University of Virginia Library

EDITORIAL NOTICE.

I intended to add a note to the page, in which the author of Randolph
speaks of Mr. Walsh; as deficient in courage, and honesty. It
would be capable of misconstruction; and I intended to add, out of respect
to all parties, that the author meant, what, indeed, is very apparent
from the whole context, political or literary, courage and honesty.
In that opinion, I altogether agree with him. But I do trust,
that the author would not be wicked or foolish enough, to question,
idly, the personal courage of any married man, or the father of a large
family: or the moral honesty of any respectable man, where it was not
a solemn duty.

There is yet another thing, upon which, a remark or two may not
be impertinent. I am told, that many of our most respectable newspaper
editors have, in one way and another, insinuated pretty boldly,
and positively, that they knew the author of Logan, and Seventy-six.
They are mistaken—they do not know him.

But, no man has gone so far, as that impertinent, meddlesome blockhead,
(John E. Hall,) who is the conducter of what, he calls the Port
Folio. That man has actually published a criticism upon them; and
called them “Neal's Logan and Seventy-six.” Mr. Neal, I find, is mentioned,
in Randolph, as a lawyer, resident in Baltimore; the author of
Niagara, and some other works, very little known. I have waited for
him to reply to Mr. Hall; in the hope that, being upon the ground; resident
in the very city, where Mr. Hall once pretended to practise law
—and where he (Mr. Hall) is, at this moment, more universally pitied,
laughed at, ridiculed, and despised, than any other man that
ever lived in it, as I am informed; and, as I believe; he would give Mr.
Hall a lesson, for his impertinence and presumption, that would do him
good, the longest day that he had to live.

Mr. Neal has replied, openly, and like a man; but not as he should
have replied. He has disappointed me. He has treated Mr. John E.
Hall, with quite too much humanity and good nature. It was no time
for pleasantry. He should have executed justice upon him—without
mercy. He should have dragged him before the publick, for two or
three of his falsehoods—scourged him to the bone—and told him, to
his teeth, what I now tell him, in the name of Mr. Neal; after having
made the necessary investigation—that, in the remarks of Mr. Hall,
concerning him, are two or three very clumsy fabrications—two or
three dastardly falsehoods insinuated;—and one direct falsehood more
than insinuated. I allude to this. Mr. Hall charges Mr. Neal, with
having forgotten to pay for his advertising, when he left Philadelphia.

The story is false;—and, I have no doubt, from my knowledge of Mr.
Hall, that he knew it to be false, when he wrote it. My respect for
Mr. Neal, (to whom I owe this, for the handsome manner in which he
has attempted to soothe the exasperated and indignant feeling of a
friend; a dear friend of mine, on this very occasion,) and for myself,
will not permit me to use any stronger language;—otherwise, I should

say, that Mr. John E. Hall lied—and that he knew he lied; but I mean
all that could be meant or expressed, by any single word; or, by any
combination of words, in the English language; or, in any other, expressive
of malicious and intentional falsehood.

And further, I am authorized to say, that “Mr. Neal did not “go about
reciting his poetry.” He never attempted it, but once; and that was in
Philadelphia—among the Athenians—not one of whom would ever
give him an opportunity.”

“That Mr. Neal did pay everybody in Philadelphia, before he came
away; and was particular enough to go in person, three several times;
in a heavy rain (without an umbrella!) the whole circuit of the advertising
gentry, before they were all settled with; and that, the only person
whom he owed, when he left Philadelphia, was Mr. Duane, who
would not receive Baltimore money; and he has been paid since.
The debt due to him, was one dollar.”

And, “that all the knowledge which Mr. John E. Hall has; or can
have, on the subject, is drawn from Mr. Neal's foolish preface to the
Battle of Niagara, where he relates the whole adventure particularly;
and does ample justice to Mr Hall, and half a dozen other blockheads;
himself; and to the munificence and publick spirit; and love of literary
enterprize; and high-hearted encouragement of genius; and all that
—which, then, characterised the Philadelphians.

