entering the drawing-room, I found Sir Walter Scott seated on one
side of an ottoman, and his daughter on the other. They were alone,
as if they had just got through with the civilities of an entrance,
and finding myself so near the great writer, I went up to him and
asked him how he did. He received me so coldly, and with a manner
so different from that with which we had parted, that I drew back,
of course, both surprised and hurt. I next tried the daughter, but
she was not a whit more gracious. There remained nothing for me to
do, but to turn round and enter into conversation with an agreeable
countrywoman, who happened to be present, and who by her simplicity
and frankness made me amends for the caustic manner of her neighbour.
In a few minutes, I saw Sir Walter in the centre of a group composed
of Sir James M‘Intosh, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Dumont and Mr. Spring Rice.
The expression of his countenance suddenly changed, and he held out
his hand to me, in the same cordial way, in which he had stood on the
landing of the hotel in the rue St. Maur. He had not recollected me,
at first; and the extreme coldness of his manner probably proceeded
from being overworked in society.
I had been much hurt, at the first reception, as you may well
suppose, and as you will better understand, when I explain the cause.
Indeed, I own, even after his assurance that he did not at all recall
my features when I spoke to him, I felt tempted to remind him of the
answer of Turenne, when he was struck by one of his valets who had
mistaken his back for that of another servant—“and if I had been
Pierre, you need not have struck so hard.”
When in Paris, it appeared to me that Sir Walter Scott, in his
peculiar circumstances, certainly _ought_, and possibly might reap
some considerable emolument from his works, in America. The sheets
were sold, I had understood, to the American publisher, but as an
illiberal and unhandsome practice prevailed of reprinting on the
American edition, the moment it appeared, and of selling it at a
reduced price, it was not in the power of the publisher to pay any
thing approaching what he otherwise would. Although the sum paid
me for the sheets of a work in England, was of no great amount, in
itself, yet compared with the value of the two articles, it seemed so
much out of all proportion greater than what I had reason to believe
Scott received from America, that I felt a sort of shame the fact
should be so. I suggested therefore a plan by which I thought the
state of things might be altered, and Sir Walter made to receive some
small portion of that pecuniary reward for the pleasure he bestowed,
of which he was so much in want, and which he so well merited.
My plan was not to his liking, although I still think it the best,
and he substituted one of his own. Under his suggestion, then, I
had made an effort to effect our object, but it totally failed. My
zeal had outrun discretion, and I was rightly punished, perhaps, for
over-estimating my influence. I communicated this disappointment by
letter, and I confess it had first struck me that some displeasure
at the failure (though why I did not see, for the expedient adopted
was purely his own) had mingled with his coolness. It seems I did him
injustice, as his subsequent conduct fully proved.
In touching on this subject, I am induced to recollect the want of
policy as respects ourselves, and the want of justice as respects
others, of our copy-right law. We shall never have a manly, frank
literature, if indeed, we have a literature at all, so long as our
own people have to contend with the unpaid contributions of the most
affluent school of writers the world has ever seen. The usual answer
to this reasoning savours disgracefully of the spirit of traffic that
is gradually enveloping every thing in the country in its sordid
grasp. If a generous sentiment be uttered in favour of the foreigner
who contributes to our pleasures, or our means of knowledge, it is
thought to be triumphantly answered by showing that we can get for
nothing, that for which we are asked to pay. But there is a much
more serious objection, than that of a niggardly spirit, to be
urged against the present system. The government is one of opinion,
and the world does not contain a set of political maxims, or of
social views, more dangerous to its permanency, than those which
characterize the greater part of the literature of the country from
which we import our books. I do not mean that our principles are more
nearly approximated to those of Russia, for instance, than to those
of England; but it is the very points of resemblance that create the
danger, for where there is so much that is alike, we run the risk of
confounding principles. I take it that the institutions of England
have more to apprehend from the influence of our own, than from the
influence of those of all the rest of the world united; and, _vice
versa_, that we have, in the same proportion, more to apprehend
from those of England. It is usual to say that the deference we pay
to English maxims is natural, being the unavoidable consequence
of our origin; all of which is quite true, but in continuing a
system, by which this deference is constantly fed, we give it an
unnatural and factitious duration. It is high time, not only for the
respectability, but for the _safety_ of the American people, that
they should promulgate a set of principles that are more in harmony
with their facts. The mawkish praise of _things_, that is now so much
in vogue in America, is no more national, than are the eulogiums
which the trader lavishes on his wines, equally when he sells and
when he drinks them.
