A once famous littérateur of Portland, Maine, who early gained a hearing, and, as poet, novelist, dramatist, and magazinist, was constantly before the public for the rest of his long life, though little of his work can be said to survive, able as some of it is. The more important of his writings include, “Keep Cool,” a novel; “The Battle of Niagara,” a poem; “Goldau, and Other Poems;” “Rachel Dyer,” a novel; “Downeasters,” a novel; “True Womanhood;” “Bentham’s Morals and Legislation;” “Great Mysteries and Little Plagues;” “Wandering Recollections of a Somewhat Busy Life” (1870).

Personal

  A New Englander—a real brother Jonathan, or Yankee; one of those audacious, whimsical, obstinate, self-educated men, who are called by Dr. Ferguson the self-taught astronomer, while giving an account of himself—“The Scholars of God Almighty.” Neal has written more volumes, if those that he does acknowledge be his; or, one-third part of those, which he does not acknowledge, though laid, with all due solemnity, at his door, by the beadles of literature—than, perhaps, any other four of his countrymen. Yet he is now only thirty-two years of age—with a constitution able to endure every kind of hardship—has only been writing, at intervals, for seven years—has only gone through his apprenticeship, as an author, and set up for himself, within a few months.—His life has been a course of continual adventure. It will be one of great profit, we hope, now that he is out of his time, to the people of this generation, at least. He is a Quaker; or was, till the society “read him out” for several transgressions—to wit—for knocking a man, who insulted him, head over heels; for paying a militia fine; for making a tragedy; and for desiring to be turned out whether or no.

  In the evening had John Neal at tea, whom I found to be a character, one of the curiosities of literature, very entertaining, large, strong, with a spirited air, independent, quick in general, but with no malice, exceedingly egotistical, but not troublesome on that account.

  Neal is a literary and social evergreen of the first quality: except a more silvery tinge to his hair and a somewhat thinner cheek, he is the same pleasant, genial, emphatic, and colloquial enthusiast as when he wrote “Seventy-Six” and the “American Eagle.” It was a treat to hear him and Dr. J. W. Francis compare notes.

General

  Mr. Neal must be allowed to be among the most remarkable of our writers, whether of poetry or prose. He is gifted with an almost magical facility of literary composition. What to others is a work of careful study, and severe labor, is to him a pastime. His writings have in most cases been thrown off with a rapidity that almost surpasses belief…. Mr. Neal’s poetry has not been so popular as that of many others who never possessed his power. The circumstance may be partly ascribed to the false taste in which his works are mostly composed, and partly to this, that it is addressed to the fancy, rather than the feeling; not that he wants poetical sensibility, or a delicate or refined conception of what is beautiful and tender and moving in the works of nature, or the emotions in the human bosom, for he has all these; and he has besides a passionate and overpowering sense of grandeur and sublimity. But his poetry is wanting in natural sentiment; it does not touch the heart—it does not awaken our sensibilities, or stir up from their recesses the “thoughts that lie too deep for words.”

  John Neal’s forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at everything. They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being spread over too much ground.

  Of Mr. Neal’s poems, I may repeat what I have remarked elsewhere. They have the unquestionable stamp of genius. He possesses imagination in a degree of sensibility and energy hardly surpassed in this age. The elements of poetry are poured forth in his verses with a prodigality and power altogether astonishing. But he is deficient in the constructive faculty. He has no just sense of proportion. No one with so rich and abundant materials had ever less skill in using them. Instead of bringing the fancy to adorn the structures of the imagination, he reverses the poetical law, giving to the imagination the secondary office, so that the points illustrated are quite forgotten in the accumulation and splendour of the imagery…. Of his novels it may be said that they contain many interesting and some striking and brilliant passages—filling enough, for books of their sort, but rarely any plot to serve for warp. They are original, written from the impulses of the author’s heart, and pervaded by the peculiarities of his character; but most of them were produced rapidly and carelessly…. The best of them would be much improved by a judicious distribution of points, and the erasure of tasteless extravagancies.

  I hardly know how to account for the repeated failures of John Neal as regards the construction of his works. His art is great and of a high character—but it is massive and undetailed. He seems to be either deficient in a sense of completeness, or unstable in temperament; so that he becomes wearied with his work before getting it done. He always begins well—vigorously—startlingly—proceeds by fits—much at random—now prosing, now gossiping, now running away with his subject, now exciting vivid interest; but his conclusions are sure to be hurried and indistinct; so that the reader, perceiving a falling-off where he expects a climax, is pained, and, closing the book with dissatisfaction, is in no mood to give the author credit for the vivid sensations which have been aroused during the progress of perusal. Of all literary foibles the most fatal, perhaps, is that of defective climax. Nevertheless, I should be inclined to rank John Neal first, or at all events second, among our men of indisputable genius.

  There is a great deal of merit in the works we have mentioned; they are full of dramatic power and incident; but these verses are well nigh overbalanced by their extravagance, and the jerking, out-of-breath style in which they are often written…. The vigor of the man, however, pervades everything he has produced. He sees and thinks as well as writes, after his own fashion, and neither fears nor follows criticism. It is to be regretted that he has not more fully elaborated his prose productions, as that process would probably have given them a firmer hold on public favor than they appear to have secured. There is much strong vigorous sense, independence in speaking of men and things; good, close thought; analysis of character, and clear description, which the public should not lose, in these pages.

  Has chiefly distinguished himself as a most voluminous contributor to letters,—novels, plays, poems, history, and critical reviews without number bearing witness to his indefatigable industry, versatile talent, and ease and sprightliness of style.

  Neal wrote from the surface of his mind, which was frothy. His life was mixed, and his novels were equally so. The very plot is erratic, sometimes intensely, almost luridly, dramatic, sometimes weak, and attenuated beyond any reader’s patience. As he had been shop-boy, dry goods merchant, lawyer, poet, and essayist, as well as novelist, he considered himself qualified to lecture on all subjects…. The style is slipshod, a perfect storm of words to the square inch of ideas, a huddle of incident and characters, with scarcely a clew to his purpose with them. Of the artistic element there is none whatever, no sense of proportion, no patient study of persons, no arrangement, no aim, and no fulfillment. There is only one character that clings to the mind, and that is John Neal—the universal Yankee, whittling his way through creation, with a half-genius for everything, a robust genius for nothing,—everything in the egg, and not a chick fully developed.