Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
HECTOR ST. JOHN DE CREVECOEUR
LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN FARMER
INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY WARREN BARTON BLAKE
INTRODUCTION
Hazlitt wrote that of the three notable writers whom the eighteenth
century had produced, in the North American colonies, one was "the
author (whoever he was) of the American Farmer's Letters."
Crevecoeur was that unknown author; and Hazlitt said further of him
that he rendered, in his own vividly characteristic manner, "not
only the objects, but the feelings, of a new country." Great is the
essayist's relish for passages descriptive of "a battle between two
snakes," of "the dazzling, almost invisible flutter of the humming-
bird's wing," of the manners of "the Nantucket people, their frank
simplicity, and festive rejoicings after the perils and hardships of
the whale-fishing." "The power to sympathise with nature, without
thinking of ourselves or others, if it is not a definition of
genius, comes very near to it," writes Hazlitt of our author. And
his references to Crevecoeur are closed with the remark: "We have
said enough of this ILLUSTRIOUS OBSCURE; for it is the rule of
criticism to praise none but the over-praised, and to offer fresh
incense to the idol of the day."
Others, at least, have followed that "rule of criticism," and the
American Farmer has long enjoyed undisturbed seclusion. Only once
since the eighteenth century has there been a new edition of his
Letters, that were first published at London in 1782, and reissued,
with a few corrections, in the next year. The original American
edition of this book about America was that published at
Philadelphia in 1793, and there was no reprint till 1904, [Footnote:
References may be found to American editions of 1794 and 1798, but
no copies of such editions are preserved in any library to which the
editor has had access.] when careless editing did all it could to
destroy the value of the work, the name of whose very author was
misstated. Yet the facts which we have concerning him are few enough
to merit truthful presentation.
I
Except by naturalisation, the author of Letters from an American
Farmer was not an American; and he was no ordinary farmer. Yet why
quarrel with him for the naming of his book, or for his signing it
"J. Hector Saint-John," when the "Hector" of his title-pages and
American biographers was only a prenom de faintaisie? We owe some
concessions to the author of so charming a book, to the eighteenth-
century Thoreau. His life is certainly more interesting than the
real Thoreau's--and would be, even if it did not present many
contradictions. Our records of that life are in the highest degree
inexact; he himself is wanting in accuracy as to the date of more
than one event. The records, however, agree that Crevecoeur belonged
to the petite noblesse of Normandy. The date of his birth was
January 31, 1735, the place was Caen, and his full name (his great-
grandson and biographer vouches for it) was Michel-Guillaume-Jean de
Crevecoeur. The boy was well enough brought up, but without more
than the attention that his birth gave him the right to expect; he
divided the years of his boyhood between Caen, where his father's
town-house stood, and the College du Mont, where the Jesuits gave
him his education. A letter dated 1785 and addressed to his children
tells us all that we know of his school-days; though it is said,
too, that he distinguished himself in mathematics. "If you only
knew," the reminiscent father of a family exclaims in this letter,
"in what shabby lodging, in what a dark and chilly closet, I was
mewed up at your age; with what severity I was treated; how I was
fed and dressed!" Already his powers of observation, that were so to
distinguish him, were quickened by his old-world milieu.
"From my earliest youth," he wrote in 1803, "I had a passion for
taking in all the antiques that I met with: moth-eaten furniture,
tapestries, family portraits, Gothic manuscripts (that I had learned
how to decipher), had for me an indefinable charm. A little later
on, I loved to walk in the solitude of cemeteries; to examine the
tombs and to trace out their mossy epitaphs. I knew most of the
churches of the canton, the date of their foundation, and what they
contained of interest in the way of pictures and sculptures."
The boy's gift of accurate and keen observation was to be tested
soon by a very different class of objects: there were to be no
crumbling saints and canvases of Bed-Chamber Grooms for him to study
in the forests of America; no reminders of the greatness of his
country's past, and the honour of his family.
From school, the future woodsman passed over into England. A distant
relative was living near Salisbury; for one reason or another the
boy was sent thither to finish his schooling. From England, with
what motives we know not, he set out for the New World, where he was
to spend his busiest and happiest days. In the Bibliotheca Americana
Nova Rich makes the statement that Crevecoeur was but sixteen when
he made the plunge, and others have followed Rich in this error. The
lad's age was really not less than nineteen or twenty. According to
the family legend, his ship touched at Lisbon on the way out; one
cannot decide whether this was just before or immediately after the
great earthquake. Then to New France, where he joined Montcalm.
