Literature—Extracts—Fine Arts—Education
The character of the American literature is, generally speaking, pretty
justly appreciated in Europe. The immense exhalation of periodical
trash, which penetrates into every cot and corner of the country, and
which is greedily sucked in by all ranks, is unquestionably one great
cause of its inferiority. Where newspapers are the principal vehicles
of the wit and wisdom of a people, the higher graces of composition can
hardly be looked for.
That there are many among them who can write well, is most certain; but
it is at least equally so, that they have little encouragement to
exercise the power in any manner more dignified than becoming the
editor of a newspaper or a magazine. As far as I could judge, their
best writers are far from being the most popular. The general taste is
decidedly bad; this is obvious, not only from the mass of slip-slop
poured forth by the daily and weekly press, but from the inflated tone
of eulogy in which their insect authors are lauded.
To an American writer, I should think it must be a flattering
distinction to escape the admiration of the newspapers. Few persons of
taste, I imagine, would like such notice as the following, which I
copied from a New York paper, where it followed the advertisement of a
partnership volume of poems by a Mr, and Mrs. Brooks; but of such, are
their literary notices chiefly composed.
“The lovers of impassioned and classical numbers may promise themselves
much gratification from the muse of Brooks, while the many-stringed
harp of his lady, the Norna of the Courier Harp, which none but she can
touch, has a chord for every heart.”
Another obvious cause of inferiority in the national literature, is the
very slight acquaintance with the best models of composition, which is
thought necessary for persons called well educated. There may be reason
for deprecating the lavish expense of time bestowed in England on the
acquirement of Latin and Greek, and it may be doubtful whether the
power of composing in these languages with correctness and facility, be
worth all the labour it costs; but as long as letters shall be left on
the earth, the utility of a perfect familiarity with the exquisite
models of antiquity, cannot be doubted. I think I run no risk of
contradiction, when I say that an extremely small proportion of the
higher classes in America possess this familiar acquaintance with the
classics. It is vain to suppose that translations may suffice. Noble as
are the thoughts the ancients have left us, their power of expression
is infinitely more important as a study to modern writers; and this no
translation can furnish. Nor did it appear to me that their intimacy
with modern literature was such as to assist them much in the formation
of style. What they class as modern literature seems to include little
beyond the English publications of the day.
To speak of Chaucer, or even Spenser, as a modern, appears to them
inexpressibly ridiculous; and all the rich and varied eloquence of
Italy, from Dante to Monti, is about as much known to them, as the
Welsh effusions of Urien and Modred, to us.
Rousseau, Voltaire, Diderot, &c., were read by the old federalists, but
now they seem known more as naughty words, than as great names. I am
much mistaken if a hundred untravelled Americans could be found, who
have read Boileau or Le Fontaine. Still fewer are acquainted with that
delightful host of French female writers, whose memoirs and letters
sparkle in every page with unequalled felicity of style. The literature
of Spain and Portugal is no better known, and as for “the wits of Queen
Anne’s day,” they are laid _en masse_ upon a shelf, in some score of
very old-fashioned houses, together with Sherlock and Taylor, as much
too antiquated to suit the immensely rapid progress of mind which
distinguishes America.
The most perfect examples of English writing, either of our own, or of
any former day, have assuredly not been produced by the imitation of
any particular style; but the Fairy Queen would hardly have been
written, if the Orlando had not; nor would Milton have been the perfect
poet he was, had Virgil and Tasso been unknown to him. It is not that
the scholar mimics in writing the phrases he has read, but that he can
neither think, feel, nor express himself as he might have done, had his
mental companionship been of a lower order.
They are great novel readers, but the market is chiefly furnished by
England. They have, however, a few very good native novels. Mr. Flint’s
Francis Berrian is delightful. There is a vigor and freshness in his
writing that is exactly in accordance with what one looks for, in the
literature of a new country; and yet, strange to say, it is exactly
what is most wanting in that of America. It appeared to me that the
style of their imaginative compositions was almost always affected, and
inflated. Even in treating their great national subject of romance, the
Indians, they are seldom either powerful or original. A few well known
general features, moral and physical, are presented over and over again
in all their Indian stories, till in reading them you lose all sense of
individual character. Mr. Flint’s History of the Mississippi Valley is
a work of great interest, and information, and will, I hope, in time
find its way to England, where I think it is much more likely to be
appreciated than in America.
