which resulted in the acquisition of Canada by the English, there was
in New England an enterprising young American soldier, named Jonathan
Carver, stranded as it were amid the threatened inanities of peace and
civilisation, and confronting a prospect that was for him altogether
insipid through its lack of adventure, and especially of barbaric
restlessness and discomfort. “I began to consider,” so he wrote a few
years afterward, “having rendered my country some services during the
war, how I might continue still serviceable, and contribute, as much as
lay in my power, to make that vast acquisition of territory gained by
Great Britain in North America, advantageous to it. To this purpose, I
determined to explore the most unknown parts of them.” The project thus
clearly wrought out in 1763 by this obscure provincial captain in New
England anticipated by forty years the American statesmanship which,
under President Jefferson, sent Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to
penetrate the passes of the Rocky Mountains and to pitch their tents by
the mouth of the Columbia River; even as it anticipated by a hundred
years the Canadian statesmanship which, under Sir John Macdonald, has
in our time beaten out an iron way across the continent at its greatest
breadth.
It seems to have taken Carver about three years to complete his
preparations for the tremendous enterprise which then inspired him. Not
until June, 1766,--in the political lull occasioned by the repeal of
the Stamp Act--was he able to start. After passing Albany, he plunged
at once into the wilderness which then stretched its rough dominion
over the uncomputed spaces to the western sea. In June, 1768, he began
his journey homeward. In the October following, he reached Boston,
“having,” as he says, “been absent from it on this expedition two years
and five months, and during that time travelled near seven thousand
miles. From thence, as soon as I had properly digested my journal
and charts, I set out for England, to communicate the discoveries I
had made, and to render them beneficial to the kingdom.” In 1778,
nine years after his arrival there, he succeeded in bringing out his
noble and fascinating book of _Travels through the Interior Parts
of North America_. It was in consequence of the publication, soon
after his death, in the year 1780, of the tale of Carver’s career
as an explorer in America, and especially of the struggles and the
miseries he encountered as an American man of letters in London,
that, for the relief in future of deserving men of letters there, the
foundation was laid for that munificent endowment, now so celebrated
under the name of “The Royal Literary Fund.” His best monument is
his book. As a contribution to the history of inland discovery upon
this continent, and especially to our materials for true and precise
information concerning the “manners, customs, religion, and language
of the Indians,” Carver’s book of _Travels_ is of unsurpassed value.
Besides its worth for instruction, is its worth for delight; we have
no other “Indian book” more captivating than this. Here is the charm
of a sincere, powerful, and gentle personality--the charm of novel and
significant facts, of noble ideas, of humane sentiments, all uttered
in English well-ordered and pure. In evidence, also, of the European
celebrity acquired by his book, may be cited the fact that it seems to
have had a strong fascination for Schiller, as, indeed, might have been
expected; and Carver’s report of a harangue by a Nadowessian chief over
the dead body of one of their great warriors--being itself a piece of
true poetry in prose--was turned into verse by the German poet, and
became famous as his _Nadowessiers Totenlied_,--a dirge which pleased
Goethe so much that he declared it to be among the best of Schiller’s
poems in that vein, and wished that his friend had written a dozen
such.[2]
_St. John Crèvecœur_.--In 1782, there was published in London an
American book written with a sweetness of tone and, likewise, with a
literary grace and a power of fascination then quite unexpected from
the western side of the Atlantic. It presented itself to the public
behind this ample title-page:--“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.” The name of the author as thus
given upon his title-page, was not his name in full, but only the
baptismal portion of it. By omitting from the book his surname, which
was Crèvecœur, he had chosen to disguise to the English public the
fact--which could hardly have added to his welcome among them--that
though he was an American, he was not an English American, but a
French one,--having been born in Normandy, and of a noble family
there, in 1731. While really an American farmer, Crèvecœur was a man
of education, of refinement, of varied experience in the world. When
but a lad of sixteen, he had removed from France to England; when but
twenty-three, he had emigrated to America.