Entering the service as cadet, he advanced to the rank of
lieutenant; was mentioned in the Gazette; shared in the French
successes; drew maps of the forests and block-houses that found
their way to the king's cabinet; served with Montcalm in the attack
upon Fort William Henry. With that the record is broken off: we can
less definitely associate his name with the humiliation of the
French in America than with their brief triumphs. Yet it is quite
certain, says Robert de Crevecoeur, his descendant, that he did not
return to France with the rag-tag of the defeated army. Quebec fell
before Wolfe's attack in September 1759; at some time in the course
of the year 1760 we may suppose the young officer to have entered
the British colonies; to have adopted his family name of "Saint
John" (Saint-Jean), and to have gradually worked his way south,
probably by the Hudson. The reader of the Letters hardly supposes
him to have enjoyed his frontier life; nor is there any means of
knowing how much of that life it was his fortune to lead. In time,
he found himself as far south as Pennsylvania. He visited
Shippensburg and Lancaster and Carlisle; perhaps he resided at or
near one of these towns. Many years later, when his son Louis
purchased a farm of two hundred acres from Chancellor Livingstone,
at Navesink, near the Blue Mountains, Crevecoeur the elder was still
remembered; and it may have been at this epoch that he visited the
place. During the term of his military service under Montcalm,
Crevecoeur saw something of the Great Lakes and the outlying
country; prior to his experience as a cultivator, and, indeed, after
he had settled down as such, he "travelled like Plato," even visited
Bermuda, by his own account. Not until 1764, however, have we any
positive evidence of his whereabouts; it was in April of that year
that he took out naturalisation papers at New York. Some months
later, he installed himself on the farm variously called Greycourt
and Pine-Hill, in the same state; he drained a great marsh there,
and seems to have practised agriculture upon a generous scale. The
certificate of the marriage of Crevecoeur to Mehitable Tippet, of
Yonkers is dated September 20, 1769; and of this union three
children were the issue. And more than children: for with the
marriage ceremony once performed by the worthy Tetard, a clergyman
of New York, formerly settled over a French Reformed Church at
Charleston, South Carolina, Crevecoeur is more definitely than ever
the "American Farmer"; he has thrown in his lot with that new
country; his children are to be called after their parent's adopted
name, Saint-John; the responsibilities of the adventurer are
multiplied; his life in America has become a matter more easy to
trace and richer, perhaps, in meaning.
II
One of the historians of American literature has written that these
Letters furnish "a greater number of delightful pages than any other
book written in America during the eighteenth century, save only
Franklin's Autobiography." A safe compliment, this; and yet does not
the very emptiness of American annals during the eighteenth century
make for our cherishing all that they offer of the vivid and the
significant? Professor Moses Coit Tyler long ago suggested what was
the literary influence of the American Farmer, whose "idealised
treatment of rural life in America wrought quite traceable effects
upon the imaginations of Campbell, Byron, Southey, Coleridge, and
furnished not a few materials for such captivating and airy schemes
of literary colonisation in America as that of 'Pantisocracy.'"
Hazlitt praised the book to his friends and, as we have seen,
commended it to readers of the Edinburgh Review. Lamb mentions it in
one of his letters--which is already some distinction. Yet when was
a book more completely lost to popular view--even among the books
that have deserved oblivion? The Letters were published, all the
same, at Belfast and Dublin and Philadelphia, as well as at London;
they were recast in French by the author, translated into German and
Dutch by pirating penny-a-liners, and given a "sequel" by a
publisher at Paris. [Footnote: Ouvrage pour servir de suite aux
Lettres d'un cultivateur Americain, Paris, 1785. The work so offered
seems to have been a translation of John Filson's History of
Kentucky (Wilmington, Del., 1784).]
The American Fanner made his first public appearance eleven years
before Chateaubriand found a publisher for his Essai sur les
Revolutions, wherein the great innovator first used the American
materials that he worked over more effectively in his travels,
tales, and memoirs. In Saint-John de Crevecoeur, we have a
contemporary--a correspondent, even--of Franklin; but if our author
shared many of poor Richard's interests, one may travel far without
finding a more complete antithesis to that common-sense philosopher.
Crevecoeur expresses mild wonderment that, while so many travellers
visit Italy and "the town of Pompey under ground," few come to the
new continent, where may be studied, not what is found in books, but
"the humble rudiments and embryos of society spreading everywhere,
the recent foundations of our towns, and the settlements of so many
rural districts." In the course of his sixteen or seventeen years'
experience as an American farmer he himself studied all these
matters; and he gives us a charming picture of them. Though his book
has very little obvious system, its author describes for us frontier
and farm; the ways of the Nantucket fishermen and their intrepid
wives; life in the Middle Colonies; the refinements and atrocities
of Charleston. Crevecoeur's account of the South (that he knew but
superficially and--who knows?--more, it may be, by Tetard's
anecdotes than through personal knowledge) is the least satisfactory
part of his performance. One feels it to be the most "literary"
portion of a book whose beauty is naivete. But whether we accept or
reject the story of the negro malefactor hung in a cage from a tree,
and pecked at by crows, it is certain that the traveller justly
regarded slavery as the one conspicuous blot on the new country's
shield. Crevecoeur was not an active abolitionist, like that other
naturalised Frenchman, Benezet of Philadelphia; he had his own
slaves to work his northern farms; he was, however, a man of humane
feelings--one who "had his doubts." [Footnote: In his Voyage dans la
Haute Pensylvanie (sic) et dans l'Etat de New York (Paris, 1801)
slavery is severely attacked by Crevecoeur. His descendant, Robert
de Crevecoeur, refers to him as "a friend of Wilberforce."] And his
narrative description of life in the American colonies in the years
immediately preceding the Revolution is one that social historians
cannot ignore.