To the other editors, who have presumed to ascribe the above mentioned
works, to Mr. Neal, I have nothing to say—either for him; or
the author of Randolph; or myself—particularly, as he has declared
that he “should be proud of them;” except to caution them, as gentlemen,
and as literary men, who know how to understand the sensitiveness
of literary men, from repeating, that Mr. Neal, or any other man, is the
author of any anonymous work. It is, to say the least of it, always impolitick
and unkind; discouraging to professional enterprize; and often
very impertinent, indelicate, and mischievous. Let them abuse the
work, as much as they will—that, they have a right to do. But let
them not charge it, personally, to any man, unless they are prepared
to prove it.

The truth is, as I have said before, that the author of these works,
notwithstanding all that has been said—is not known; and, probably,
will not be known, for a long time, if ever, with any degree of certainty.
I know more about them, than any body else, now living, upon the face of this earth; and I know that the secret has been properly
kept—and that it is too late, now, for the author, himself, to contradict
me.

There are some people, who may be startled at this; for, if they
know me, they know my regard to veracity; and such an assertion
will amaze them;—but, let them remember, that a work may be
“mine”—and “may have been written by me,” without my being the
author.

In one word—“no true knight will attempt to peep under my vizor;
or steal upon me sleeping; or stunned; when I am not fairly over-thrown;
after I have once entered the field with a blank pennon, and
a blank shield; and joined battle under them”—so said the author to
me, in the last words that he ever wrote—the conclusion of which I
subjoin—adding that—I will redeem his gage.

“Let the following notice,” he says, “appear on the last page of the
book, if it should ever be published.”

“The author of Randolph will not be drawn from his concealment.
No matter for his reasons—they are good. But he will not hide himself
from any sort of accountability.”

Any communication, therefore, post paid, (that he may not be troubled
with boys,) directed to George S. Sampson, R. M. Philadelphia,
will meet with prompt and suitable attention, from himself, if living,
and in this country, at the time; and, if not, from a friend, who will
take his place. Neither of them is capable of stabbing in the dark;
or sneaking away from any retribution, under any pretence.”

Since the above was written, I have received a line, from a personal
friend of Mr. Neal. He informs me, that Mr. Neal had written a polite
note to Mr. Hall—which Mr. Hall had received; but, had not answered;
that, his reply to Mr. Hall, pleasant and temperate as it was,
is of such a nature, that few editors can be expected to publish it; and
that, all things considered, he is anxious to secure it a more permanent
existance; and a more extensive reading, than it would obtain, by being
confined to the newspapers; and, that—to say all in one word—he
would thank me to give it a place, in a loose folio, at the end of
Randolph. I shall do it; but not in the way requested. I shall make
it a part of the work, itself.

I am glad of an opportunity to oblige my friend, and Mr. Neal;—to
punish Mr. Hall, in a way, that he will never forget, for his folly and
impertinence—to assuage the exasperated feeling of another man,
whom I love and venerate;—to do justice to all parties; and particularly,
to speak of the bold, but very extravagant editor of the Columbian
Observer, (Philadelphia) in which paper, Mr. Neal's reply first appeared;
an editor, who, if he would temper his boldness and fire, with
a little more benignity and discretion, would be one of the few men
in this country, to whom the children of literature might look, for
countenance and support, in any emergency.

MR. JOHN E. HALL, AND THE PORT FOLIO.

Sir—I send the following to you, rather than to any Editor in our
city, for several reasons; first, because the Editor of the Port Folio in
overhaling me, has thought fit to attack two or three other people;
and yourself, probably on MY account; and, secondly, because, as I have
no personal acquaintance with you, you may not be influenced in your
judgment about publishing it; and thirdly, that he may be met on his
own ground; not so much, because he is worth trouncing any where,
or because I do not perfectly understand his motive, in trying to blackguard
himself into notice—as that two or three innocent people, who
have been abused by him, on my account, may not be left underfended.