Dr. Channing is a writer too well known in England to require my
testimony to his great ability. As a preacher he has, perhaps, hardly a
rival any where. This gentleman is an Unitarian, and I was informed by
several persons well acquainted with the literary character of the
country, that nearly all their distinguished men were of this
persuasion.
Mr. Pierpoint is a very eloquent preacher, and a sweet poet. His works
are not so well known among us as .they ought to be. Mr. Everett has
written some beautiful lines, and if I may judge from the specimens of
his speeches, as preserved in the volumes intitled “Eloquence of the
United States,” I should say that he shone more as a poet than an
orator. But American fame has decided otherwise.
Mr. M. Flint, of Louisiana, has published a volume of poems which ought
to be naturalised here. Mr. Hallock, of New York, has much facility of
versification, and is greatly in fashion as a drawing-room poet, but I
think he has somewhat too much respect for himself, and too little for
his readers.
It is, I think, Mr. Bryant who ranks highest as the poet of the Union.
This is too lofty an eminence for me to attack; besides, “I am of
another parish,” and therefore, perhaps, no very fair judge.
From miscellaneous poetry I made a great many extracts, but upon
returning to them for transcription I thought that ill-nature and
dulness, (‘oh ill-matched pair!’) would be more served by their
insertion, than wholesome criticism.
The massive Fredoniad of Dr. Emmons, in forty cantos, I never read; but
as I did not meet a single native who had, I hope this want of poetical
enterprise will be excused.
They have very few native tragedies; not more than half a dozen I
believe, and those of very recent date. It would be ungenerous to fall
heavily upon these; the attempt alone, nearly the most arduous a poet
can make, is of itself honourable: and the success at least equal to
that in any other department of literature.
Mr. Paulding is a popular writer of novels; some of his productions
have been recently republished in England. Miss Sedgwick is also well
known among us; her “Hope Leslie” is a beautiful story. Mr. Washington
Irving and Mr. Cooper have so decidedly chosen another field, whereon
to reap their laurels, that it is hardly necessary to name them here.
I am not, of course, competent to form any opinion of their scientific
works; but some papers which I read almost accidentally, appeared to me
to be written with great clearness, and neatness of definition.
It appears extraordinary that a people who loudly declare their respect
for science, should be entirely without observatories. Neither at their
seats of learning, nor in their cities, does any thing of the kind
exist; nor did I in any direction hear of individuals, given to the
study of astronomy.
I had not the pleasure of making any acquaintance with Mr. Bowditch, of
Boston, but I know that this gentleman ranks very high as a
mathematician in the estimation of the scientific world of Europe.
Jefferson’s posthumous works were very generally circulated whilst I
was in America. They are a mighty mass of mischief. He wrote with more
perspicuity than he thought, and his hot-headed democracy has done a
fearful injury to his country. Hollow and unsound as his doctrines are,
they are but too palatable to a people, each individual of whom would
rather derive his importance from believing that none are above him,
than from the consciousness that in his station he makes part of a
noble whole. The social system of Mr. Jefferson, if carried into
effect, would make of mankind an unamalgamated mass of grating atoms,
where the darling “I’m as good as you,” would soon take place of the
law and the Gospel. As it is, his principles, though happily not fully
put in action, have yet produced most lamentable results. The
assumption of equality, however empty, is sufficient to tincture the
manners of the poor with brutal insolence, and subjects the rich to the
paltry expediency of sanctioning the falsehood, however deep their
conviction that it is such. It cannot, I think, be denied that the
great men of America attain to power and to fame, by eternally uttering
what they know to be untrue. American citizens are not equal. Did
Washington feel them to be so, when his word outweighed (so happily for
them) the votes of thousands? Did Franklin think that all were equal
when he shouldered his way from the printing press to the cabinet?