Though our Farmer emphasises his plainness, and promises the readers
of his Letters only a matter-of-fact account of his pursuits, he has
his full share of eighteenth-century "sensibility." Since he is,
however, at many removes from the sophistications of London and
Paris, he is moved, not by the fond behaviour of a lap-dog, or the
"little arrangements" carters make with the bridles of their
faithful asses (that they have driven to death, belike), but by such
matters as he finds at home. "When I contemplate my wife, by my
fire-side, while she either spins, knits, darns, or suckles our
child, I cannot describe the various emotions of love, of gratitude,
or conscious pride which thrill in my heart, and often overflow in
voluntary tears ..." He is like that old classmate's of
Fitzgerald's, buried deep "in one of the most out-of-the-way
villages in all England," for if he goes abroad, "it is always
involuntary. I never return home without feeling some pleasant
emotion, which I often suppress as useless and foolish." He has his
reveries; but they are pure and generous; their subject is the
future of his children. In midwinter, instead of trapping and
"murthering" the quail, "often in the angles of the fences where the
motion of the wind prevents the snow from settling, I carry them
both chaff and grain: the one to feed them, the other to prevent
their tender feet from freezing fast to the earth as I have
frequently observed them to do." His love of birds is marked: this
in those provinces of which a German traveller wrote: "In the thrush
kind America is poor; there is only the red-breasted robin. ...
There are no sparrows. Very few birds nest in the woods; a solemn
stillness prevails through them, interrupted only by the screaming
of the crows." It is good, after such a passage as this has been
quoted, to set down what Crevecoeur says of the bird kingdom. "In
the spring," he writes, "I generally rise from bed about that
indistinct interval which, properly speaking, is neither night nor
day:" for then it is that he enjoys "the universal vocal choir." He
continues--more and more lyrically: "Who can listen unmoved, to the
sweet love-tales of our robins, told from tree to tree? Or to the
shrill cat birds? The sublime accents of the thrush from on high,
always retard my steps, that I may listen to the delicious music."
And the Farmer is no less interested in "the astonishing art which
all birds display in the construction of their nests, ill provided
as we may suppose them with proper tools; their neatness, their
convenience." At some time during his American residence he gathered
the materials for an unpublished study of ants; and his bees proved
an unfailing source of entertainment. "Their government, their
industry, their quarrels, their passions, always present me with
something new," he writes; adding that he is most often to be found,
in hours of rest, under the locust tree where his beehive stands.
"By their movements," says he, "I can predict the weather, and can
tell the day of their swarming." When other men go hunting game, he
goes bee-hunting. Such are the matters he tells of in his Letters.
One difference from the stereotyped "sensibility" of the old world
one may discover in the openness of Crevecoeur's heart; and that is
the completeness of his interest in all the humbler sorts of natural
phenomena. Nature is, for him, no mere bundle of poetic stage-
properties, soiled by much handling, but something fresh and
inviting and full of interest to a man alive. He takes more pleasure
in hunting bees than in expeditions with his dogs and gun; the king-
birds destroy his bees--but, he adds, they drive the crows away.
Ordinarily he could not persuade himself to shoot them. On one
occasion, however, he fired at a more than commonly impertinent
specimen, "and immediately opened his maw, from which I took 171
bees; I laid them all on a blanket in the sun, and to my great
surprise fifty-four returned to life, licked themselves clean, and
joyfully went back to the hive, where they probably informed their
companions of such an adventure and escape, as I believe had never
happened before to American bees." Must one regard this as a fable?
It is by no means as remarkable a yarn as one may find told by other
naturalists of the same century. There is, for example, that undated
letter of John Bartram's, in which he makes inquiries of his brother
William concerning "Ye Wonderful Flower;" [Footnote: see "A
Botanical Marvel," in The Nation (New York), August 5, 1909.] there
is, too, Kalm's report of Bartram's bear: "When a bear catches a
cow, he kills her in the following manner: he bites a hole into the
hide and blows with all his power into it, till the animal swells
excessively and dies; for the air expands greatly between the flesh
and the hide." After these fine fancies, where is the improbability
of Crevecoeur's modest adaptation of the Jonah-allegory that he
applies to the king-bird and his bees? The episode suggests, for
that matter, a chapter in Mitchell's My Farm at Edgewood. Mitchell,
a later American farmer, describes the same king-birds, the same
bees; has, too, the same supremely gentle spirit. "I have not the
heart to shoot at the king-birds; nor do I enter very actively into
the battle of the bees. ... I give them fair play, good lodging,
limitless flowers, willows bending (as Virgil advises) into the
quiet water of a near pool; I have even read up the stories of a
poor blind Huber, who so dearly loved the bees, and the poem of
Giovanni Rucellai, for their benefit." Can the reader state, without
stopping to consider, which author it was that wrote thus--Mitchell
or Crevecoeur? Certainly it is the essential modernity of the
earlier writer's style that most impresses one, after the charm of
his pictures. His was the age of William Livingston--later Governor
of the State of New Jersey; and in the very year when a London
publisher was bringing out the first edition of the Farmer's
Letters, Livingston, described on his title-page as a "young
gentleman educated at Yale College," brought out his Philosophic
Solitude at Trenton, in his native state. It is worth quoting
Philosophic Solitude for the sake of the comparison to be drawn
between Crevecoeur's prose and contemporary American verse:-
"Let ardent heroes seek renown in arms,
Pant after fame, and rush to war's alarms ...