As an account of the American colonies, this book makes no pretension
either to system or to completeness; and yet it does attain to a sort
of breadth of treatment by seizing upon certain representative traits
of the three great groups of colonies,--the northern, the middle,
and the southern. There are in this book two distinct notes--one of
great peace, another of great pain. The earlier and larger portion
of the book gives forth this note of peace: it is a prose pastoral
of life in the New World, as that life must have revealed itself to
a well-appointed American farmer of poetic and optimistic temper, in
the final stage of our colonial era, and just before the influx of the
riot and bitterness of the great disruption. This note of peace holds
undisturbed through the first half of the book, and more. Not until,
in the latter half of it, the author comes to describe slavery in the
Far South, likewise the harsh relations between the colonists and the
Indians, finally the outbreak of the tempest of civil war, does his
book give out its second note--the note of pain. By its inclusion of
these sombre and agonising aspects of life in America, the book gains,
as is most obvious, both in authenticity and literary strength. It is
not hard to understand why, at such a time, a book like this should
soon have made its way into the languages of Europe, particularly those
of France, Germany, and Holland; nor why it should have fascinated
multitudes of readers in all parts of the Continent, even beguiling
many of them--too many of them, perhaps--to try their fortunes in that
blithe and hospitable portion of the planet where the struggle for
existence seemed almost a thing unknown. In England, likewise, the book
won for itself, as was natural, a wide and a gracious consideration;
its praises lasted among English men of letters as long, at least,
as until the time of Hazlitt and Charles Lamb; while its idealised
treatment of rural life in America wrought quite traceable effects
upon the imagination of Campbell, Byron, Southey, and Coleridge, and
furnished not a few materials for such captivating and airy schemes of
literary colonisation in America as that of “Pantisocracy.”
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
I. THE HISTORIANS
=Early Dearth of Good Writers.=--Among the consciously useful forms
of literature there is none in which, by common consent, American men
of letters have so uniformly distinguished themselves as in history.
Bradford and Winthrop in the seventeenth century are as conspicuous
among their countrymen and as respectable before the world as Prescott
and Parkman in the nineteenth. Prince and Stith are as minutely
conscientious--and almost as dull--as the most scientific of modern
students; and Hutchinson, when judged by the prevailing standards of
his own times, will be found not less diligent or judicious than Adams
and Rhodes are thought to-day. Indeed, there is in our literature but
one period destitute of historians of merit, and that period falls in
the years immediately after the Revolution, precisely in the years when
we should most expect historical writing to flourish; for those last
years of the eighteenth century seem, as we look back upon them, to
be full of encouragement for national pride. In 1781, Lord Cornwallis
had surrendered at Yorktown. In 1783, King George acknowledged
the independence of his rebellious subjects in America. Under a
constitution since renowned, they soon instituted for themselves
a federal government upon a continental scale. The prediction of
Jefferson’s Declaration seemed to be justified. The United States were
ready “to assume among the powers of the earth that separate and equal
station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them.”
Popular revolutions such as this have often been followed by a period
of great literary fruitfulness, particularly in history. So it proved
in Holland, in France, in Italy. But in America nothing of the sort
occurred. The twenty-five years after Yorktown, barren in literature
of every kind, are exceptionally devoid of historical writers who deal
with large subjects in a large way. There were, of course, narratives
of the war by participants and panegyrists. Such were David Ramsay’s
“History of the American Revolution” (1789), Mrs. Mercy Warren’s “Rise,
Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution” (1805), and the
“History of the American Revolution” which appeared in 1819 under the
name of Paul Allen. But none of these works shows largeness of view,
and none is distinguished by literary qualities. They serve a good
purpose, however, in reflecting the feeling of the Revolution. This
is particularly true of Mrs. Warren’s book. She was a sister of James
Otis, whose argument against the writs of assistance in 1761 marks
the beginning of the Revolutionary agitation, and the wife of General
Joseph Warren, who fell on Bunker Hill; and her intimacy with these and
other New England patriots lends a certain representative value to her
forgotten discursiveness. A similar value attaches also to the more
readable, but not less bitter “Life of James Otis, containing Notices
of Contemporary Characters and Events,” written by William Tudor;
likewise, though in a less degree, to several other early biographies
of Revolutionary worthies, among which the most weighty is the “Life
of George Washington,” in five volumes (1804-1807), based upon his
original papers and compiled by his fellow-Virginian John Marshall,
afterwards famous as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. For students
of American history, this is a useful book, such as a man of Marshall’s
ability could not fail to produce when dealing with subjects
with which he was thoroughly familiar and in which he was deeply
interested. But it is hastily written, far too long, and, save for
its partisanship, altogether colourless. Nevertheless, it occupies a
relatively high rank among its coevals, for, taken all in all, American
writers on national history in the years 1780-1820 are few and weak.
