James Kirke Paulding, was born in Dutchess county, New York, August 22, 1779. A friend of Washington Irving, he wrote part of “Salmagundi.” During the war of 1812 he published the “Diverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan,” and in 1814 a more serious work, “The United States and England,” which gained him an appointment on the Board of Naval Commissioners. He also wrote a successful novel, “The Dutchman’s Fireside” (1831), “Westward Ho!” (1832), a “Life of Washington” (1835), and a defence of “Slavery in the United States” (1836). In 1837 he became Secretary of the Navy. He died 6th April 1860. See “Literary Life” by his son (1867).
Personal
Paulding was a man of great intellectual robustness: strong in his convictions, and inexorable in his prejudices; with great clearness of perception, but little inclination to the ideal;… rejoicing in sarcasm, though free from malignity both in his books and in his conversation; never yielding to the illusion of fancy or feeling, and expressing himself in language more remarkable for its grave irony and blunt vigour than for its amenity or elegance. No man ever stood up more stoutly or manfully in defence of that
| “mother of a mighty race,” |
General
No two writers could be more thoroughly opposed in everything—disposition, habit, style—than were Irving and Paulding. The former was cheerful; pleasant, given to laughing at whatever he saw—not peevishly, satirically, or spitefully, but in real good humour: the latter—even while he laughed as Byron says of Lara—sneered. Irving would make us love human nature—wish it well—or pity it: Paulding would make us ashamed of it; or angry with it. One looks for what is good in everything; the other for what is bad.
We are convinced by a deliberate examination of the design, manner, and rich material of the work [“Life of Washington”] that, as it grows in age, it will grow in the estimation of our countrymen, and, finally, will not fail to take a deeper hold upon the public mind, and upon the public affections, than any work upon the same subject, or of a similar nature, which has been yet written—or, possibly, which may be written hereafter. Indeed, we cannot perceive the necessity of anything farther upon the great theme of Washington.
Mr. Paulding’s writings are distinguished for a decided nationality. He has had no respect for authority unsupported by reason, but on all subjects has thought and judged for himself. He has defended our government and institutions, and has embodied what is peculiar in our manners and opinions. There is hardly a character in his works who would not in any country be instantly recognised as an American. He is unequalled in a sort of quaint and whimsical humour, but occasionally falls into the common error of thinking there is humour in epithets, and these are sometimes coarse or vulgar…. He who pauses to invent its dress will usually find his invention exhausted before he attempts its body. He seems generally to have no regular schemes and premeditated catastrophes. He follows the lead of a free fancy and writes down whatever comes into his mind. He creates his characters, and permits circumstances to guide their conduct.
“Salmagundi” was manifestly written without the fear of criticism before the eyes of the authors, and to this sense of perfect freedom in the exercise of their genius is probably owing the charm and delight with which we still read it. Irving never seemed to place much value on the part he contributed to this work, yet I doubt whether he ever excelled some of those papers in “Salmagundi” which bear the most evident marks of his style; and Paulding, though he has since acquired a reputation by his other writings, can hardly be said to have written anything better than the best of those which are ascribed to his pen.
“The Backwoodsman” belongs to the old school of poetry, and met with but ordinary success at home, though translations of a portion were published and praised in a literary periodical of the time at Paris…. In almost all the writings of Paulding there is occasionally infused a dash of his peculiar vein of humorous satire and keen sarcastic irony. To those not familiarized with his manner, such is the imposing gravity, that it is sometimes somewhat difficult to decide when he is jesting and when he is in earnest. This is on the whole a great disadvantage in an age when irony is seldom resorted to, and has occasionally subjected the author to censure for opinions which he does not sanction. His most prominent characteristic is, however, that of nationality. He found his inspiration at home at a time when American woods and fields, and American traits of society, were generally supposed to furnish little if any materials for originality.
In justice to the talents of the man, it should be observed that he was in no exact sense an author. Early involved in political disquisition, and in the discussion of principles which he considered as being the very foundation stones of our system, he devoted almost the whole of his mature life, that was not absorbed in official routine, to newspaper writing upon subjects of this nature. His adventures in literature proper were rather the episodes of his intellectual activity than the real labors of his mind. Holding a prolific and facile pen, and working so much for immediate demand, he fell into a hasty and careless style, impatient of correction; and, accordingly, he never found nor made time to do himself justice. Notwithstanding this, throughout all his various productions and in the midst of his most heedless composition, occur passages of description, or little sketches of real or fictitious character or incident, or quaint vistas into the idiosyncrasies of his own mind, which, though dashed off currente calamo, are marked by a felicity of diction or originality of view which casts a new light or a novel grace over the most hackneyed subject.
He does not deserve a long biography, nor elaborate criticism, nor, briefly, remembrance. And in fact he has been very well forgotten. Between 1802, when he began contributing to Peter Irving’s Morning Chronicle, and 1858, when he wrote some verses which were probably his last literary effort, he produced something like twenty-five volumes, and Griswold says that a complete collection of his more elaborate writings would fill about thirty volumes; but except “Salmagundi,” the joint production of himself and Washington Irving, nothing of all this mass of matter is now read by anybody; hardly anybody knows the titles of any two of the volumes, and “Salmagundi” is known to ten persons by its title where it is known to one by its contents.
“The Dutchman’s Fireside.” This is a genuine, life-like story, full of stirring incidents, of picturesque scenes and striking characters, for which the author’s early experiences had furnished the abundant materials. The amiable and whimsical peculiarities of the Dutch settlers, the darker traits of Indian character, and the vicissitudes of frontier life have rarely been more powerfully sketched.
Honest, pathetic Paulding, a rabid miso-Briton who burned to write something truly American, and couldn’t.
Most of his writings are now forgotten, though they evinced a somewhat strong though coarse vein of humor, which was not without its effect at the period when its local and political allusions and personalities were understood. A scene in one of his novels indicates the kind of comicality in which he excelled. The house of an old reprobate situated on the bank of a river is carried away by a freshet. In the agony of his fear he strives to recall some prayer which he learned when a child; but as he rushes distractedly up and down the stairs of his floating mansion he can only remember the first line of the baby’s hymn, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” which he incessantly repeats as he runs.
He united sentiment and humor, paid small heed to art, was vivacious and ephemeral.
His humour is always boisterous, never chaste and sensitive. Often it is crude and caustic, leaving behind it a rankling wound. The artistic sense, the delicate touch, the tender sympathy which made “Rip Van Winkle” immortal, are too often lacking in “The Dutchman’s Fireside,” and, in spite of its humor and its pathos, the book is forgotten.
Paulding, at his best in “The Dutchman’s Fireside,” had Irving’s glee without his grace.