Mine be the pleasures of a RURAL life."
The thought is, after all, the same as that which we have found less
directly phrased in Crevecoeur. But let us quote the lines that
follow the exordium--now we should find the poet unconstrained and
fancy-free:--
"Me to sequestred scenes, ye muses, guide,
Where nature wantons in her virgin-pride;
To mossy banks edg'd round with op'ning flow'rs,
Elysian fields, and amaranthin bow'rs. ...
Welcome, ye shades! all hail, ye vernal blooms!
Ye bow'ry thickets, and prophetic glooms!
Ye forests hail! ye solitary woods. ..."
and the "solitary woods" (rhyming with "floods") are a good place to
leave the "young gentleman educated at Yale College." Livingston
was, plainly enough, a poet of his time and place. He had a fine eye
for Nature--seen through library windows. He echoed Goldsmith and a
whole line of British poets--echoed them atrociously.
That one finds no "echoes" in Crevecoeur is one of our reasons for
praising his spontaneity and vigour. He did not import nightingales
into his America, as some of the poets did. He blazed away, rather,
toward our present day appreciation of surrounding nature--which was
not banal then. Crevecoeur's honest and unconventionalised love of
his rural environment is great enough to bridge the difference
between the eighteenth and the twentieth century. It is as easy for
us to pass a happy evening with him as it was for Thomas Campbell,
figuring to himself a realisation of Cowley's dreams and of
Rousseau's poetic seclusion; "till at last," in Southey's words,
"comes an ill-looking Indian with a tomahawk, and scalps me--a most
melancholy proof that society is very bad." It is the freshness, the
youthfulness, of these Letters, after their century and more of
dust-gathering, that is least likely to escape us. And this "Farmer
in Pennsylvania" is almost as unmistakably of kin with good Gilbert
White of Selborne as he is the American Thoreau's eighteenth-century
forerunner.
III
It is time, indeed, that we made the discovery that Crevecoeur was a
modern. He was, too, a dweller in the young republic--even before it
WAS a republic. Twice a year he had "the pleasure of catching
pigeons, whose numbers are sometimes so astonishing as to obscure
the sun in their flight." There is, then, no poetic licence about
Longfellow's description, in Evangeline, of how--
"A pestilence fell on the city Presaged by wondrous signs, and
mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, Darkening the sun in their flight,
with naught in their craws but an acorn."
Longfellow could have cited as his authority for this flight of
pigeons Mathew Carey's Record of the Malignant Fever lately
Prevalent, published at Philadelphia, which, to be sure, discusses a
different epidemic, but tells us that "amongst the country people,
large quantities of wild pigeons in the spring are regarded as
certain indications of an unhealthy summer. Whether or not this
prognostic has ever been verified, I cannot tell. But it is very
certain that during the last spring the numbers of these birds
brought to market were immense. Never, perhaps, were there so many
before."
Carey wrote in 1793, the year, as has been noted, of the first
American reprint of the Letters, that had first been published at
London. Carey was himself Crevecoeur's American publisher; and he
may well have thought as he wrote the lines quoted of Crevecoeur's
earlier pigeons "obscuring the sun in their flight." Crevecoeur had
by this time returned to France, and was never more to ply the
avocations of the American farmer. In the interval, much had
happened to this victim of both the revolutions. Though the Letters
are distinguished by an idyllic temper, over them is thrown the
shadow of impending civil war. The Farmer was a man of peace, for
all his experience under Montcalm in Canada (and even there his part
was rather an engineer's than a combatant's); he long hoped,
therefore, that peaceful counsels would prevail, and that England
and the colonies would somehow come to an understanding without
hostilities. Then, after the Americans had boldly broken with the
home government, he lent them all his sympathy but not his arms. He
had his family to watch over; likewise his two farms, one in Orange
County, New York, one in New Jersey. As it was, the Indians in the
royal service burned his New Jersey estate; and after his first
return to France (he was called thither by his father, we are told,
though we know nothing of the motives of this recall) he entered
upon a new phase of his career. "After his first return to France,"
I have said, as if that had been an entirely simple matter. One
cannot here describe all its alleged difficulties; his arrest at New
York as a suspected spy (though after having secured a pass from the
American commander. General MacDougal, he had secured a second pass
from General Clinton, and permission to embark for France); his
detention in the provost's prison in New York; the final embarkation
with his oldest son--this on September 1, 1780; the shipwreck which
he described as occurring off the Irish coast; his residence for
some months in Great Britain, and during a part of that time in
London, where he sold the manuscript of the Letters for thirty
guineas. One would like to know Crevecoeur's emotions on finally
reaching France and joining his father and relatives at Caen. One
would like to describe his romantic succour of five American seamen,
who had escaped from an English prison and crossed the Channel in a
sloop to Normandy. A cousin of one of these seamen, a Captain
Fellowes of Boston, was later to befriend Crevecoeur's daughter and
younger son in the new country; that was after the Loyalists and
their Indian allies had destroyed the Farmer's house at Pine Hill,
after his wife had fled to Westchester with her two children, and
had died there soon after, leaving them unprotected. But all this
must, in nautical phrase, "go by the board," including the novel
founded upon the episode. Nor can we linger over Crevecoeur's entry
into polite society, both in the Norman capital and at Paris. Fancy
the returned prodigal--if one may so describe him--in the salon of
Madame d'Houdetot, Rousseau's former mistress! He was fairly
launched, this American Farmer, in the society of the lettres.