These very works of Sir Walter Scott, are replete with one species
of danger to the American readers; and the greater the talents of
the writer, as a matter of course, the greater is the evil. The bias
of his feelings, his prejudices, I might almost say of his nature,
is deference to hereditary rank; I do not mean that deep feeling,
which, perhaps, inevitably connects the descendant with the glorious
deeds of the ancestor, and which every man of sentiment is willing
enough to admit, as it is a beautiful feature in the poetry of
life, but the deference of mere feudal and conventional laws, which
have had their origin in force, and are continued by prejudice and
wrong. This idea pervades his writings, not in professions, but in
the deep insinuating current of feeling, and in a way, silently and
stealthily, to carry with it the sympathies of the reader. Sir Walter
Scott may be right, but if he is right our system is radically wrong,
and one of the first duties of a political scheme is to protect
itself.
It may be fairly enough answered, perhaps, that the influence of
a writer of Scott’s powers cannot properly be urged in settling
principles, as one such pen in a century would be considered a
prodigy. His case forms an exception, instead of a rule. We will
grant this, and consider him then as one greatly below his real
standard, but possessing the same peculiarity of feeling, for Sir
Walter Scott is a great writer, not because he feels this deference
for accidental rank, but in spite of it. His talents are a gift from
nature, while his notions are the result of social position.
Now what would be the situation of a writer who should attempt,
before the American public, to compete with even a diminished Scott,
on American principles? He would be almost certain to fail, supposing
a perfect equality of talent, from the very circumstance that he
would find the minds of his readers already possessed by the hostile
notions, and he would be compelled to expel them, in the first place,
before he could even commence the contest on equal terms. As if this
were not disadvantage enough, under the present conditions of the
copy-right law, he would have to contend with a price bottomed on the
possession of a literary waif.
There is no just application of the free trade doctrine to this
question, for a fair competition does not suppose one of the parties
to obtain his articles ready made to his hands. It is impossible that
our literature should make head against these odds, and until we do
enjoy a manly, independent literature of our own, we shall labour
under the imputations which all foreigners urge against us, with more
truth than is desirable, that of being but a second hand reflection
of English opinions.
There is a morbid feeling in the American public, it is true,
which will even uphold an inferior writer, so long as he aids in
illustrating the land and water, which is their birthright. This
weakness has been publicly charged upon them, here, as resembling the
love of property. The latter accusation is probably urged a little
too much in an inimical spirit, but the press has fairly laid itself
open to the imputation, for while it has betrayed a total and a most
culpable indifference to the maintainance of American _principles_,
and even of American character, it has manifested a rabid jealousy of
the credit of American _things_!
The day after the dinner at Sir G—— P——’s, Sir Walter Scott did me
the favour to call in St. James’s Place. His manner removed any
doubts on the subject of the American experiment, for nothing could
be more simple and natural than his whole deportment. He spoke of his
embarrassments in a way that led me to believe he would soon remove
them.[14] On this subject he seemed cheerful and full of hope. “This
fellow Napoleon,” he said, in his quiet, humorous manner, “has given
me a good lift, and I am only too well treated by my countrymen.” I
mentioned to him a remark of a French critic,[15] in speaking of the
Life of Napoleon. This person happened to be the only one, at a large
dinner, who had read the book, and every body was curious to know
what he thought of it. “Oh! it is a miserable thing,” he said, “full
of low images and grovelling ideas; just like Shakspeare.” I thought,
he was sensitive on the subject, and changed the conversation.
