to live, by a tribute
wrenched from the reluctant understanding of men,—
but for this, William Pinkney would have been, at this
hour, one of the greatest men of the age. But, it is too
late now.—He is going down, with a continually accelerated
motion, to the chambers of death.—I do not perceive
any decay of his faculties—but it is not, in the nature
of things, that he should continue many years long
er, unsubdued by the inroads of age; or unaffected by
the labour of his profession. His industry, even yet,
after the study of nearly half a century, is unparalleled.
No young man toils, with a more vehement anxiety,
at his first case, than William Pinkney,[3] even
yet, at every matter of moment in which he is engaged.
From what he is now, as a lawyer, you may form some
notion of what he might have been, had he rightly understood
his own powers, at first; foreborne to dissipate
his strength in experiment;—turned his back, in scorn,
upon the reputation of an orator;—disdaining to become
a politician; and directed all the stupendous energies
of his nature to the study of jurisprudence. Who then
would have mated him? Who then would have dared
to walk, where the shadow of Pinkney might have
fallen upon him!

He opened his career by studying medicine;—and,
soon after, began to read law with the celebrated Judge
Chase, whose attention he afterward awakened, in a
debating society, where he appeared as the champion of
Mary, queen of Scots. From that hour, his destiny
seemed fixed. He desired to be eloquent. He thought
of Demosthenes and Cicero; and his heart swelled with
ambition. He remembered not, that he was to be a lawyer;—and
that Demosthenes and Cicero—were declaimers.
He forgot that he was to argue—and that they
had only harangued. It never occurred to him that
twelve men, are not to be agitated like a multitude:
nor, that it is easier, to put an ocean of human hearts
into an uproar, than the heart of one single, sober-minded
man. He reflected not, that the world had grown
wiser too, since the days of the Greek and Roman; and
that he, who should look to move a body of Americans,
in a court of justice, now, with the best thundering of
Demosthenes, would only make himself ridiculous.

But he erred yet more widely.—He worried his mind
with politicks, when his course was not to be a political
one; and he knew it, or ought to have known it. He
had chosen the temple of justice; and become one of
its priesthood; and yet he had the presumption to

dream of awing and agitating her ministers, while sitting
in judgment, with the incantations of eloquence.—
The thought was absurd; but it grew out of a mighty
ambition. It had been as wise in the Gaul, when he stood
before the old men of Rome, in their Senate Chamber,
to think of terrifying them by the clash of his armour.

Let me give you some notion of his appearance, first;
and then, I will return to the character of his mind.—
Imagine a thick, stout man, with a red, fat, English face
remarkable for nothing at all—apparently about forty
five years of age; thin, dark, hair cut close—about five
feet ten inches high---very fashionably dressed---with
a continual appearance of natural superciliousness, and
affected courtesy;---a combination of the English Bully
—and the English Dandy.[4]

You see what he might have been—had not his energies
been dissipated and distracted, by the variety of aims.
Yet, walk where he would, he pursued his way, like a
conqueror;—and had well nigh established himself as
the high priest of eloquence in America. It is time that
we tear down the urim and thummim from his breast.

He is a stupendous reasoner; but, what you would not
readily believe of one, so characterised by solidity and
strength, he is passionately fond of ornament and deviation.

He is a great general:—but, in the middle of a campaign

you may entice him from his entrenchments by a
rocket. Bring him in contact with a truly poetical
mind, under much excitement, and his argument resembles
a battery of coloured fire works—giving out incessant
brightness and reverberation. And yet, Mr. Pinkney
has only a good taste—a good memory—and a large
collection of such ready made pictures. They are not
manufactured in the heat and hurry of the blood:—the
light that they give out, is not that of spontaneous combustion:—but
rather that which is formally prepared—
kindled by attrition—when the material is heated to
transparency in a slow heat. He has not the faculty of
coining and impressing beautiful imagery, off hand:—
and his profusion is that of one, who, in his extremest
prodigality, keeps an eye at the bottom of his purse. I
have heard him often enough, to anticipate whole classes
of illustration—and ornament; for, they are, often, so
strangely linked together; probably by their arrangement
in the toy-shop of his memory—that one who has been long
familiar with him and his doings, will tremble at the
first glitter, as if he had laid a forbidden hand upon
some key-bayonet of the Tower; and were about to bring
down the whole armoury about his ears.