"Twice a week," he wrote, some years after, "I went with M. de
Turgot to see the Duchesse de Beauvilliers, his sister; and another
twice-a-week I went with him to the Comte de Buffon's. ... It was at
the table of M. de Buffon, it was in his salon, during long winter
evenings, that I was awakened once more to the graces, the beauties,
the timid purity of our tongue, which, during my long sojourn in
North America, had become foreign to me, and of which I had almost
lost command--though not the memory."
Madame d'Houdetot presented Crevecoeur to the families of La
Rochefoucauld, Liancourt, d'Estissac, Breteuil, Rohan-Chabot,
Beauvau, Necker; to the academicians d'Alembert, La Harpe, Grimm,
Suard, Rulbriere; to the poet-academician Delille. We have in the
Memoires of Brissot an allusion to his entrance into this society,
under the wing of his elderly protectress:--
"Proud of possessing an American savage, she wished to form him, and
to launch him in society. He had the good sense to refuse and to
confine himself to the picked society of men of letters."
It was at a later period that Brissot and Crevecoeur were to meet;
their quarrel, naturally, came later still.
Madame d'Houdetot did more than entertain the Farmer, whose father
had been one of her oldest friends. She secured his nomination as
Consul-General to the United States, now recognised by France; it
was at New York that he took up residence. Through the influence of
Madame d'Houdetot and her friends, he retained the appointment
through the stormy years that followed, though in the end he was
obliged to make way for a successor more in sympathy with the
violent republicanism of the age. Throughout the years of the French
Revolution, the ex-farmer lived a life of retirement, and, if never
of conspicuous danger, of embarrassment enough, and of humiliation.
We need not discuss those years spent at Paris; or the visits paid,
after the close of the Revolution, to his son-in-law and daughter,
for his daughter Frances-America was married to a French Secretary
of Legation, who became a Count of the Empire. Now he was in Paris
or the suburbs; now in London, or Munich. Five years of the Farmer's
later life were spent at the Bavarian capital; Maximilian
entertained him there, and told him that he had read his book with
the keenest pleasure and great profit too. He busied himself in
preparing his three-volume Voyage dans la Haute Pensylvanie (sic) et
dans l'Etat de New York, and in adding to his paper on potato
culture,[Footnote: Traite de la Culture des Pommes de Terre, 1782.]
a second on the false acacia; but his best work was done and he knew
it. Crevecoeur lived on until 1813, dying in the same year with
Madame d'Houdetot, who was so much his elder. He paid a worthy
tribute to that lady's character; perhaps we do her an injustice in
knowing her only for the liaison with Jean-Jacques. He died on
November 12, 1813: member of agricultural societies and of the
Academy (section of moral and political science), and of Franklin's
Philosophical Society at Philadelphia. A town in Vermont had been
named St. Johnsbury in his honour; he had the freedom of more than
one New England city. It is, none the less, as the author of Letters
from an American Farmer, published in 1782, and written, for the
most part, years before that date, that we remember him--so far as
we do remember.
IV
Much remains unsaid--much, even, of the essential. Some of the facts
are still unknown; others may be looked for in the biography written
by his great-grandson, Robert de Crevecoeur, and published at Paris
some eighty years ago. There is hardly occasion to discuss here what
Crevecoeur did, as consul at New York, to encourage the exchange of
French manufactures and American exports; or to tell of his packet-
line--the first established between New York and a French port; or
to set down the story of his children; or to describe those last sad
years, at home and abroad, after the close of his consular career.
There is no room at all for the words of praise that were spoken of
the Letters by Franklin and Washington, who recommended them to
intending immigrants as a faithful, albeit "highly coloured"
picture. We must let the writings of the American Farmer speak for
themselves: they belong, after all, to literature.
It was a modest man--a modest life; a life filled, none the less,
with romantic incident. All this throws into relief the beauty of
its best fruits. Crevecoeur made no claim to artistry when he wrote
his simple, heartfelt Letters; and yet his style, in spite of
occasional defects and extra flourishes, seems to us worthy of his
theme. These Letters from an American Farmer have been an
inspiration to poets--and they "smell of the woods."