I was on the point of mentioning to him another anecdote connected
with this work, and which it will, at least, do to tell you. Shortly
after it appeared, one of the French journals, the Globe, or the
Débats, I forget which, in two or three consecutive articles, covered
it with the eulogiums with which it was usual to receive the novels
of the same author. In a few weeks public opinion in France took
high ground against the book. The same journal now came out with a
new _critique_, which commenced by saying, “that having originally
received the Memoirs of Napoleon with the courtesy due to an
illustrious name, and the French character, it was time to take an
impartial view of it;” and then it set to work, in good earnest, to
cut it up, as one would carve a pig!
I had just published a book, and Scott kindly and delicately
inquired whether it had been disposed of to advantage, in England. As
compared with English books, it had not, certainly, though I thought
it had done very well for a foreign book, written in a foreign
spirit, and with no particular claims to English favour. He disavowed
this feeling for his countrymen, and frankly offered to serve me
with the publishers. As I had no cause to complain of the party into
whose hands I had already fallen, but, on the contrary, reason to
be satisfied, I could only thank him, and state the fact. As I am
writing of England and English character, it is no more than fair to
say that the peculiarities I have mentioned did much less to impair
the popularity of this work, in England, than I did expect, or could
have expected. There is a manliness and a feeling of pride, in the
better character of the country, that singularly elevates it above
this littleness, and, while I make no doubt a great many did feel
this objection, I believe a majority did not. I much question, had
the case been reversed, if either the French or the American public,
would have received a book with the same liberal spirit. I have been
so sensible of this, that I have felt a strong desire to manifest
it, by taking a subject from the teeming and glorious naval history
of this country. What a theme this would be for one sufficiently
familiar with the sea! An American might well enough do it, too, by
carrying the time back anterior to the separation, when the two
histories were one. But some of their own seamen will yet bear away
the prize, and although I may envy, I do not begrudge it to them. It
is their right, and let them have it.
Among the acquaintances for whom I am indebted to the letters
of Mr. Spenser, is Mr. Sotheby the poet. This gentleman, now no
longer young, lives in a good style here, being apparently a man of
fortune and condition. He is a good specimen of the country, simple,
quiet, and, unless his countenance and manners are sad hypocrites,
benevolent and honest. Indeed I have seldom seen any one who has left
a more favourable impression, as respects the two latter qualities,
on a short acquaintance.
Mr. Sotheby invited me to dinner, pretty much as a matter of course,
for all social intercourse in England, as in America, and in France,
is a good deal dependent on the table. I found him living in a
house, that, so far as I could see, was American, as American houses
used to be before the taste became corrupted by an uninstructed
pretension. I was one of the first; but Mr. Coleridge was already in
the drawing-room. He was a picture of green old age; ruddy, solid,
and with a head as white as snow. His smile was benevolent, but I had
scarcely time to reconnoitre him, before Sir Walter Scott appeared,
accompanied by Mr. Lockhart. The latter is a genteel person, of a
good carriage, with the air of a man of the world, and with a sort
of Scotch-Spanish face. His smile is significant, and not a bad one
for a reviewer. The wife of the Bishop of London, and two or three
more formed our party.
At table I sat directly opposite to Sir Walter Scott, with Mr.
Coleridge on my left. Nothing passed during dinner, worth mentioning,
except a remark or two from the latter. He said that he had been
employed, when secretary to Sir Alexander Ball, the Governor of
Malta, to conduct a correspondence between the commander of our
squadron and the government of Tripoli. I presume this must have
been while Commodore Morris was in command, that officer being on
very familiar terms with Admiral Ball, as the following anecdote
will show. The late Captain Bainbridge had a duel with an English
officer at Malta, and under circumstances that enlisted the public
feeling of his side, in which the latter was killed. The same day
Commodore Morris breakfasted with the Governor. After breakfast,
Sir Alexander Ball mentioned the affair to his guest, with proper
expressions of regret, adding it would be his duty to demand Mr.