_Causes of this Inferiority._--In explanation of this circumstance
various conjectures have been advanced. Indubitably, the proscription
of the Loyalists after the war deprived the thirteen States of wealth
and intelligence which might otherwise have afforded to American
literature an American support. But the effect upon letters of
that social loss is easily exaggerated. The promptness with which
serious English books were reprinted in America, even in the years
when, as Goodrich discovered, it was “positively injurious to the
commercial credit of a bookseller to undertake American works,”
proves sufficiently that a reading public still remained. Another
reason why, in the earlier years of our national life, there were few
historians, may be found in the exaggerated value which most Americans
then set upon certain abstract and therefore absolute theories in
politics. Among the leaders of the Anti-Federalist or Democratic party,
especially, a sort of political orthodoxy grew up. Theirs became a
party with a creed, but without a programme. In the Southern States,
they developed, in defence of their principles, an extensive literature
of political and economic theory, far surpassing in variety of
argument, subtlety of reasoning, and clearness of exposition anything
that the North could show. But throughout it all, they appealed for
support to the unchanging text of written constitutions, or to the
immemorial prescriptions of natural law; upon history they looked as
a tedious tale of ignorance and error. The Federalists, on the other
hand, like the Whigs and the Republicans who succeeded them, were
a party rather of measures than of principles. For their practical
aims, a knowledge of human experience was serviceable. They inclined,
therefore, to historical studies, and it is in New England, where
their hold had been strongest, that the most significant of American
historians at length appear. But even the stoutest Federalist among
the contemporaries of Jefferson could discern in the recent experience
of the nation at large little to stimulate patriotic ardour. In the
estimation of men as yet unaccustomed to “think continentally,” the new
government had brought few blessings: its burdens seemed innumerable.
Taxes were high. Money was bad, and scarce as well. The Revolution had
loosened the bonds of traditional authority, and internal disorder
was rife. The mutual obligations assumed by England and by the United
States at the Peace of 1783 were disregarded on both sides; and a
new treaty, whose stipulations the vast majority of Americans deemed
humiliating to themselves and dishonourable towards their French
allies, served chiefly to prolong internal dissensions by introducing
as an unwelcome issue in American politics the conflicting sympathies
of the Federalists with England and of the Democrats with France. What
wonder, then, that those who concerned themselves with the history of
America at all turned from the Union to their several States, each
of which, in their view, had been made separately sovereign by the
events of the Revolution. Their temper is well expressed by the title
of David Ramsay’s “History of the Revolution of South Carolina from
a British Province to an Independent State” (1785). Ramsay’s “South
Carolina” was soon followed by Belknap’s “New Hampshire” (1784-92),
Proud’s “Pennsylvania” (1797), Minot’s “Continuation of the History
[Hutchinson’s] of Massachusetts” (1798), Burke’s “Virginia” (1804),
Williamson’s “North Carolina” (1812), and Trumbull’s “Connecticut”
(1818). Among these books, Belknap’s justly holds the highest
rank. Its style is vigorous and flexible, and in the opinion of de
Tocqueville, “the reader of Belknap will find more general ideas and
more strength of thought than are to be met with in other American
historians” of the same period.
_Washington Irving._--The life of Washington Irving as a man of letters
is followed elsewhere in this volume; but no account of American
historical writers, however slight, can omit his name. In the more
laborious paths of the historian’s vocation he seldom walked. Research
was foreign to his temperament, and in his histories references to
authorities are few. He makes no pretence of disclosing new facts,
or even of suggesting new theories concerning facts already known.
But “the picturesque distances of earth’s space and the romantic
remoteness of history” kindled his imagination, and his travels, which
were extended for an American of his day, produced enduring results
in a series of books dealing with the countries, and in part with
the history of the countries, which he visited. One reason for his
assuming the duties, not over-serious, of an _attaché_ of the American
legation in Madrid was Minister Everett’s suggestion that he make
an English version of the matter relating to America in Navarrete’s
work on the voyages and discoveries of the Spanish at the end of the
fifteenth century, which had then been recently published. This project
presently expanded into Irving’s “Life and Voyages of Christopher
Columbus, to which are added Those of his Companions” (1828). It was
followed in the next year by “The Conquest of Granada,” and in 1832
by “Tales of the Alhambra.” Returning to America, Irving travelled
extensively west of the Mississippi, and presently published his
“Astoria” (1836) and “The Adventures of Captain Bonneville” (1837).