In a prose age, Crevecoeur lived a kind of pastoral poetry; in an
age largely blind, he saw the beauties of nature, less through
readings in the Nouvelle Heloise and Bernardin's Etudes than with
his own keen eyes; he was a true idealist, besides, and as such
kindles one's enthusiasm. The man's optimism, his grateful
personality, his saneness, too--for here is a dreamer neither idle
nor morbid--are qualities no less enduring, or endearing, than his
fame as "poet-naturalist." The American Farmer might have used
Cotton's Retirement for an epigraph on his title-page:--
"Farewell, thou busy world, and may
We never meet again,
Here I can eat and sleep and pray. ..."
but for the fact that he found time to turn the clods, withal, and
eyes to watch the earth blackening behind the plough. "Our
necessities," wrote Poe, who contended, in a half-hearted way, that
the Americans of his generation were as poetical a people as any
other, "have been mistaken for our propensities. Having been forced
to make railroads, it has been deemed impossible that we should make
verse." But here was Saint-John de Crevecoeur writing, in the
eighteenth century, his idyllic Letters, while, if he did not build
railways, he interested himself in the experiments of Fitch and
Rumsey and Parmentier, and organised a packet-line between New York
and Lorient, in Brittany. This Crevecoeur should from the first have
appealed to the imagination--especially to the American imagination-
-combining as he did the faculty of the ideal and the achievement of
the actual. It is not too late for him to appeal to-day; in spite of
all his quaintness, Crevecoeur is a contemporary of our own.
WARREN BARTON BLAKE.
BRADFORD HILLS, WEST CHESTER,
PENNSYLVANIA.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
Letters from an American Farmer (London), 1782, 1783; (Dublin),
1782; (Belfast), 1783; (Philadelphia), 1793; (New York), 1904;
(London), 1908; translated into French (with gratuitous additions)
as Lettres d'un cultivateur Americain (Paris), 1784 and 1787; into
German as Briefe eines Amerikanischen Landmanns (Leipzig), 1788,
1789. Voyage dans la Haute Pensylvanie et dans l'etat de New York
(Paris), 1801.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION by Warren Barton Blake
LETTER
I. INTRODUCTION
II. ON THE SITUATION, FEELINGS, AND PLEASURES OF AN AMERICAN
FARMER
III. WHAT IS AN AMERICAN
IV. DESCRIPTION OF THE ISLAND OF NANTUCKET, WITH THE MANNERS,
CUSTOMS, POLICY, AND TRADE OF THE INHABITANTS
V. CUSTOMARY EDUCATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF THE INHABITANTS OF
NANTUCKET
VI. DESCRIPTION OF THE ISLAND OF MARTHA'S VINEYARD, AND OF THE
WHALE FISHERY
VII. MANNERS AND CUSTOMS AT NANTUCKET
VIII. PECULIAR CUSTOMS AT NANTUCKET
IX. DESCRIPTION OF CHARLES-TOWN; THOUGHTS ON SLAVERY; ON PHYSICAL
EVIL; A MELANCHOLY SCENE
X. ON SNAKES; AND ON THE HUMMING BIRD.
XI. FROM MR. IW--N AL--Z, A RUSSIAN GENTLEMAN, DESCRIBING THE
VISIT HE PAID AT MY REQUEST TO MR. JOHN BERTRAM, THE
CELEBRATEDPENNSYLVANIA BOTANIST
XII. DISTRESSES OF A FRONTIER MAN
LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN FARMER;
DESCRIBING CERTAIN PROVINCIAL SITUATIONS, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS, NOT
GENERALLY KNOWN; AND CONVEYING SOME IDEA OF THE LATE AND PRESENT
INTERIOR CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE BRITISH COLONIES IN NORTH AMERICA.
WRITTEN FOR THE INFORMATION OF A FRIEND IN ENGLAND,
By J. HECTOR ST. JOHN, A FARMER IN PENNSYLVANIA
ADVERTISEMENT
[To the first edition, 1782.]
The following Letters are the genuine production of the American
Farmer whose name they bear. They were privately written to gratify
the curiosity of a friend; and are made public, because they contain
much authentic information, little known on this side the Atlantic;
they cannot therefore fail of being highly interesting to the people
of England, at a time when everybody's attention is directed toward
the affairs of America.
That these letters are the actual result of a private correspondence
may fairly be inferred (exclusive of other evidence) from the style
and manner in which they are conceived: for though plain and
familiar, and sometimes animated, they are by no means exempt from
such inaccuracies as must unavoidably occur in the rapid effusions
of a confessedly inexperienced writer.
Our Farmer had long been an eye-witness of transactions that have
deformed the face of America: he is one of those who dreaded, and
has severely felt, the desolating consequences of a rupture between
the parent state and her colonies: for he has been driven from a
situation, the enjoyment of which the reader will find pathetically
described in the early letters of this volume. The unhappy contest
is at length, however, drawing toward a period; and it is now only
left us to hope, that the obvious interests and mutual wants of both
countries, may in due time, and in spite of all obstacles, happily
re-unite them.
Should our Farmer's letters be found to afford matter of useful
entertainment to an intelligent and candid public, a second volume,
equally interesting with those now published, may soon be expected.
ADVERTISEMENT
[To the Second Edition, 1783.]
Since the publication of this volume, we hear that Mr. St. John has
accepted a public employment at New York. It is therefore, perhaps,
doubtful whether he will soon be at leisure to revise his papers,
and give the world a second collection of the American Farmer
Letters.
TO THE ABBE RAYNAL, F.R.S.