True, he looked back in high good humour, and with his kindest smile
told the poor devils whom he left behind, that they were all his
equals; but Franklin did not speak the truth, and he knew it. The
great, the immortal Jefferson himself, he who when past the three score
years and ten, still taught young females to obey his nod, and so
became the father of unnumbered generations of groaning slaves, what
was his matin and his vesper hymn? “All men are born free and equal.”
Did the venerable father of the gang believe it? Or did he too purchase
his immortality by a lie?
From the five heavy volumes of the “Eloquence of the United States,” I
made a few extracts, which I give more for the sake of their political
interest, than for any purpose of literary criticism.
Mr. Hancock (one of those venerated men who signed the act of
independence), in speaking of England, thus expresses himself: “But if
I was possessed of the gift of prophecy, I dare not (except by Divine
command) unfold the leaves on which the destiny of that once powerful
kingdom is inscribed.” It is impossible not to regret that Mr. Hancock
should thus have let “I dare not, wait upon I would.” It would have
been exceedingly edifying to have known beforehand all the terrible
things the republic was about to do for us.
This prophetic orator spoke the modest, yet awful words, above quoted,
nearly sixty years ago; in these latter days men are become bolder, for
in a modern 4th of July oration, Mr. Rush, without waiting, I think,
for Divine command, gives the following amiable portrait of the British
character.
“In looking at Britain, we see a harshness of individual character in
the general view of it, which is perceived and acknowledged by all
Europe; a spirit of unbecoming censure as regards all customs and
institutions not their own; a ferocity in some of their characteristics
of national manners, pervading their very pastimes, which no other
modern people are endued with the blunted sensibility to bear; an
universal self-assumed superiority, not innocently manifesting itself
in speculative sentiments among themselves, but unamiably indulged when
with foreigners, of whatever description, in their own country, or when
they themselves are the temporary sojourners in a foreign country; a
code of criminal law that forgets to feel for human frailty, that
sports with human misfortune, that has shed more blood in deliberate
judicial severity for two centuries past, constantly increasing, too,
in its sanguinary hue, than has ever been sanctioned by the
jurisprudence of any ancient or modern nation, civilized and refined
like herself; the merciless whippings in her army, peculiar to herself
alone, the conspicuous commission and freest acknowledgment of vice in
the upper classes; the overweening distinctions shown to opulence and
birth, so destructive of a sound moral sentiment in the nation, so
baffling to virtue. These are some of the traits that rise up to a
contemplation of the inhabitants of this isle.”
Where is the alchymy that can extract from Captain Hall’s work one
thousandth part of the ill-will contained in this one passage? Yet
America has resounded from shore to shore with execrations against his
barbarous calumnies.
But now we will listen to another tone. Let us see how Americans can
praise. Mr. Everett, in a recent 4th of July oration, speaks thus:—
“We are authorised to assert, that the era of our independence dates
the establishment of the only perfect organization of government.”
Again, “Our government is in its theory perfect, and in its operation
it is perfect also. Thus we have solved the great problem in human
affairs.” And again, “A frame of government perfect in its principles
has been brought down from the airy regions of Utopia, and has found a
local habitation and a name in our country.”
Among my miscellaneous reading, I got hold of an American publication
giving a detailed, and, indeed, an official account of the capture of
Washington by the British, in 1814. An event so long past, and of so
little ultimate importance, is, perhaps, hardly worth alluding to; but
there are some passages in the official documents which I thought very
amusing.
At the very moment of receiving the attack of the British on the
heights of Bladensburgh, there seems to have been a most curious puzzle
among the American generals, as to where they were to be stationed, and
what they were to do. It is stated that the British threw themselves
forward in open order, advancing singly. The American general (Winden)
goes on in his narrative to describe what followed, thus:
“Our advanced riflemen now began to fire, and continued it for half a
dozen rounds, when I observed them to run back to an orchard. They
halted there, and seemed for a moment about returning to their original
position, but in a few moments entirely broke and retired to the left
of Stansburg’s line. The advanced artillery immediately followed the
riflemen.