Bainbridge. Of course, nothing was to be said to the contrary,
and the Commodore took his leave. While pulling off to his ship
he casually observed that Mr. Bainbridge would be demanded. The
midshipman of the boat reported it to the lieutenant of the deck, who
sent notice to Mr. Bainbridge, forthwith. In due time the official
demand appeared. The Commodore sent orders to the different ships to
deliver the delinquent, and received answers that he was no longer
in the squadron. He had, in truth, hurried off to Sicily in a hired
felucca. This showed a good feeling on the part of Sir Alexander
Ball, who always manifested a seaman’s desire that we should flog the
barbarians. Mr. Coleridge did not tell this anecdote, but I had it,
many years since, from my old friend Commodore Morris, himself.
One of Mr. Coleridge’s observations was in bad taste. He professed
to like most of our officers, with a very supererogatory exception
in the case of Commodore Rodgers. It was easy to see he had adopted
an unworthy prejudice against this officer, on account of the affair
of the Little Belt. No transaction of the same nature was probably
ever more thoroughly investigated than this, or grosser injustice
done any man than was done Commodore Rodgers. I confess I have
always viewed his conduct as singularly creditable and humane. He
was fired into, and he fired back, as a matter of course. Perceiving
that his assailant made a feeble resistance, he ordered his own fire
to cease, and it was not renewed until he was again assailed. He
ceased a second time, from the same motive, and all in a very few
minutes. His own ship was scarcely injured, and but a single boy
hurt. His assailant was torn to pieces and had his decks covered
with killed and wounded. Now, looking to our previous history, to
the wanton attack on the Chesapeake, an attack for which the English
government itself had felt bound to atone, it was a great proof of
moderation, that Commodore Rodgers did not insist on the absolute
submission of the Little Belt. He might have done it, and enforced
his demand with no risk to his own vessel, for, as to the fanfaronade
of the President’s having been beaten off, and silenced, and on
fire, besides being contradicted by the fullest testimony, on oath,
no seaman who knows any thing of the respective forces of the two
vessels can for a moment believe it probable.
That question has been pretty effectually settled by the
Constitution, a sister ship of the President, which, in open war, has
since whipped with ease, and carried into port, two such ships as the
Little Belt, at the same time.
Nothing can better illustrate the monstrous consequences of the
mental dependence to which the prevalence of English literature is
helping to give an unnatural existence in America, than the manner
in which Commodore Rodgers was visited by public opinion in his
own country, for his conduct on this occasion. Sad, indeed, is the
situation of the military man, who, holding his life in his hand
at the service of his native land, meets with reproach, calumny,
misrepresentation and malignant hostility from those for whom he
has fought, and this because he has humbled their constant and most
vindictive enemy! Commodore Rodgers has never recovered the ground
he lost, in the public favour at home, for his behaviour, on this
occasion, marked as it was by a noble and generous forbearance. It is
true men no longer reproach him with the particular act, for after
the investigation and all that has since occurred, it would even
exceed ordinary audacity to do so, but thousands entertain, unknown
to themselves, prejudices which are derived from this source, and
which will only cease with their breath.
This is it to serve a people, who will consent to form their
estimates of their own servants, from the calculated hostility of
their enemies! I believe we may boast of being the only nation in the
universe, which submits to so unjust and so dangerous a domination.
It unhappily forms our highest claim to originality!
Mr. Sotheby has a son a captain in the navy. This gentleman, I
believe, felt the gratuitous character of Mr. Coleridge’s remarks,
for he expressed himself favourably as regards Commodore Rodgers,
whom he had recently fallen in with, on service. I contented myself
by saying, a little drily, that he was a highly respectable man, and
a very excellent officer, which, at least, had the effect to change
the conversation.
When the ladies had retired, the conversation turned on Homer,
whom, it is understood Mr. Sotheby is now engaged in translating.
Some one remarked that Mr. Coleridge did not believe in his unity,
or rather that there was any such man. This called him out, and
certainly I never witnessed an exhibition as extraordinary as
that which followed. It was not a discourse, but a dissertation.