Of these books, which, with an unimportant “Life of Mahomet and his
Successors” (1849) and a five-volume “Life of Washington” (1855-59),
constitute Irving’s historical writings, the “Columbus” is justly the
most esteemed. It gained for its author the gold medal of the Royal
Society of Literature and the Oxford degree of D.C.L. And not without
reason, for it embodies, in a skilful narrative, not merely the
substance of Navarrete’s documents, which Irving rendered with fidelity
into excellent English, but also the results of other studies which
were, for him, exceptionally thorough. Modern criticism has been very
busy with the life of Columbus since Irving wrote. The narratives of
Ferdinand Columbus and of Las Casas, upon which he largely relied, have
been somewhat discredited, and the character of the discoverer himself
has not altogether escaped. Nor can it be denied that Irving’s lively
fancy led him to embellish his account of certain dramatic passages
in the life of Columbus with details which, while not improbable in
themselves, are unsupported by documentary or other direct evidence.
But the attempt of some subsequent writers, and notably of Irving’s
countryman Winsor, to discredit him on that account has been carried
beyond reason. Irving’s narrative of facts in the “Columbus” is
conscientiously based upon primary sources; and his judgments, though
occasionally over-indulgent of his hero, are in general sound. Columbus
may not have been in all respects such a man as Irving represents him,
but it is, at least, ennobling for the reader to believe that he was
such a man.
In writing his “Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada from the MSS. of
Fray Antonio Agapida,” Irving recurred to a device which he had already
employed with success. Fray Antonio is no less mythical than the “small
elderly gentleman, dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat, by
the name of Knickerbocker,” who was supposed to have left behind him,
in his rooms at the Independent Columbian Hotel, that “very curious
kind of a written book in his own handwriting” which, being presently
printed “to pay off the bill for his board and lodging,” brought
to its real author his first popularity. Nor can the “Granada” lay
much stronger claim to be considered authentic history than Irving’s
burlesque account of New York “from the beginning of the world to
the end of the Dutch dynasty.” It is not, of course, predominantly
humorous; but it is, in reality, merely a historical romance, adorned
with bits from old chroniclers. In it Irving gave his imagination loose
rein; and for that reason it is the most readable of his Spanish books.
His writings upon American history are less sympathetic. The matter
of “Captain Bonneville” was fine in its facts, but it contained too
little of the last to stimulate Irving’s romantic imagination, and it
remained cold and almost crude under his shaping hand. In the founding
of the settlement by which a butcher’s boy from Waldorf hoped to seize
the mighty river of the West, there was also the stuff “of Romance,”
and Irving’s “Astoria, or Anecdotes of Enterprise beyond the Rocky
Mountains,” should transport the reader to
the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings.
In fact it continually brings his mind back to the ledgers of a too
prosperous counting-house. Into the “Life of Washington” Irving
was never able to put his heart. The book was the task-work of his
declining years. It was undertaken at the suggestion of enterprising
publishers, to whom he listened the more readily because the number of
those dependent upon him had increased as the income from his earlier
works declined. Its composition dragged from the outset. When at length
the volumes appeared, they achieved a pronounced _succès d’estime_; but
the work shows neither the firm grip of its subject nor the sustained
vigour of treatment which might rank it among great biographies. It
is rather a history of the United States during the latter half of
the eighteenth century. There are entertaining anecdotes in it, vivid
descriptions of battles, and sturdy American feeling. But of Washington
himself there is only a pale shadow.
Irving’s position in American historiography is a peculiar one. He
was not primarily a historian. In a sense he stands outside the main
currents of our historical writing. Nevertheless, he had a strong
influence in determining their course. His “Knickerbocker History
of New York,” essentially a work of humour, was taken seriously by
various of his fellow-townsmen, who were thus incited, much to Irving’s
amusement, to undertake extensive studies in local history for the
purpose of clearing their Dutch progenitors from his ridicule. He
was the earliest among American men of letters to choose historical
subjects for the exercise of his craft, and thus became the founder of
the “picturesque school” of American historians, in which Prescott,
Motley, and Parkman are his followers. And he was the first to feel the
fascination which the power of Spain, in the Old World and in the New,
has not ceased to exercise upon American writers of history ever since.