“The first three or four rockets fired by the enemy were much above the
heads of Stansburg’s line; but the rockets having taken a more
horizontal direction, an universal flight of the centre and left of
this brigade was the consequence. The 5th regiment and the artillery
still remained, and I hoped would prevent the enemy’s approach, but
they advancing singly, their fire annoyed the 5th considerably, when I
ordered it to retire, to put it out of the reach of the enemy. This
order was, however, immediately countermanded, from an aversion to
retire before the necessity became stronger, and from a hope that the
enemy would issue in a body, and enable us to act upon him on terms of
equality. But the enemy’s fire beginning to annoy the 5th still more,
by wounding several of them, and a strong column passing up the road,
and deploying on its left, I ordered them to retire; their retreat
became a flight of absolute and total disorder.”
Of Beall’s regiment, the general gives the following succinct
account—“It gave one or two ineffectual fires and fled.”
In another place he says, piteously,—“The cavalry would do any thing
but charge.”
General Armstrong’s gentle and metaphysical account of the business
was, that—“Without all doubt the determining cause of our disasters is
to be found in the love of life.”
This affair at Washington, which in its result was certainly
advantageous to America, inasmuch as it caused the present beautiful
capitol to be built in the place of the one we burnt, was,
nevertheless, considered as a national calamity at the time. In a
volume of miscellaneous poems I met with one, written with the
patriotic purpose of cheering the country under it; one triplet struck
me as rather alarming for us, however soothing to America.
“Supposing George’s house at Kew
Were burnt, as we intend to do,
Would that be burning England too?”
I think I have before mentioned that no work of mere pleasantry has
hitherto been found to answer; but a recent attempt of the kind as been
made, with what success cannot as yet be decided. The editors are
comedians belonging to the Boston company, and it is entitled “The
American Comic Annual.” It is accompanied by etchings, somewhat in the
manner, but by no means with the spirit of Cruikshank’s. Among the
pleasantries of this lively volume are some biting attacks upon us,
particularly upon our utter incapacity of speaking English. We really
must engage a few American professors, or we shall lose all trace of
classic purity in our language. As a specimen, and rather a favourable
one, of the work, I transcribed an extract from a little piece,
entitled, “Sayings and Doings, a Fragment of a Farce.” One of the
personages of this farce is an English gentleman, a Captain Mandaville,
and among many speeches of the same kind, I selected the following.
Collins’s Ode is the subject of conversation.
“A—r, A—a—a it stroiks me that that you manetion his the hode about
hangger and ope and orror and revenge you know. I’ve eard Mrs. Sitdowns
hencored in it at Common Garden and Doory Lane in the ight of her
poplarity you know. By the boye, hall the hactin in Amareka is werry
orrid. You’re honely in the hinfancy of the istoryonic hart you know;
your performers never haspirate the haitch in sich vords for instance
as hink and hoats, and leave out the _w_ in wice wanity you know; and
make nothink of homittin the _k_ in somethink.”
There is much more in the same style, but, perhaps, this may suffice. I
have given this passage chiefly because it affords an example of the
manner in which the generality of Americans are accustomed to speak of
English pronunciation and phraseology.
It must be remembered, however, here and every where, that this phrase,
“the Americans,” does not include the instructed and travelled portion
of the community.
It would be absurd to swell my little volumes with extracts in proof of
the veracity of their contents, but having spoken of the taste of their
lighter works, and also of the general tone of manners, I cannot
forbear inserting a page from an American annual (The Token), which
purports to give a scene from fashionable life. It is part of a
dialogue between a young lady of the “highest standing” and her
“tutor,” who is moreover her lover, though not yet acknowledged.
“And so you wo’nt tell me,” said she, “what has come over you, and why
you look as grave and sensible as a Dictionary, when, by general
consent, even mine, ‘motley’s the only wear?’”
‘“Am I so grave, Miss Blair?”
‘“Are you so grave, Miss Blair? One would think I had not got my lesson
today. Pray, sir, has the black ox trod upon your toe since we parted?”