“A damned good natured friend” of mine; such as abound every
where, on such occasions, put the last number of the Port Folio, into
my hands about an hour ago, advising me not to read something in
it, about myself. It is not once a year, that I see the Port Folio—nor
once in five years, that I read a page in it; but such an invitation, so
given, was irresistible.

When I had finished, he advised me to reply—me—to Mr. Hall—
(John E. Hall, I believe his name is.) What had I to do with him,

pray? I have no objection to his abusing my poetry, or myself—at this
distance. It might be another matter, if we were both dwelling in the
same city. No—I have nothing to do with it, or him. The author of
Logan and Seventy-six, may take him in hand if he will; and yet, if I
were he, I should be a little wary, I think; for, as I live, I think that
Mr. Hall has given a very favourable extract from the latter work.
To my notion, if his criticism be unjust, it is the very thing for the author;
and if just, what has he to complain of?

Saying this, I left my friend, with no intention of replying in any
way, to Mr. Hall. But, after a little reflection, I have changed my purpose—
for the sake of others—not for myself.

I am sorry that he has ventured upon the repose of Niagara—
I had hoped that the ghost of that work, which, if his judgment be
true, has been “buried and forgotten,” for a long time, was laid for ever.
But I am more than sorry, at the unprovoked allusions to other people,
that I find in his criticism on it; and, as I have it in my power to
explain the cause thereof, perfectly to my own satisfaction, I will do it.
It may save Mr. James G. Percival; and you, Mr. Editor; and the author
of Logan and Seventy-six, some angry feeling.

Some years ago, when I was a boy, I wrote an article for Mr. Hall's
Port Folio, out of a desire to benefit a friend, which, Mr. Hall, while he
affected to be carried away in his admiration for it, so cruelly misunderstood,
and misrepresented, by his blundering, that I could never think,
either of him, or, of his Port Folio afterward, with common patience.

Mr. Hall made an immediate attempt to engage me for a regular contributor
to his work. But, at that time, I was under engagements
with the Portico, here; a rival journal, which would have prevented
me, even if my respect for myself would not, from acceding to
Mr. Hall's proposition. That was the first offence.

Mr. Hall was rather sore, and suspicious, for a long time afterward;
and the next thing that happened to disturb his fine temper, was a
novel—a most unlucky one, I confess—called Keep Cool, of which a
friend of mine, for whom he had, or affected to have, the greatest admiration,
wrote a review; after getting a promise from him (I believe)
to insert it.

But, about that time, Mr. Hall had thought of a very ingenious expedient
to replenish his subscription list; he had given notice to authors,
that, if they expected notices of their works to appear in his Journal,
they must enclose the price of one year's subscription—six dollars.

I did not send him the six dollars, and he did not publish the review.

I then published a second edition of Niagara—in which I did Mr.
Hall the honour to mention him, among half a dozen other block heads;
and gave him some friendly advice; advice, which the present reputation
of the Port Folio and its editor, proves to have been honest and judicious.
I did not actually advise him, in so many words, to go and hang himself,
it is true; but I did advise him to abandon literature—which would,
probably, have resulted in the same thing. I laughed at him—pitied
him—and let him off, at last, in downright compassion; but, with a
compliment to him as a lawyer; and to his Law Journal, as a law work
—for which I am now heartily ashamed and sorry; and which nothing
but my inexperience and presumption at that time, would be any
apology for. That was the third offence.

As for Logan and Seventy-six, I have nothing to do with them, now. If
they deserve half the abuse that they have received, it would be very
foolish to abuse them at all. My name could be of no advantage to the
author:—and, while I confess, that, with all their faults and follies, I
should be proud of them; I cannot but reprobate the impertinence
and rashness of those, who dare to ascribe them to me, on no better
ground than conjecture.

