in the bookselling line in a large American city. I am not sure that his
originality extended beyond the frankness of his professional discourse;
but that was infinitely striking. He told me that he wanted to publish
for me, and would offer as good terms as anybody. I thanked him, but
objected that I had nothing to publish. He was sure I must have a book
written about America. I had not, and did not know that I ever should
have. His answer, given with a patronising air of suggestion, was, "Why,
surely, madam, you need not be at a loss about that. You must have got
incident plenty by this time; and then you can Trollopize a bit, and so
make a readable book."
In the West we were thrown into the society of a girl about whom we were
completely puzzled. Our New-England friends could only conclude, with
us, that she had been trained amid the usages of some retired district
to a freedom which is certainly very unusual in the country. In a stage
which took up our party at a country hotel, near the Mammoth Cave, in
Kentucky, was a girl of about two-and-twenty, oddly dressed. She got
out and breakfasted with the other passengers, looking perfectly at her
ease. We concluded that she belonged to one of two gentlemen in the
stage, and we rather wondered that any gentleman should like to travel
with a companion so untidily dressed as she was. She had a good black
silk gown, but over it was pinned a square net handkerchief, unhemmed,
and therefore looking ragged. She had black stockings, but shabby shoes
of some dark-coloured leather, not black; and they were tied on with
twine where the strings had given way. Her straw bonnet was shabby. She
had nothing with her but a basket which she carried on her knees. She
joined freely and pleasantly in conversation, and showed none of the
common troublesome timidity amid the disasters of the day and of the
ensuing night. It was very sultry weather. One of the horses fell from
heat in the midst of the Barrens, and we all had to walk up the hills,
and no short distance in the forest. The roads were so bad that the
driver tried his utmost to alarm the passengers, in order to induce some
to lighten his vehicle by remaining behind; but the girl seemed not in
the least daunted. In the course of the night we were overturned, and
had no light but what was afforded by the gentlemen walking before the
stage, holding tallow candles which they had bought by the roadside; but
nothing disconcerted the young lady. She was a girl of nerve and of
patience, it was clear. She refused to sit down to the first meal we had
on the road, and the reason of her abstinence appeared before the day
was over. When we changed coaches, and it was necessary to pay on
striking into a new route, she coolly inquired if any gentleman would
ask a free passage for her till she could send the money out of Indiana,
where she was going. It was now evident that she was alone, every
passenger having supposed that she was of the party of somebody else.
She gave no further explanation than that she had "come off in a hurry,"
no one knowing of it but two of the slaves, and that she should send the
money out of Indiana. There was not the slightest confusion in her
manner, nor any apparent consciousness that she was behaving strangely.
One of the gentlemen made himself answerable for her fare, and she
proceeded with us.
At Elizabethtown the next morning she refused breakfast with the utmost
cheerfulness; but our friend Mr. L. invited her to sit down with us,
which she did with a good grace. At seven in the evening we arrived at
Louisville, and alighted at the great hotel; one of the largest,
handsomest, and most luxurious in the United States, and, of course,
expensive. We chose apartments while Mr. L. ordered supper in a private
room for our party. Almost before my companion and I could turn
ourselves round in our chamber, the lone girl, who had followed us about
like a ghost, was taking her hair down at my dressing-table. Mrs. L.
hastened to inform her that this room was engaged; but, pointing out
that there were three beds, she said she should like to lodge here. Of
course this could not be allowed; and, as soon as she found that we
wished to be alone, she went away. When we descended with Mrs. L. to her
room, we found the poor girl dressing there. Mrs. L. now took upon her
to advise. She observed to the young person that she would probably be
more comfortable in a less expensive hotel, to which she agreed. The
same elderly gentleman who answered for her fare took her to a
respectable hotel near at hand, and commended her to the care of the
landlady, who promised to see her off for Indiana in the morning. We
left Louisville at dawn, and heard no more of the lone girl, of whom we
have often since thought and spoken. The odd circumstances of the case
were her freedom from all embarrassment, and her cheerfulness on the
road and while fasting, from want of money. There was not a trace of
insanity in her manners, though her dress at first suggested the idea;
and we could perceive no symptoms of the fear of pursuit or hurry of
spirits which would have been natural consequences of a clandestine
flight. Yet, by her own account, she must have done something of the
kind.
