mouth, which some of my friends say is like Voltaire’s, half smile, half sneer.”
In many a past hour of uninterrupted intercourse with him, he never spoke of his own writings, nor alluded to them. If the subject was introduced, he managed to turn the conversation to some other topic.
I shall not venture upon a review of his writings, but will content myself with alluding to some of the opinions of his contemporaries as to his literary merits. James Fenimore Cooper called him “the admirable Croaker,” and both he and Washington Irving always spoke of him in warm terms of admiration. Perhaps the most gratifying tribute paid to him was by Mr. Bryant, many years ago, in the New York Mirror, from which I beg leave to quote a few lines:
“His poetry, whether serious or sprightly, is remarkable for the melody of its numbers. It is not the melody of monotonous and strictly regular measurement. His verse is constructed to please an ear naturally line, and accustomed to a range of metrical modulation.”
Edgar A. Poe, in rather a harsh criticism upon his writings, says: “Personally, he is a man to be admired, respected, but more especially beloved. His address has all the captivating bonhommie which is the leading feature of his poetry, and, indeed, of his whole moral nature. With his friends be is all ardor, enthusiasm, and cordiality; but to the world at large he is reserved, shunning society, into which he is seduced only with difficulty, and upon rare occasions.”