There are some things, that I could say to Mr. Hall, and of him, if I
would permit myself to forget the dignity of a gentleman, which would
fully reconcile the persons, who are associated with me, in his remarks
—to any thing but his approbation. But, as it is, while I tell them
that the true reason of their being abused, is, because one of them has
praised a work, supposed to have been written by me!—because
another's real name is like one of my assumed ones! and, because Mr.
Hall suspected me to have written, or aided in the writing of Logan
and Seventy-six!—While I do this, I cannot part from Mr. Hall again,
without repeating the substance of my advice—which, I assure him,
is kindly meant; and he will find it so. It is, that he should let
polite literature alone; and, particularly, all the higher branches of it;
abandon the Port Folio (in retaliation upon the subscribers); forget
his old antagonist of the Portico, and the Telegraph; leave off puffing
himself and the Port Folio, in the Baltimore newspapers; and mend
his manners. In which case, if he give up the Law Journal; leave off
writing, and talking; destroy all that he has ever written; and stick to
the business of translation and compilation, in the humbler departments
of law—(such as Hall's Emerigon and Hall's Justice; books that are
not worth the binding) he and his doings may be forgotten. And what
more could his best friend—his own father—wish for?

N. B.—I have just heard of another pleasant specimen of Mr. Hall's
piddling, mischievous, gossipping, and wicked temper. Mr. Neal, it
appears, was, many years ago, a merchant, in extensive business, at
Baltimore; failed; and was indebted, at the time of his failure, to the
house of George Grundy & Sons;—the head of which house spent a
good deal of time, and no little money, trying, in vain, to prevent the
discharge of Mr. Neal, under the insolvent laws of Maryland; and to
convict him, in any way, of any impropriety whatever—having the
books and papers of the whole concern, in his possession. Mr. John
E. Hall, it appears, had heard of this; and, taking it for granted, that
an unpaid creditor, must be a mortal enemy; and able, if anybody could,
to blacken the character of his debtor—actually wrote to the house of
George Grundy & Sons, to whom he was a perfect stranger, a few days

ago, to learn the character of Mr. Neal! The letter was without date
or place; and, instead of being able to give Mr. Hall any satisfaction,
such as he wanted—these gentlemen had some difficulty in finding out
who Mr. Hall was!

What a mischievous wretch! How deadly and fatal might such a fellow
be, if his courage and talent bore any proportion to his malignity
and spite. Upon my soul, I am inclined to believe, that the creature
is some peevish, disappointed old maid, who has contrived to slip into
a hat and breeches, that did'nt belong her.

A pretty fellow, indeed, for the successor of the polite, noble-hearted
Dennie, in the management of the Port Folio! John E. Hall is a man
that never writes English, except by accident—never by design. Had
I leisure, I should like to furnish a few examples of his own writing;
a few of his blunders in translation; two or three of his editoria! improvements;
a book of which might be made up; to prove, not only that
he cannot write English, himself—but that he will not let any body else
write it, if he can help it. Still, one or two specimens may not be
amiss. “An example is familiar to every man. Who has not stooped
from a height, and clung to earth for support and strength?” said one
of his correspondents. John E. Hall, being “delighted” with the sentence,
made this of it:—“An example is familiar to every man who
has not stooped from an height, and clung to earth for support and
strength!”

Again—but this example is purely his own. “There is a humorous
Jew who sometimes spits upon his gabArdine and calls him by ludicrous
nicknames, which seem to smart like a Burgundy plaIster, seasoned
with Spanish flies.” That is—the nicknames (not the man) smart!—
like a Burgundy plaister!—(for plaster)—and two commas are omitted
in the punctuation. Here, too, the writer knew that he was in a glass-house;
and, of course, was doubly fortified;—yet, in two lines and a
half, there is one blunder in the sense; one, in a verb; another, in grammar;
two, in punctuation; and two, in orthography!—Ed.