Though the freedom of travelling is not such as to admit of young ladies
making their way about quite alone, in a way so unceremonious as this,
the liberty of intercourse on the road is very great, and highly amusing
to a stranger. One day in Virginia, on entering our parlour at a hotel
where we were merely stopping to dine, I was amused to see our lawyer
companion, Mr. S., in grave consultation with the hostess, while Mrs.
S., her silk bonnet on her knee, and a large pair of scissors in hand,
was busy cutting, slashing, and rending a newspaper on which the bonnet
peak was spread. There was evidently so much more show than use in what
she was doing, that I could not understand her proceedings. "What _are_
you about?" asked I. Mrs. S. pointed to the landlady, and, trying to
help laughing, told me that the hostess had requested the pattern of her
bonnet. While this pretence of a pattern was in course of preparation by
the lady, the hostess was getting a legal opinion out of the gentleman
about a sum of eight hundred dollars which was owing to her. If we had
only stayed to tea, I doubt not our landlady would have found some
employment for every one of us, and have favoured us, in return, with
all the rest of her private affairs.
Originals who are so in common circumstances, through their own force of
soul, ruling events as well as being guided by them, yield something far
better than amusement to the observer. Some of these, out of almost
every class, I saw in America, from the divine and statesman down to the
slave. I saw a very old lady whom I consider to be one, not on account
of her extraordinary amiability and sympathy with all ages (which cause
her to be called grandmamma by all who know her), but because this
temper of mind is the result of something higher than an easy
disposition and prosperous circumstances. It is the accomplishment of a
long-settled purpose. When Grandmamma J. was eight years old, she was in
company with an old lady who was jealous, exacting, and peevish. On
returning home, the child ran to her mother and said, "If I am ever an
old lady, I will be a good-tempered old lady." This was not said and
forgotten, like many childish resolutions formed under the smart of
elderly people's faults. It was a real purpose. She knew that, in order
not to be cross when old, it is necessary to be meek, patient, and
cheerful when young. She was so; and the consequence is, that Grandmamma
J.'s popularity is unbounded. She is cherished by the whole community to
whom she is known. The children want to have her at their dances, and
the youths and maidens are always happiest where she is. She looks as if
no shadow of care had been cast over her bright spirit for many a long
year, and as if she might yet have many sunny years to come. She is
preacher, prophet, and dispenser of amiability, all in one.
The venerable Noah Worcester is an original. I am thankful to have seen
this aged apostle, for so he should be considered, having had a mission,
and honourably discharged it. He is the founder of Peace Societies in
America. Noah Worcester was a minister of the Gospel, of orthodox
opinions. By the time he was surrounded by a family of young children,
he had changed his opinions, and found himself a Unitarian. He avowed
the change, resigned his parish, and went forth with his family, without
a farthing in the world, or any prospect of being able to obtain a
subsistence. He wrote diligently, but on subjects which were next his
heart, and on which he would have written in like manner if he had been
the wealthiest of American citizens. He set up the "Christian Disciple,"
a publication which has done honour to its supporters both under its
original title and its present one of "The Christian Examiner." He
devoted his powers to the promotion of Peace principles and the
establishment of Peace Societies. Whatever may be thought of the
practical effects, in a narrow view, of such societies, they seem to
have well answered a prodigious purpose in turning men's contemplations
full on the subject of true and false honour, and in inducing a
multitude of glorious experiments of living strictly according to a
principle which happens to be troublesome in its application. The number
of peacemen, practisers of nonresistance, out of the Quaker body, is
considerable in America, and their great living apostle is Noah
Worcester. The leaders of the abolition movement are for the most part
peacemen; an inestimable circumstance, as it takes out the sting from
the worst of the slanders of their enemies, and gives increased effect
to their moral warfare. Human nature cannot withstand the grandeur of
the spectacle of men who have all the moral power on their side, and who
abide unresistingly all that the physical power of the other side can
inflict The boldest spirits tremble, hearts the most hardened in
prejudice melt, when once they come into full view of this warfare; and
the victory rests with the men of peace, who all love the name of Noah
Worcester. Nearly twenty years ago he was encompassed with distresses
for a time. Indeed, his life has been one of great poverty till lately.