Scarcely any one spoke besides Mr. Coleridge, with the exception of
a brief occasional remark from Mr. Sotheby, who held the contrary
opinion, and I might say no one _could_ speak. At moments he was
surprisingly eloquent, though a little discursive, and the whole
time he appeared to be perfectly the master of his subject and of
his language. As near as I could judge, he was rather more than an
hour in _possession of the floor_, almost without interruption. His
utterance was slow, every sentence being distinctly given, and his
pronunciation accurate. There seemed to be a constant struggling
between an affluence of words and an affluence of ideas, without
either hesitation or repetition. His voice was strong and clear, but
not pitched above the usual key of conversation. The only peculiarity
about it, was a slightly observable burring of the _r_s, but scarcely
more than what the language properly requires.
Once or twice, when Mr. Sotheby would attempt to say a word on his
side of the question, he was permitted to utter just enough to give
a leading idea, but no argument, when the reasoning was taken out of
his mouth by the essayist, and continued, pro and con, with the same
redundant and eloquent fluency. I was less struck by the logic than
by the beauty of the language, and the poetry of the images. Of the
theme, in a learned sense, I knew too little to pretend to any verbal
or critical knowledge, but he naturally endeavoured to fortify his
argument by the application of his principles to familiar things; and
here, I think, he often failed. In fact, the exhibition was much more
wonderful than convincing.
At first I was so much struck with the affluent diction of the poet,
as scarcely to think of any thing else; but when I did look about me,
I found every eye fastened on him. Scott sat, immoveable as a statue,
with his little grey eyes looking inward and outward, and evidently
considering the whole as an exhibition, rather than as an argument;
though he occasionally muttered, “eloquent!” “wonderful!” “very
extraordinary!” Mr. Lockhart caught my eye once, and he gave a very
hearty laugh, without making the slightest noise, as if he enjoyed my
astonishment. When we rose, however, he expressed his admiration of
the speaker’s eloquence.
The dissertations of Mr. Coleridge cannot properly be brought in
comparison with the conversation of Sir James M‘Intosh. One lectures,
and the other converses. There is a vein of unpretending philosophy,
and a habit of familiar analysis in the conversation of the latter,
that causes you to remember the substance of what he has said, while
the former, though synthetick and philosophical as a verbal critic,
rather enlists the imagination than any other property of the mind.
M‘Intosh is willing enough to listen, while Coleridge reminded me of
a barrel to which every other man’s tongue acted as a spigot; for no
sooner did the latter move, than it set his own contents in a flow.
We were still at table, when the constant raps at the door gave
notice that the drawing-room was filling above. Mr. Coleridge
lectured on, through it all, for half an hour longer, when Mr.
Sotheby rose. The house was full of company assembled to see Scott.
He walked deliberately into a maze of petticoats, and, as he had told
me at Paris, let them play with his mane as much as they pleased. I
had an engagement, and went to look for my hat, which, to escape the
fangs of the servants, who have an inconvenient practice, here, of
taking your hat out of the drawing-room while you are at dinner, I
had snugly hid under a sofa. The Bishop of London was seated directly
above it, and completely covered it with his petticoat. Mr. Sotheby
observing that I was aiming at something there, kindly inquired what
I wanted. I told him I was praying for the translation of the Bishop
of London, that I might get my hat, and, marvellous as it may seem,
he has already been made Archbishop of Canterbury!
Just as I was going away, one or two ladies, whom I had the honour
to know, made their appearance, and I remained a moment to speak
to them. You will remember that congress is just now debating the
subject of the protective system. You cannot, however, know the
interest that is felt on this subject here. I had a specimen of it
to-night, in the conversation of these ladies, and in that of one or
two more with whom the detention brought me in discourse. When the
women occupy themselves with such subjects, it is fair to infer that
the nation feels their magnitude. Europe generally, or the north
of Europe rather, possesses a class of female politicians that is
altogether unknown to us. We have party ladies, as well as England,
who enter into the feelings of their male friends; who hate, abuse,
and blindly admire, with the best of them; but how rare is it to find
one who is capable of instructing a child in even the elementary
principles of its country’s interests, duties, and rights? A part
of this indifference is owing to the natural condition of America,
which places her above the necessity of the ordinary apprehensions
and efforts; but it would be much better were our girls kept longer
at their books, before they are turned into the world to run their
light-hearted career of trifling.