By a young Scotchman, now no more.
_Boston, 1832_.
DEAR HENRY,--Mr. Paulding and Miss Sedgewick, are, in my opinion,
inferior in genius to the American writers I mentioned in my last.
They may be classed as the secondary novelists of this country, though
in general literature, Paulding is equal if not superior to Cooper.
His tales are usually short and want interest; but his characters are
well sketched, his incidents natural, and his opinions and
observations characterized by good sense. There is, however, an
affectation of humor in what he writes, that does not please me. It
seems to consist more in the employment of quaint terms and odd
phrases, than in the incident or character itself, and would appear to
be the result of an early and frequent perusal of the works of Swift
and Rabelais. His productions are neat and sensible, but not very
imaginative or striking. The interest or curiosity of the reader is
never powerfully excited, but he never fails to please by the manner
in which he conducts his plots; the easy and perspicuous style he
employs, the clear and happy illustration of the vice or folly he
holds up to indignation or scorn, and the successful though sometimes
exaggerated developement of the character he wishes to portray. In
both Paulding and Cooper there is an overwhelming American feeling,
which bursts forth on all occasions, and which, to a foreigner, seems
to partake of the nature of deep rooted prejudice. It results,
however, I have no doubt, from an ardent love of country, increased
perhaps by the silly contumelies and sarcasms of the reviewers and
travellers of our country. Mr. Paulding has not displayed any great
depth or expansion of mind in anything he has yet written, though he
has tried his wing in both prose and verse. His forte is satire,
which, like that of Horace, is more playful than mordant and bitter.
The productions of Miss Sedgewick which I have seen, are remarkable
for good sense, but without much vigor of imagination. She succeeds
best in quiet life. The delineation of the workings of passion, and of
stormy and powerful emotions, are beyond the reach of her powers; but
what she attempts she always does well. Her plots are generally
without complication, and display no great fertility of invention; the
incidents are not very striking and the characters are sometimes tame,
and occasionally extravagant. They are not like the delineations of
Miss Edgeworth, or Miss Mitford. You cannot form an idea of the
nationality of the individual she sketches, and would as soon take him
for a native of any other country as of her own. There is a manifest
defect in this particular, in all the novelists I have mentioned. With
the exception of the Indians who are occasionally introduced, there is
scarcely any difference between their Americans, and the inhabitants
of other lands. Cooper has indeed presented a finer gallery of
American characters than any other writer, especially in his sketches
of the early settlers or pioneers; but his characters, except in a few
instances, are not usually distinguished by striking national
peculiarities. This may possibly originate from the singular fact that
in this country where men are free to rove where inclination leads,
and to be under no other restraint than that which religion, law, or
decency imposes, there is less peculiarity of character or
individuality, than in any other portion of the globe with which I am
acquainted. They have not yet attempted to give as in England,
sketches of American society as it now exists, or may have existed
since the organization of their government. Whether such pictures
would indeed be interesting I am not prepared to say; but from the
society in which I have mingled, I do not think it has variety enough,
or differs sufficiently from that of other civilized nations to render
such pictures striking or amusing. Genius, however, can accomplish
every thing, and might give to what appears to be vapid and
_ennuyant_, some novelty and interest.
There are some other novelists in the United States, whose
productions, as they have sunk, or are rapidly sinking into oblivion,
it is scarcely necessary to name. One of these is a man of talent,
who, you will recollect, was an occasional contributor to the literary
periodicals of our country, while a resident there. I mean J. Neale.
His romances, from their wildness and extravagance, have been but
little read, and are now nearly forgotten. He still, however, employs
his pen, I understand, in doing what he can to edify and amuse his
countrymen. Novel reading has been legitimatized by Sir Walter Scott,
and though his productions furnish an admirable standard, nothing in
the nature of romance now goes amiss, and the demand for works of
fancy seems to increase in proportion to the number issued from the
press, and the food that is furnished. Although the Americans are
great novel readers, there is not much of romance in their character.
There is too much matter-of-fact about them; they are too calculating
and money-making to serve the purposes of the novelist. They form but
indifferent heroes and heroines of romance, and hence Cooper is
obliged to resort to the sea to rake up pirates and smugglers, or to
go back to the revolution or the early settlement of his country to
find characters and incidents calculated to give verisimilitude and
interest to his tales.
In dramatic literature, but little has yet been done in the United
States. Few appear to have devoted much of their attention to dramatic
composition. I have seen but ten or twelve American plays in the
course of my researches; and these, though they possessed a good deal
of merit, have been suffered to sink into neglect, and are rarely
performed. A much larger number, however, would appear to have been
written and prepared for the stage. According to a catalogue I have
lately seen, no less than 270 dramatic pieces have either been
prepared for the theatre of this country, or written by Americans. Of
these many were of course got up for temporary purposes, and when
these purposes were answered were no longer remembered; but you will
be surprised to learn that of this number, commencing in 1775, there
are no less than _thirty-three tragedies_, the best of which are those
which have been recently brought out, Metamora, Ouralasqui, a prize
tragedy by a lady of Kentucky, and a combination of tragedies, by
Paine, called Brutus, which has been on the stage for several years.