He is not one of the men made to be rich, or to spend his thoughts on
whether he was happy or not. He was sent into the world for a very
different purpose, with which and with its attendant enjoyments poverty
could but little interfere. But in the midst of his deep poverty came
sickness. His two daughters were at once prostrated by fever, and a
severe struggle it was before they got through. Two friends of mine
nursed them; and in the discharge of their task learned lessons of faith
which they will be for ever thankful for, and of those graces which
accompany the faith of the heart, cheerfulness of spirits, and quietude
and simplicity of manner. My friends were not, at the beginning, fully
aware of the condition of the household. They were invited to table at
the early dinner hour. On the table stood a single brown loaf and a
pitcher of water. Grace was said, and they were invited to partake with
the utmost ease and cheerfulness, and not a word passed in reference to
the restriction of the fare. This was what God had been pleased to
provide, and it was thankfully accepted and hospitably shared. The
father went from the one sick room to the other, willing to receive what
tidings might await him, but tender to his daughters, as they have since
been to him. On one evening when all looked threatening, he asked the
friendly nurse whether the voice of prayer would be injurious to his
sick children; finding that they desired to hear him, he set open the
doors of their chambers, kneeled in the passage between, and prayed, so
calmly, so thankfully, that the effect was to compose the spirits of the
invalids. One now lives with him and cherishes him. She has changed her
religious opinions and become orthodox, but she has not changed towards
him. They are as blessed in their relation as ever.
Noah Worcester was seventy-six when I saw him in the autumn of 1835. He
was very tall, dressed in a gray gown, and with long white hair
descending to his shoulders. His eye is clear and bright, his manner
serious but cheerful. His evening meal was on the table, and he invited
us to partake with the same grace with which he offered his harder fare
to the guests of former years. He lives at Brighton, a short distance
from Boston, where his daughter manages the postoffice, by which their
humble wants are supplied. He had lately published, and he now presented
me with his "Last Thoughts" on some religious subjects which had long
engaged his meditations. I hope his serene old age may yet be prolonged,
gladsome to himself and eloquent to the world.
There is a remarkable man in the United States, without knowing whom it
is not too much to say that the United States cannot be fully known. I
mean by this, not only that he has powers and worth which constitute him
an element in the estimate to be formed of his country, but that his
intellect and his character are the opposite of those which the
influences of his country and his time are supposed almost necessarily
to form. I speak of the author of the oration which I have already
mentioned as being delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society last
August, Mr. Emerson. He is yet in the prime of life. Great things are
expected from him, and great things, it seems, he cannot but do, if he
have life and health to prosecute his course. He is a thinker and a
scholar. He has modestly and silently withdrawn himself from the
perturbations and conflicts of the crowd of men, without declining any
of the business of life, or repressing any of his human sympathies. He
is a thinker without being solitary, abstracted, and unfitted for the
time. He is a scholar without being narrow, bookish, and prone to occupy
himself only with other men's thoughts. He is remarkable for the
steadiness and fortitude with which he makes those objects which are
frequently considered the highest in their own department subordinate to
something higher still, whose connexion with their department he has
clearly discovered. There are not a few men, I hope, in America, who
decline the pursuit of wealth; not a few who refrain from ambition; and
some few who devote themselves to thought and study from a pure love of
an intellectual life. But the case before us is a higher one than this.