Behold, Sir, an humble American Planter, a simple cultivator of the
earth, addressing you from the farther side of the Atlantic; and
presuming to fix your name at the head of his trifling lucubrations.
I wish they were worthy of so great an honour. Yet why should not I
be permitted to disclose those sentiments which I have so often felt
from my heart? A few years since, I met accidentally with your
Political and Philosophical History, and perused it with infinite
pleasure. For the first time in my life I reflected on the relative
state of nations; I traced the extended ramifications of a commerce
which ought to unite but now convulses the world; I admired that
universal benevolence, that diffusive goodwill, which is not
confined to the narrow limits of your own country; but, on the
contrary, extends to the whole human race. As an eloquent and
powerful advocate you have pleaded the cause of humanity in
espousing that of the poor Africans: you viewed these provinces of
North America in their true light, as the asylum of freedom; as the
cradle of future nations, and the refuge of distressed Europeans.
Why then should I refrain from loving and respecting a man whose
writings I so much admire? These two sentiments are inseparable, at
least in my breast. I conceived your genius to be present at the
head of my study: under its invisible but powerful guidance, I
prosecuted my small labours: and now, permit me to sanctify them
under the auspices of your name. Let the sincerity of the motives
which urge me, prevent you from thinking that this well meant
address contains aught but the purest tribute of reverence and
affection. There is, no doubt, a secret communion among good men
throughout the world; a mental affinity connecting them by a
similitude of sentiments: then, why, though an American, should not
I be permitted to share in that extensive intellectual
consanguinity? Yes, I do: and though the name of a man who possesses
neither titles nor places, who never rose above the humble rank of a
farmer, may appear insignificant; yet, as the sentiments I have
expressed are also the echo of those of my countrymen; on their
behalf, as well as on my own, give me leave to subscribe myself,
Sir,
Your very sincere admirer,
J. HECTOR ST. JOHN. CARLISLE IN PENNSYLVANIA.
LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN FARMER
LETTER I
INTRODUCTION
Who would have thought that because I received you with hospitality
and kindness, you should imagine me capable of writing with
propriety and perspicuity? Your gratitude misleads your judgment.
The knowledge which I acquired from your conversation has amply
repaid me for your five weeks' entertainment. I gave you nothing
more than what common hospitality dictated; but could any other
guest have instructed me as you did? You conducted me, on the map,
from one European country to another; told me many extraordinary
things of our famed mother-country, of which I knew very little; of
its internal navigation, agriculture, arts, manufactures, and trade:
you guided me through an extensive maze, and I abundantly profited
by the journey; the contrast therefore proves the debt of gratitude
to be on my side. The treatment you received at my house proceeded
from the warmth of my heart, and from the corresponding sensibility
of my wife; what you now desire must flow from a very limited power
of mind: the task requires recollection, and a variety of talents
which I do not possess. It is true I can describe our American modes
of farming, our manners, and peculiar customs, with some degree of
propriety, because I have ever attentively studied them; but my
knowledge extends no farther. And is this local and unadorned
information sufficient to answer all your expectations, and to
satisfy your curiosity? I am surprised that in the course of your
American travels you should not have found out persons more
enlightened and better educated than I am; your predilection excites
my wonder much more than my vanity; my share of the latter being
confined merely to the neatness of my rural operations.
My father left me a few musty books, which his father brought from
England with him; but what help can I draw from a library consisting
mostly of Scotch Divinity, the Navigation of Sir Francis Drake, the
History of Queen Elizabeth, and a few miscellaneous volumes? Our
minister often comes to see me, though he lives upwards of twenty
miles distant. I have shown him your letter, asked his advice, and
solicited his assistance; he tells me, that he hath no time to
spare, for that like the rest of us must till his farm, and is
moreover to study what he is to say on the sabbath. My wife (and I
never do anything without consulting her) laughs, and tells me that
you cannot be in earnest. What! says she, James, wouldst thee
pretend to send epistles to a great European man, who hath lived
abundance of time in that big house called Cambridge; where, they
say, that worldly learning is so abundant, that people gets it only
by breathing the air of the place? Wouldst not thee be ashamed to
write unto a man who has never in his life done a single day's work,
no, not even felled a tree; who hath expended the Lord knows how
many years in studying stars, geometry, stones, and flies, and in
reading folio books? Who hath travelled, as he told us, to the city
of Rome itself! Only think of a London man going to Rome! Where is
it that these English folks won't go? One who hath seen the factory
of brimstone at Suvius, and town of Pompey under ground! wouldst
thou pretend to letter it with a person who hath been to Paris, to
the Alps, to Petersburg, and who hath seen so many fine things up
and down the old countries; who hath come over the great sea unto
us, and hath journeyed from our New Hampshire in the East to our
Charles Town in the South; who hath visited all our great cities,
knows most of our famous lawyers and cunning folks; who hath
conversed with very many king's men, governors, and counsellors, and
yet pitches upon thee for his correspondent, as thee calls it?
surely he means to jeer thee! I am sure he does, he cannot be in a
real fair earnest. James, thee must read this letter over again,
paragraph by paragraph, and warily observe whether thee can'st
perceive some words of jesting; something that hath more than one
meaning: and now I think on it, husband, I wish thee wouldst let me
see his letter; though I am but a woman, as thee mayest say, yet I
understand the purport of words in good measure, for when I was a
girl, father sent us to the very best master in the precinct.--She
then read it herself very attentively: our minister was present, we
listened to, and weighed every syllable: we all unanimously
concluded that you must have been in a sober earnest intention, as
my wife calls it; and your request appeared to be candid and
sincere. Then again, on recollecting the difference between your
sphere of life and mine, a new fit of astonishment seized us all!