‘Philip tried to laugh, but he did not succeed; he bit his lip and was
silent.
‘“I am under orders to entertain you, Mr. Blondel, and if my poor brain
can be made to gird this fairy isle, I shall certainly be obedient. So
I begin with playing the leech. What ails you, sir?”
‘“Miss Blair!” he was going to remonstrate.
‘“Miss Blair! Now, pity. I’m a quack! for whip me, if I know whether
Miss Blair is a fever or an ague. How did you catch it, sir?”
‘“Really, Miss Blair—”
‘“Nay, I see you don’t like doctoring; I give over, and now I’ll be
sensible. It’s a fine day, Mr. Blondel.”
‘“Very.”
‘“A pleasant lane, this, to walk in, if one’s company were agreeable.”
‘“Does Mr. Skefton stay long?” asked Philip, abruptly.
‘“No one knows,”
‘“Indeed! are you so ignorant?”
‘“And why does your wisdom ask that question?”’
In no society in the world can the advantage of travel be so
conspicuous as in America, in other countries a tone of unpretending
simplicity can more than compensate for the absence of enlarged views
or accurate observation; but this tone is not to be found in America,
or if it be, it is only among those who, having looked at that
insignificant portion of the world not included in the Union, have
learnt to know how much is still unknown within the mighty part which
is. For the rest, they all declare, and do in truth believe, that they
only, among the sons of men, have wit and wisdom, and that one of their
exclusive privileges is that of speaking English _elegantly_. There are
two reasons for this latter persuasion; the one is, that the great
majority have never heard any English but their own, except from the
very lowest of the Irish; and the other, that those who have chanced to
find themselves in the society of the few educated English who have
visited America, have discovered that there is a marked difference
between their phrases and accents and those to which they have been
accustomed, whereupon they have, of course, decided that no Englishman
can speak English.
The reviews of America contain some good clear-headed articles; but I
sought in vain for the playful vivacity and the keenly-cutting satire,
whose sharp edge, however painful to the patient, is of such high
utility in lopping off the excrescences of bad taste, and levelling to
its native clay the heavy growth of dulness. Still less could I find
any trace of that graceful familiarity of learned allusion and general
knowledge which mark the best European reviews, and which make one feel
in such perfectly good company while perusing them. But this is a tone
not to be found either in the writings or conversation of Americans; as
distant from pedantry as from ignorance, it is not learning itself, but
the effect of it; and so pervading and subtle is its influence that it
may be traced in the festive halls and gay drawing-rooms of Europe as
certainly as in the cloistered library or student’s closet; it is,
perhaps, the last finish of highly-finished society.
A late American Quarterly has an article on a work of Dr. Von Schmidt
Phiseldek, from which I made an extract, as a curious sample of the
dreams they love to batten on.
Dr. Von Phiseldek (not Fiddlestick), who is not only a doctor of
philosophy, but a knight of Dannebrog to boot, has never been in
America, but he has written a prophecy, showing that the United States
must and will govern the whole world, because they are so very big, and
have so much uncultivated territory; he prophesies that an union will
take place between North and South America, which will give a
death-blow to Europe, at no distant period; though he modestly adds
that he does not pretend to designate the precise period at which this
will take place. This Danish prophecy, as may be imagined, enchants the
reviewer. He exhorts all people to read Dr. Phiseldek’s book, because
“nothing but good can come of such contemplations of the future, and
because it is eminently calculated to awaken the most lofty
anticipations of the destiny which awaits them, and will serve to
impress upon the nation the necessity of being prepared for such high
destiny.” In another place the reviewer bursts out, “America, young as
she is, has become already the beacon, the patriarch of the struggling
nations of the world;” and afterwards adds, It would be departing from
the natural order of things, and the ordinary operations of the great
scheme of Providence, it would be shutting our ears to the voice of
experience, and our eyes to the inevitable connexion of causes and
their effects, were we to reject the extreme probability, not to say
_moral certainty_, that the old world is destined to receive its
influences in future from the new.” There are twenty pages of this
article, but I will only give one passage more; it is an instance of
the sort of reasoning by which American citizens persuade themselves
that the glory of Europe is, in reality, her reproach. “Wrapped up in a
sense of his superiority, the European reclines at home, shining in his
borrowed plumes, derived from the product of every corner of the earth,
and the industry of every portion of its inhabitants, with which his
own natural resources would never have invested him, he continues
revelling in enjoyments which nature has denied him.”