The intellectual life is nourished from a love of the diviner life of
which it is an element. Consequently, the thinker is ever present to the
duty, and the scholar to the active business of the hour; and his home
is the scene of his greatest acts. He is ready at every call to action.
He lectures to the factory people at Lowell when they ask it. He
preaches when the opportunity is presented. He is known at every house
along the road he travels to and from home, by the words he has dropped
and the deeds he has done. The little boy who carries wood for his
household has been enlightened by him; and his most transient guests owe
to him their experience of what the highest grace of domestic manners
may be. He neglects no political duty, and is unmindful of nothing in
the march of events which can affect the virtue and peace of men. While
he is far above fretting himself because of evil-doers, he has ever
ready his verdict for the right, and his right hand for its champions.
While apart from the passions of all controversies, he is ever present
with their principles, declaring himself and taking his stand, while
appearing to be incapable of contempt of persons, however uncompromising
may be his indignation against whatever is dishonest and harsh. Earnest
as is the tone of his mind, and placidly strenuous as is his life, an
exquisite spirit of humour pervades his intercourse. A quiet gayety
breathes out of his conversation; and his observation, as keen as it is
benevolent, furnishes him with perpetual material for the exercise of
his humour. In such a man it is difficult to point out any one
characteristic; but if, out of such a harmony, one leading quality is to
be distinguished, it is in him modest independence. A more entire and
modest independence I am not aware of having ever witnessed, though in
America I saw two or three approaches to it. It is an independence
equally of thought, of speech, of demeanour, of occupation, and of
objects in life; yet without a trace of contempt in its temper, or of
encroachment in its action. I could give anecdotes; but I have been his
guest, and I restrain myself. I have spoken of him in his relation to
society, and have said only what may be and is known to common
observers.
Such a course of life could not have been entered upon but through
discipline. It has been a discipline of calamity as well as of toil. As
for the prospect, it is to all appearance very bright. Few persons are
apparently placed so favourably for working out such purposes in life.
The condition seems hard to find fault with; and as to the spirit which
is to work upon it--though I differ from some of the views of the
thinker, and do not sympathize with all of those tastes of the scholar
which I am capable of entering into--I own that I see no defect, and
anticipate nothing short of triumph in the struggle of life.
Something may be learned of this thinker and his aims from a few
passages of his address; though this is the last purpose, I doubt not,
that he dreamed of his work being used for. He describes the nature of
the occasion. "Our holyday has been simply a friendly sign of the
survival of the love of letters among a people too busy to give to
letters any more." His topic is the American scholar, and he describes
the influences which contribute to form or modify him: the influence of
Nature, the mind of the past, and action in life. He concludes with a
consideration of the duty of the scholar.
"There goes in the world a notion that the scholar should be a recluse,
a valetudinarian, as unfit for any handiwork or public labour as a
penknife for an axe. The so-called 'practical men' sneer at speculative
men as if, because they speculate or _see_, they could do nothing. I
have heard it said that the clergy--who are always, more universally
than any other class, the scholars of their day--are addressed as women;
that the rough spontaneous conversation of men they do not hear, but
only a mincing and diluted speech. They are often virtually
disfranchised; and, indeed, there are advocates for their celibacy. As
far as this is true of the studious classes, it is not just and wise.
Action is with the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it
he is not yet man. Without it thought can never ripen into truth. While
the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of beauty, we cannot even see
its beauty. Inaction is cowardice; but there can be no scholar without
the heroic mind. The preamble of thought, the transition through which
it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is action. Only so much
do I know as I have lived."
... "The mind now thinks, now acts, and each fit reproduces the other.