I have heard Mr. Pinkney begin, by dividing his subject
into three parts; and the first division exhausted it.
This, he was fully sensibly of; but he is a great lover of
arrangement; and he persisted in giving us the three
parts, nevertheless—in the way of “recapitulation, &c.
&c. &c.”

Mr. Pinkney has the power, if he had the manhood
and self denial, to use it; to make every stepping stone
of his argument, a luminious spot—and to storm the
works of his enemy, whenever he would. But he is
eternally diverted from his object. He is thinking of
himself—of the mob. He cannot forget that he is William
Pinkney—“Minister Plenipotentiary;” and that all
eyes are upon him; and he will turn aside, at any time,
to answer a paltry witticism; or to quote Gil Blas or
Shakspeare;—or scuffle with some poetical apparition
of his adversary;—or to tell about the Orders in Council,
“in the negociation of which matter, he had the honour,
if the court please, of being an humble instrument”—or,

what is worse yet, to compliment the court with the
most downright and lubberly adulation:—or—or—
to sneer at some younger man, who may not have the spirit
to retort—to the giant's heart—upon the spot. Aye
—and say what you will of Mr. Pinkney's argument,
I never saw him yet; no, never—pursue his argument,
steadily, for ten minutes at a time. He is always dashing
abroad—foraging among antiquated doctrines—or
foisting in a kind of learning, which serves no earthly
purpose but to show how well he remembers, what he
has often said before; and what has nothing to do, and
never can be made to have anything to do, with the case.
These interludes and episodes are forgiven in him, in
compassion to his greatness;—and because of his earnestness
and vehemence; but they ought to be put a stop to. It
is a reproach to any court of justice, to permit any man;
even William Pinkney, to rehearse his old arguments, in
forgotten cases, for the astonishment of a rabble; and,
were I a judge, I would as soon permit him to ransack
the literature of China—or explode, in a panegyrick upon
steam boats, as to ramble in the way he will sometimes
do, when he has a large auditory.

Let me tell you one or two anecdotes of him. He is
fond of quotations—and scatters latin about, with particular
emphasis. These are, in general, pretty well dove-tailed
into the body of the subject; but they sometimes
puzzle me confoundly to discover their application—or
place—till he has made both, for them.

One day, he was quite in a tempest,—to what amount,
I would not undertake to say—but the fee must have
been pretty respectable. While in heat, he used the
words outer darkness—simple and common words enough,
one would think, without any authority;—but Mr. Pinkney
lets no opportunity escape, of manifesting his turbulent
familiarity with the classicks. He drew a long
breath—and added, with deep emphasis, “as Shakspeare
says!”

Who would not have smiled! Mr. Pinkney had probably
encountered the phrase somewhere;—but where,
it was not so easy to tell. In such a case, no better
name could possibly occur, for a doubtful progeny, than

that of Shakspeare. True—it was rather unlucky;—
for there were some persons, in all probability, that
heard him, who had read the Bible, and remembered the
phrase;—and more than one, who knew that, whatever
else might be in Shakspeare, the words outer darkness
were not But Mr. Pinkney was either ashamed to
quote the Bible—or ignorant of the authority.

He wants magnanimity. He is not the friend of the
powerful and ambitious, if they approximate at all, to
the limits of his dominion; and I have known him to
play off a paltry stratagem, to delude his associate counsel;
lead him deliberately astray; assist him in thickening
his errour; and then, as he rose, turn deadly pale
with the sense of his own unworthiness. But let me
leave this anecdote. It was one of treachery and legerdemain,
utterly beneath the manhood of William Pinkney's
nature—and one, for which he ought to have been
shot.

The physical powers of Mr. Pinkney are, to my notion,
strictly correspondent with his intellectual ones.
Both are solid, strong, and substantial; but without
grace, dignity, or loftiness; and both have a dash of fat
English dandyism. He affects to be courtly and conciliatory,
at times—but nothing can be more ridiculous.
All the training in the world would not make a gentleman
of him. He neither looks, acts, speaks, sits, nor
talks, like one. He dresses too fashionably; and too
much, as if it were a serious matter with him. Some
years ago, he was a notorious sloven; and I have seen
him, when the extreme gentility of his coat, would not
permit him to carry a pocket handkerchief—on a hot
day—all in a sweat—and actually foaming at the mouth;
—yes, I, myself, have seen him, at such a time, wiping
his nose and lips on the sleeve of his coat;—and the next
moment, it may be, while declaiming as if he would rupture
all his arteries, stand and pick his nose, with his
finger, in the judge's face. I have heard these things
contradicted—but I have seen them; and I hold myself
answerable for what I say.