The American Quarterly deservedly holds the highest place in their
periodical literature, and, therefore, may be fairly quoted as striking
the keynote for the chorus of public opinion. Surely it is nationality
rather than patriotism which leads it thus to speak in scorn of the
successful efforts of enlightened nations to win from every corner of
the earth the riches which nature has scattered over it.
The incorrectness of the press is very great; they make strange work in
the reprints of French and Italian; and the Latin, I suspect, does not
fare much better: I believe they do not often meddle with Greek.
With regard to the fine arts, their paintings, I think, are quite as
good, or rather better, than might be expected from the patronage they
receive; the wonder is that any man can be found with courage enough to
devote himself to a profession in which he has so little chance of
finding a maintenance. The trade of a carpenter opens an infinitely
better prospect; and this is so well known, that nothing but a genuine
passion for the art could beguile any one to pursue it. The entire
absence of every means of improvement, and effectual study, is
unquestionably the cause why those who manifest this devotion cannot
advance farther. I heard of one young artist, whose circumstances did
not permit his going to Europe, but who being nevertheless determined
that his studies should, as nearly as possible, resemble those of the
European academies, was about to commence drawing the human figure, for
which purpose he had provided himself with a thin silk dress, in which
to clothe his models, as no one of any station, he said, could be found
who would submit to sit as a model without clothing.
It was at Alexandria that I saw what I consider as the best picture by
an American artist that I met with. The subject was Hagar and Ishmael.
It had recently arrived from Rome, where the painter, a young man of
the name of Chapman, had been studying for three years. His mother told
me that he was twenty-two years of age, and passionately devoted to the
art; should he, on returning to his country, receive sufficient
encouragement to keep his ardour and his industry alive, I think I
shall hear of him again.
Much is said about the universal diffusion of education in America, and
a vast deal of genuine admiration is felt and expressed at the progress
of mind throughout the Union. They believe themselves in all sincerity
to have surpassed, to be surpassing, and to be about to surpass, the
whole earth in the intellectual race. I am aware that not a single word
can be said, hinting a different opinion, which will not bring down a
transatlantic anathema on my head; yet the subject is too interesting
to be omitted. Before I left England I remember listening, with much
admiration, to an eloquent friend, who deprecated our system of public
education, as confining the various and excursive faculties of our
children to one beaten path, paying little or no attention to the
peculiar powers of the individual.
This objection is extremely plausible, but doubts of its intrinsic
value must, I think, occur to every one who has marked the result of a
different system throughout the United States.
From every enquiry I could make, and I took much pains to obtain
accurate information, it appeared that much is attempted, but very
little beyond reading, writing, and bookkeeping, is thoroughly
acquired. Were we to read a prospectus of the system pursued in any of
our public schools and that of a first-rate seminary in America, we
should be struck by the confined scholastic routine of the former, when
compared to the varied and expansive scope of the latter; but let the
examination go a little farther, and I believe it will be found that
the old fashioned school discipline of England has produced something
higher, and deeper too, than that which roars so loud, and thunders in
the index.
They will not afford to let their young men study till two or three and
twenty, and it is therefore declared, _ex cathedra Americana_, to be
unnecessary. At sixteen, often much earlier, education ends, and
money-making begins; the idea that more learning is necessary than can
be acquired by that time, is generally ridiculed as obsolete monkish
bigotry; added to which, if the seniors willed a more prolonged
discipline, the juniors would refuse submission. When the money-getting
begins, leisure ceases, and all of lore which can be acquired
afterwards, is picked up from novels, magazines, and newspapers.