When the artist has exhausted his materials, when the fancy no longer
paints, when thoughts are no longer apprehended, and books are a
weariness, he has always the resource to live. Character is higher than
intellect. Thinking is the function. Living is the functionary.
"The stream retreats to its source. A great soul will be strong to live
as well as strong to think. Does he lack organ or medium to impart his
truths? He can still fall back on this elemental force of living them.
This is a total act. Thinking is a partial act. Let the grandeur of
justice shine in his affairs. Let the beauty of affection cheer his
lowly roof. Those 'far from fame' who dwell and act with him will feel
the force of his constitution in the doings and passages of the day
better than it can be measured by any public and designed display. Time
shall teach him that the scholar loses no hour which the man lives.
Herein he unfolds the sacred germe of his instinct screened from
influence. What is lost in seemliness is gained in strength. Not out of
those on whom systems of education have exhausted their culture comes
the helpful giant to destroy the old or to build the new, but out of
unhandselled savage nature, out of terrible Druids and Bersirkirs come
at last Alfred and Shakspeare. I hear, therefore, with joy whatever is
beginning to be said of the dignity and necessity of labour to every
citizen. There is virtue yet in the hoe and the spade for learned as
well as for unlearned hands. And labour is everywhere welcome; always we
are invited to work; only be this limitation observed, that a man shall
not, for the sake of wider activity, sacrifice any opinion to the
popular judgments and modes of action."
... "They (the duties of the scholar) are such as become man thinking.
They may all be comprised in self-trust. The office of the scholar is to
cheer, to raise, and to guide men by showing them facts amid
appearances. He plies the slow, unhonoured, and unpaid task of
observation. Flamstead and Herschel, in their glazed observatory, may
catalogue the stars with the praise of all men, and, the results being
splendid and useful, honour is sure. But he, in his private observatory,
cataloguing obscure and nebulous stars of the human mind, which as yet
no man has thought of as such; watching days and months, sometimes, for
a few facts; correcting still his old records; must relinquish display
and immediate fame. In the long period of his preparation he must betray
often an ignorance and shiftlessness in popular arts, incurring the
disdain of the able who shoulder him aside. Long he must stammer in his
speech, often forego the living for the dead. Worse yet, he must accept,
how often! poverty and solitude. For the ease and pleasure of treading
the old road, accepting the fashions, the education, the religion of
society, he takes the cross of making his own, and, of course, the
self-accusation, the faint heart, the frequent uncertainty, and loss of
time which are the nettles and tangling vines in the way of the
self-relying and self-directed; and the state of virtual hostility in
which he seems to stand to society, and especially to educated society.
For all this loss and scorn, what offset? He is to find consolation in
exercising the highest functions of human nature. He is one who raises
himself from private considerations, and breathes and lives on public
and illustrious thoughts. He is the world's eye. He is the world's
heart. He is to resist the vulgar prosperity that retrogrades ever to
barbarism, by preserving and communicating heroic sentiments, noble
biographies, melodious verse, and the conclusions of history. Whatsoever
oracles the human heart in all emergencies, in all solemn hours has
uttered as its commentary on the world of actions, these he shall
receive and impart. And whatsoever new verdict Reason from her
inviolable seat pronounces on the passing men and events of to-day, this
he shall hear and promulgate. These being his functions, it becomes him
to feel all confidence in himself, and to defer never to the popular
cry. He, and he only, knows the world. The world of any moment is the
merest appearance. Some great decorum, some fetish of a government, some
ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by half mankind and cried
down by the other half, as if all depended on this particular up or
down. The odds are that the whole question is not worth the poorest
thought which the scholar has lost in listening to the controversy. Let
him not quit his belief that a popgun is a popgun, though the ancient
and honourable of the earth affirm it to be the crack of doom. In
silence, in steadiness, in severe abstraction, let him hold by himself;
add observation to observation; patient of neglect, patient of reproach,
and bide his own time, happy enough if he can satisfy himself alone that
this day he has seen something truly."