Our minister took the letter from my wife, and read it to himself;
he made us observe the two last phrases, and we weighed the contents
to the best of our abilities. The conclusion we all drew made me
resolve at last to write.--You say you want nothing of me but what
lies within the reach of my experience and knowledge; this I
understand very well; the difficulty is, how to collect, digest, and
arrange what I know? Next you assert, that writing letters is
nothing more than talking on paper; which, I must confess, appeared
to me quite a new thought.--Well then, observed our minister,
neighbour James, as you can talk well, I am sure you must write
tolerably well also; imagine, then, that Mr. F. B. is still here,
and simply write down what you would say to him. Suppose the
questions be will put to you in his future letters to be asked by
his viva voce, as we used to call it at the college; then let your
answers be conceived and expressed exactly in the same language as
if he was present. This is all that he requires from you, and I am
sure the task is not difficult. He is your friend: who would be
ashamed to write to such a person? Although he is a man of learning
and taste, yet I am sure he will read your letters with pleasure: if
they be not elegant, they will smell of the woods, and be a little
wild; I know your turn, they will contain some matters which he
never knew before. Some people are so fond of novelty, that they
will overlook many errors of language for the sake of information.
We are all apt to love and admire exotics, tho' they may be often
inferior to what we possess; and that is the reason I imagine why so
many persons are continually going to visit Italy.--That country is
the daily resort of modern travellers.
James: I should like to know what is there to be seen so goodly and
profitable, that so many should wish to visit no other country?
Minister: I do not very well know. I fancy their object is to trace
the vestiges of a once flourishing people now extinct. There they
amuse themselves in viewing the ruins of temples and other buildings
which have very little affinity with those of the present age, and
must therefore impart a knowledge which appears useless and
trifling. I have often wondered that no skilful botanists or learned
men should come over here; methinks there would be much more real
satisfaction in observing among us the humble rudiments and embryos
of societies spreading everywhere, the recent foundation of our
towns, and the settlements of so many rural districts. I am sure
that the rapidity of their growth would be more pleasing to behold,
than the ruins of old towers, useless aqueducts, or impending
battlements.
James: What you say, minister, seems very true: do go on: I always
love to hear you talk.
Minister: Don't you think, neighbour James, that the mind of a good
and enlightened Englishman would be more improved in remarking
throughout these provinces the causes which render so many people
happy? In delineating the unnoticed means by which we daily increase
the extent of our settlements? How we convert huge forests into
pleasing fields, and exhibit through these thirteen provinces so
singular a display of easy subsistence and political felicity.
In Italy all the objects of contemplation, all the reveries of the
traveller, must have a reference to ancient generations, and to very
distant periods, clouded with the mist of ages.--Here, on the
contrary, everything is modern, peaceful, and benign. Here we have
had no war to desolate our fields: [Footnote: The troubles that now
convulse the American colonies had not broke out when this and some
of the following letters were written.] our religion does not
oppress the cultivators: we are strangers to those feudal
institutions which have enslaved so many. Here nature opens her
broad lap to receive the perpetual accession of new comers, and to
supply them with food. I am sure I cannot be called a partial
American when I say that the spectacle afforded by these pleasing
scenes must be more entertaining and more philosophical than that
which arises from beholding the musty ruins of Rome. Here everything
would inspire the reflecting traveller with the most philanthropic
ideas; his imagination, instead of submitting to the painful and
useless retrospect of revolutions, desolations, and plagues, would,
on the contrary, wisely spring forward to the anticipated fields of
future cultivation and improvement, to the future extent of those
generations which are to replenish and embellish this boundless
continent. There the half-ruined amphitheatres, and the putrid
fevers of the Campania, must fill the mind with the most melancholy
reflections, whilst he is seeking for the origin and the intention
of those structures with which he is surrounded, and for the cause
of so great a decay. Here he might contemplate the very beginnings
and outlines of human society, which can be traced nowhere now but
in this part of the world. The rest of the earth, I am told, is in
some places too full, in others half depopulated. Misguided
religion, tyranny, and absurd laws everywhere depress and afflict
mankind. Here we have in some measure regained the ancient dignity
of our species; our laws are simple and just, we are a race of
cultivators, our cultivation is unrestrained, and therefore
everything is prosperous and flourishing. For my part I had rather
admire the ample barn of one of our opulent farmers, who himself
felled the first tree in his plantation, and was the first founder
of his settlement, than study the dimensions of the temple of Ceres.
I had rather record the progressive steps of this industrious
farmer, throughout all the stages of his labours and other
operations, than examine how modern Italian convents can be
supported without doing anything but singing and praying.