His manner, as I have already told you, is exceedingly
arrogant and unpropitiating; his style of eloquence, a

most disagreeable and unnatural compound, of the worst
faults of the worst speakers. Mighty men, they that are
his models, may have been, in the way of reasoning; but
they were shamefully deficient in dignity, grace and
bearing. He is said to resemble Lord Erskine, as he
was, in the day of his power. It is a libel on Erskine,
who was himself a libel on the reputation of his country,
as a speaker. He is more after the fashion of your noisy,
parliamentary haranguers, who make it a point to work
themselves into an artificial heat, the moment that they
get possession of the floor, whatever may be the subject.
The language of Mr. Pinkney does resemble that of
Lord Erskine. His reasoning is about as forcible—but
he abounds more, in what the lawyers call departure.

You may be able to form some estimate of his character
from the following anecdote. You have heard of Mr.
Dexter—a yankee. He was once opposed to Mr. Pinkney
in the supreme court of the United States, where
each played for life and death.

Mr. Dexter was a plain man; very simple and direct
in his operations; but once in the wake of his enemy,
there was no turning him aside. He never troubled himself
with manœuvring or flourishing;—his only object
was to get alongside; when he boarded at once, without
smoke, or noise.

The galleries were crowded. The debate continued
for several days;—and Mr. Dexter prevailed. Yet, Mr.
Pinkney was pronounced the greatest orator in the
world! A friend of mine was there, a few days after;
and was induced to ask some young man, whom he met
in company; and who was really eloquent on the subject,
what was the argument of Mr. Pinkney. My friend was
a plain spoken, sensible man; who, when he went to call
a man a fool, always enunciated the word, as if he
meant to spell it for him, thus—f-o-o-l. He would permit
nobody to mistake him.

“His argument!” said the young man, whom we will
call Mr. A. if you please,—“O, it was a—a—but his
eloquence, sir!—by heaven, sir!—he thundered and lightned,
sir, before us!—he shook the house to its foundations,
sir!—every heart stood still!—he—he—”

“But the argument?” said my friend, quietly.

“O, the argument!—yes, sir, to be sure—the argument,
sir!—it was so clear and—ah! here is one of
his figures, sir!—“These plants,” said he, sir, “have
been watered with blood, sir”—and—and—and, sir—“the
thunder and smoke of the atlantic—”

“But the argument?” repeated my friend.

“Why, sir—I really—I—don't know how it is. It
was beautiful, I remember; and perfectly convincing—
perfectly—yes, sir, perfectly.”

“Perfectly?”

“Yes, perfectly,” repeated the young man, resolutely;
rubbing his hands.

“I dare say so. We oftentimes remember that we
have been satisfied with the result, without being able to
recal the process.”

“Precisely, sir—precisely. That is my case.”

“Well, perhaps you can tell me something of the eloquence
of Mr. Dexter. You are a great admirer of eloquence,
I perceive, sir.”

“The eloquence of Mr. Dexter—ha! ha! ha!—excuse
me, sir; excuse me—the eloquence of---ha! ha! ha!---why,
really, sir, I—but I can tell you what his argument
was—Mr. Dexter's eloquence---ha! ha! ha!”

“Ah! well, I shall be obliged to you.”

Well! I don't know anything about the law, sir;
but I a m sure that these are his very words, his very
words---I shall never forget them—eloquence!---eloquence
of Mr. Dexter!---upon my word, sir, I cannot
help laughing.”

“Well, then, the argument?”

“O, it was after this manner,” said Mr. A.---and then
he took up the whole, and went through it; and repeated,
step by step, the whole of Mr. Dexter's argument.
It was a chain that could not be broken. Every link
was perfect.

My friend was silent for some minutes. “And who
got the case,” said he, at last.