The rest are scarcely remembered. The writer who seems to have devoted
the largest portion of his time to dramatic literature in this country
and who may be called the father of the American drama, is Mr. Dunlap,
who has figured for many years in the various characters of dramatist,
manager, and painter. His dramatic pieces amount to about 50, and he
has already outlived their fame. Some of his translations from the
German are still exhibited; but his original compositions are now
never performed, and are almost forgotten. Mr. J. N. Barker of
Philadelphia, stands next in point of fecundity, having given birth to
ten dramatic bantlings in the course of his life, some of which are
very creditable to their parent, but none are, I believe, stock plays.
The prejudice against native writers was at one time so strong that
the managers deemed it prudent to announce Mr. Barker's Marmion, Sir
Walter's poem dramatized, as the production of Thomas Morton the
author of Columbus. Mr. Dunlap was also I understand obliged to resort
to the same expedient in relation to two or three of his plays; but as
moon as it was known, their popularity, which had at first been
considerable, immediately ceased, and they were laid upon the shelf.
Such are some of the difficulties with which the American writer has
to struggle; but these I am happy to learn are now giving way, and a
more liberal spirit is beginning to prevail. It is to be hoped that
the dramatic muse of America will soon be enabled to triumph over all
the impediments which she has had to encounter, and repose in the same
bower and be crowned with the same chaplet as her more fortunate
sister of romance. Among the American plays which accident brought
under my notice, was a comedy in five acts, entitled the "Child of
Feeling," published in 1809, and written by a citizen of Washington.
It seems to have been a juvenile production, written without much
knowledge of the world, but with a due regard to the unities. The
dialogue wants sprightliness and the plot interest, and I merely
mention it now because its contains among its _dramatis personæ_ a
character which is to me entirely original, and which if he really
existed, the author must I think have caricatured in his copy. He is
called Etymology, and does not belie his name, for he is constantly
occupied in tracing every word that is spoken by himself or others to
its root, and makes as may easily be supposed, some comic and
ludicrous blunders. Till very recently, the author of even a
successful play received scarcely any compensation for his labor, and
the fame he acquired was but of short duration. Now however, it is
otherwise, and both reputation and emolument attend the successful
dramatist. The comedies, by American writers that I have seen, are not
remarkable for their wit or humor, and therefore do not long retain
their hold upon the stage. Dramatic exhibitions are not however held
by the Americans in very high estimation, and this may be one of the
causes of the low state of dramatic literature here. But the principal
causes would appear to be the want of leisure, the devotion of the
people to higher and more lucrative avocations, and the facility with
which dramatic productions of established merit and popularity can be
obtained from England. These causes operate in like manner I conceive,
to prevent the attainment of that high poetical excellence which has
yet to be reached by the worshippers of the muse in this country. The
following remarks on this subject by an American writer are so
pertinent, that I will transcribe them for your information. "We
regret to say," says he, speaking of American poetry, "that much less
has been done than might reasonably have been expected, even during
our short political existence. We have indeed as yet scarcely done
anything at which an American can look with conscious pride, as a
trophy of native poetic genius. The ponderous and vapid Epic of
Barlow, and the still more leaden and senseless heroics of Emmons, are
far from giving reputation to the poetry of our country; and the
fugitive and occasional pieces of Percival, Bryant, Halleck, &c. are
not exactly such as we should select as a proof that we have done much
in poetry. We have been in existence as a nation for upwards of half a
century, and yet we have produced nothing that is certain to reach
posterity, or that can be classed higher than the minor productions of
Moore, Campbell, or Byron, of the present day. There is an apparent
want of originality, and too great an appearance of imitation in the
poetical efforts of our native bards to carry them far down the stream
of time, though it must be conceded that they have discovered in these
efforts no ordinary portion of genius. There would seem to be
something either in the nature of our political institutions, or in
the general character of our pursuits, which is inimical to the
developement of high poetical power. We are not a very imaginative
people; we prefer the reality to the ideal; we pursue the substance
rather than the shadow. Our ambition is early fired by political
distinction, or our exertions are directed to the attainment of
competency or wealth. The public mind has been led into a train of
thinking somewhat adverse to the indulgence of poetical enthusiasm,
and not calculated to render it susceptible of deep and intense
delight from the contemplation of poetical beauty. It has been led to
consider that the highest efforts of genius are those which are
displayed at the bar or in the senate, and to regard the power of
forensic and parliamentary eloquence as the loftiest exhibition of
intellectual excellence. To that which the mind is early taught to
respect and admire its greatest exertions will be directed, and hence
the number of those who resort to the profession of law, the career of
legislation, or the pursuits of commerce," &c.
It is unquestionably true, that no great original poetical work of
distinguished merit has yet made its appearance in the United States,
but it cannot at the same time be denied, that the individuals this
writer has named, with Bryant, Sigourney, Willis, and several others,
possess a fine poetical vein, the _mens divinior_ of Horace. Some of
their effusions contain passages of great beauty and splendor, and may
be fairly classed with those of the first poets of our country. Most
of them however, have merely what Mad. De Genlis calls the "art of
making verses;" and either from the want of encouragement, the
stimulus of praise, or continued enthusiasm, wing their flight briefly
into the regions of poetic fancy, and seldom afterwards attempt any
more lofty or daring excursions. But I must pause. I will endeavor in
my next to bring my remarks on the science and literature of the
United States to a close.