At what time can the taste be formed? How can a correct and polished
style, even of speaking, be acquired? or when can the fruit of the two
thousand years of past thinking be added to the native growth of
American intellect? These are the tools, if I may so express myself,
which our elaborate system of school discipline puts into the hands of
our scholars; possessed of these, they may use them in whatever
direction they please afterwards, they can never be an incumbrance.
No people appear more anxious to excite admiration and receive applause
than the Americans, yet none take so little trouble, or make so few
sacrifices to obtain it. This may answer among themselves, but it will
not with the rest of the world; individual sacrifices must be made, and
national economy enlarged, before America can compete with the old
world in taste, learning, and liberality.
The reception of General Lafayette is the one single instance in which
the national pride has overcome the national thrift; and this was
clearly referrible to the one single feeling of enthusiasm of which
they appear capable, namely, the triumph of their successful struggle
for national independence. But though this feeling will be universally
acknowledged as a worthy and lawful source of triumph and of pride, it
will not serve to trade upon for ever, as a fund of glory and high
station among the nations. Their fathers were colonists; they fought
stoutly, and became an independent people. Success and admiration, even
the admiration of those whose yoke they had broken, cheered them while
living, still sheds a glory round their remote and untitled sepulchres,
and will illumine the page of their history for ever.
Their children inherit the independence; they inherit too the honour of
being the sons of brave fathers; but this will not give them the
reputation at which they aim, of being scholars and gentlemen, nor will
it enable them to sit down for evermore to talk of their glory, while
they drink mint julap and chew tobacco, swearing by the beard of
Jupiter (or some other oath) that they are very graceful, and
agreeable, and, moreover abusing every body who does not cry out Amen!
To doubt that talent and mental power of every kind exist in America
would be absurd; why should it not? But in taste and learning they are
woefully deficient; and it is this which renders them incapable of
graduating a scale by which to measure themselves. Hence arises that
over weening complacency and self-esteem, both national and individual,
which at once renders them so extremely obnoxious to ridicule, and so
peculiarly restive under it.
If they will scorn the process by which other nations have become what
they avowedly intend to be, they must rest satisfied with the praise
and admiration they receive from each other; and turning a deaf ear to
the criticism of the old world, consent to be their own prodigious
great reward.”
Alexandria has its churches, chapels, and conventicles as abundantly,
in proportion to its size, as any city in the Union. I visited most of
them, and in the Episcopal and Catholic heard the services performed
quietly and reverently.
The best sermon, however, that I listened to, was in a Methodist
church, from the mouth of a Piquot Indian. It was impossible not be
touched by the simple sincerity of this poor man. He gave a picture
frightfully eloquent of the decay of his people under the united
influence of the avarice and intemperance of the white men. He
described the effect of the religious feeling which had recently found
its way among them as most salutary. The purity of his moral feeling,
and the sincerity of his sympathy with his forest brethren, made it
unquestionable that he must be the most valuable priest who could
officiate for them. His English was very correct, and his pronunciation
but slightly tinctured by native accent.
While we were still in the neighbourhood of Washington, a most violent
and unprecedented schism occurred in the cabinet. The four secretaries
of State all resigned, leaving General Jackson to manage the queer
little state barge alone.
Innumerable contradictory statements appeared upon this occasion in the
papers, and many a cigar was thrown aside, ere half consumed, that the
disinterested politician might give breath to his cogitations on this
extraordinary event; but not all the eloquence of all the smokers, nor
even the ultradiplomatic expositions which appeared from the seceding
secretaries themselves, could throw any light on the mysterious
business. It produced, however, the only tolerable caricature I ever
saw in the country. It represents the President seated alone in his
cabinet, wearing a look of much discomfiture, and making great
exertions to detain one of four rats, who are running off, by placing
his foot on the tail. The rats’ heads bear a very sufficient
resemblance to the four ex-ministers. General Jackson, it seems, had
requested Mr. Van Buren, the Secretary of State, to remain in office
till his place was supplied; this gave occasion to a _bon mot_ from his
son, who, being asked when his father would be in New York, replied,
“When the President takes off his foot.”