“Sir!---O, Mr. Dexter, to be sure. He was on the right
side. That was it! Lord, it was all as plain as A. B. C.
Yes, sir, yes!---Mr. Pinkney was on the wrong side.---Every

body knows that. Ah! if Mr. Pinkney had been on
that side—zounds! what a speech he'd have made of
it.”

There, Stafford!---that anecdote will show something
of the state of publick opinion here. A man that was capable
of writing, upon the very brain of a thoughtless,
and ignorant youngster, as in letters of fire, the whole
of a long argument; so that he was able to repeat it,
without knowing why; and a man; a lawyer; who was
capable of making one of the most difficult and perplexing
questions of our law, appear as plain as the alphabet,
to a boy; and to prevail against a host of lawyers; precedent,
authority, usage, and opinion---and much prejudice---that
man was not known to be eloquent.

There are several others, of whom I would speak, but
I am heartily weary of the subject. Yet I ought not to
forget Mr. Webster---Daniel Webster; one of the most
accomplished scholars among us---a great lawyer---and
one of the strong men of the earth. He will have few
rivals, or none, at the end of ten years. He is a savage
looking fellow, with hollow black eyes; and a stern well
built forehead. He is, undoubtedly, a good man; but I
should not sleep very quietly in the same room with such
a face, in Italy or Spain. He has the look of a murderer.
There is Emmet, an old man, with a fresh, pleasant
face; Lowndes, and Calhoun, and Sargeant, and---no
matter whom. Not long since, Webster set the whole
bench of our supreme court in tears, upon a dry matter
of law---the Dartmouth college question:---how, they
knew not;---for they sat upright, the bright drops
trickling down their venerable faces, without suspecting
it, till they saw, in each other's eyes, what astonished
them—tears! Mr. Clay is an awkward looking man,
with a kind of homespun foppery about him---wide ruffles,
and smoothly combed hair---a feeble face, and a
mouth, remarkable for its expression of imbecility; yet a
man of unquestionable talent---light hair---five feet ten---
talks well. Judge Marshall---six feet---dark and hard
---very feeble voice, and great mind. Mr. Sargeant, a
little, dark looking, phlegmatick fellow---face all alive
with solidity, self-possession and keenness.

Come to this country, dear Stafford; and the first thing
that I will do, will be to lead you into the supreme court
of the United States. But you will be indignant, unless
I first explain the mystery of the trade. America has
produced several men, that would do honour to Westminster
Hall---but they all talk too much, and so do
your great men. William Pitt was the only exception.
Maryland has been very fruitful in great men---Samuel
Chase, Dulany, Luther Martin, Pinkney, Harper, &c.[5]

The mystery is this. Every lawyer knows that his
client will be better satisfied, if his lawyer talked a good
while, with great heat and earnestness, and lost the case;
than if he got up, like a Mansfield; and, after stating the
matter in half a dozen words, won the case. If the first
happen, he consoles himself with saying—“Well, well,
it was money well laid out. He earned it. He made
the case his own. It was'nt his fault, that I lost it. It
was that of the jury, or the judge, or the witnesses, or
any thing but the advocate.” But, in the latter case, he
is discontented. “What!” says he, “only half a dozen
words for my money. Why need I employ him? Anybody
could have done as much. The case was perfectly
simple. The jury only wanted to hear it stated, to give
a verdict. So much money wasted!”

You may smile, Stafford, but it is a piteous truth; and
where is the wonder, then, if lawyers, whose profession
it is, to talk at established prices, should mete out their
eloquence, in proportion to their fee, rather than their
subject. Men will have their money's worth—that is, just
as much talk as their neighbours, for the same money,
whatever be the subject.

It is just so, throughout all the world. We do not
mind being cheated, if our neighbours are cheated too.
Go to a shopkeeper. Demand his price. He names it—

but abates, and abates, till you get it for half the first
price. Yet you go away dissatisfied—you do not know
but another may get it cheaper; and you repent that you
did not try it again; and if another should get it cheaper,
you are dissatisfied with your bargain. But you go
to another. He asks you a certain price. He won't vary
a penny. You buy it; and find that you have been cheated.
But then, you say, all the world that buy it, are
cheated too. Nobody can do better than I. Nay, if you
buy to sell again, it is better to give high prices; if others
be made to give them too; for you invest your funds
more easily, and save transportation. O, the shop!—
Farewell! I shall resume the matter again, soon.