WRITERS OF PROSE
It is true of American literature that it can boast no name of
commanding genius--no dramatist to rank with Shakespeare, no poet to
rank with Keats, no novelist to rank with Thackeray, to take names only
from our cousins oversea--and yet it displays a high level of talent and
a notable richness of achievement. Literature requires a background of
history and tradition; more than that, it requires leisure. A new nation
spends its energies in the struggle for existence, and not until that
existence is assured do its finer minds need to turn to literature for
self-expression. As Poor Richard put it, "Well done is better than well
said," and so long as great things are pressing to be done, great men
will do their writing on the page of history, and not on papyrus, or
parchment, or paper.
So, in the early history of America, the settlers in the new country
were too busily employed in fighting for a foothold, in getting food and
clothing, in keeping body and soul together, to have any time for the
fine arts. Most of the New England divines tried their hands at limping
and hob-nail verse, but prior to the Revolution, American literature is
remarkable only for its aridity, its lack of inspiration and its
portentous dulness. In these respects it may proudly claim never to have
been surpassed in the history of mankind. In fact, American literature,
as such, may be said to date from 1809, when Washington Irving gave to
the world his inimitable "History of New York." It struck a new and
wholly original note, with a sureness bespeaking a master's touch.
Where did Irving get that touch? That is a question which one asks
vainly concerning any master of literature, for genius is a thing which
no theory can explain. It appears in the most unexpected places. An
obscure Corsican lieutenant becomes Emperor of France, arbiter of
Europe, and one of the three or four really great commanders of history;
a tinker in Bedford County jail writes the greatest allegory in
literature; and the son of two mediocre players develops into the first
figure in American letters. Conversely, genius seldom appears where one
would naturally look for it. Seldom indeed does genius beget genius. It
expends itself in its work.
Certainly there was no reason to suppose that any child of William
Irving and Sarah Sanders would develop genius even of the second order,
more especially since they had already ten who were just average boys
and girls. Nor did the eleventh, who was christened Washington, show, in
his youth, any glimpse of the eagle's feather.
Born in 1783, in New York City, a delicate child and one whose life was
more than once despaired of, Washington Irving received little formal
schooling, but was allowed to amuse himself as he pleased by wandering
up and down the Hudson and keeping as much as possible in the open air.
It was during these years that he gained that intimate knowledge of the
Hudson River Valley of which he was to make such good use later on. He
still remained delicate, however, and at the age of twenty was sent to
Europe. The air of France and Italy proved to be just what he needed,
and he soon developed into a fairly robust man.
With health regained, he returned, two years later, to America, and got
himself admitted to the bar. Why he should have gone to this trouble is
a mystery, for he never really seriously tried to practise law. Instead,
he was occupying himself with a serio-comic history of New York, which
grew under his pen into as successful an example of true and sustained
humor as our literature possesses. The subject was one exactly suited to
Irving's genius, and he allowed his fancy to have free play about the
picturesque personalities of Wouter Van Twiller, and Wandle Schoonhovon,
and General Van Poffenburgh, in whose very names there is a comic
suggestion. When it appeared, in 1809, it took the town by storm.
Irving, indeed, had created a legend. The history, supposed to have been
written by one Diedrich Knickerbocker, gives to the story of New York
just the touch of fancy and symbolism it needed. For all time, New York
will remain the Knickerbocker City. The book revealed a genuine master
of kindly satire, and established its author's reputation beyond
possibility of question. Perhaps the surest proof of its worth is the
fact that it is read to-day as widely and enjoyed as thoroughly as it
ever was.
It is strange that Irving did not at once adopt letters as a profession;
but instead of that, he entered his brothers' business house, which was
in a decaying condition, and to which he devoted nine harassed and
anxious years, before it finally failed. That failure decided him, and
he cast in his lot finally with the fortunes of literature. He was at
that time thirty-five years of age--an age at which most men are settled
in life, with an established profession, and a complacent readiness to
drift on into middle age.
Rarely has any such choice as Irving's received so prompt and triumphant
a vindication, for a year later appeared the "Sketch Book," with its
"Rip Van Winkle," its "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "The Spectre
Bridegroom"--to mention only three of the thirty-three items of its
table of contents--which proved the author to be not only a humorist of
the first order, but an accomplished critic, essayist and short-story
writer. The publication of this book marked the culmination of his
literary career. It is his most characteristic and important work, and
on it and his "History," his fame rests.
He lived for forty years thereafter, a number of which were spent in
Spain, first as secretary of legation, and afterwards as United States
minister to that country. It was during these years that he gathered
the materials for his "Life of Columbus," his "Conquest of Granada," and
his "Alhambra," which has been called with some justice, "The Spanish
Sketch Book." A tour of the western portion of the United States
resulted also in three books, "The Adventures of Captain Bonneville,"
"Astoria," and "A Tour on the Prairies." His last years were spent at
"Sunnyside," his home at Tarrytown, on the Hudson, where he amused
himself by writing biographies of Mahomet, of Goldsmith, and of George
Washington.
All of this was, for the most part, what is called "hack work," and his
turning to it proves that he himself was aware that his fount of
inspiration had run dry. This very fact marks his genius as of the
second order, for your real genius--your Shakespeare or Browning or
Thackeray or Tolstoi--never runs dry, but finds welling up within him a
perpetual and self-renewing stream of inspiration, fed by thought and
observation and every-day contact with the world.
Irving's closing years were rich in honor and affection, and found him
unspoiled and uncorrupted. He was always a shy man, to whom publicity of
any kind was most embarrassing; and yet he managed to be on the most
intimate of terms with his time, and to possess a wide circle of friends
who were devoted to him.
Such was the career of America's first successful man of letters. For,
strangely enough, he had succeeded in making a good living with his pen.
More than that, his natural and lambent humor, his charm and grace of
style, and a literary power at once broad and genuine, had won him a
place, if not among the crowned heads, at least mong the princes of
literature, side by side with Goldsmith and Addison. Thackeray called
him "the first ambassador whom the New World of letters sent to the
Old," and from the very first he identified American literature with
purity of life and elevation of character, with kindly humor and grace
of manner--qualities which it has never lost.
Two years after the appearance of the "Sketch Book," another star
suddenly flamed out upon the literary horizon, and for a time quite
eclipsed Irving in brilliancy. It waned somewhat in later years, but,
though we have come to see that it lacks the purity and gentle beauty of
its rival, it has still found a place among the brightest in our
literary heaven--where, indeed, only one or two of the first magnitude
shine. J. Fenimore Cooper was, like Irving, a product of New York state,
his father laying out the site of Cooperstown, on Lake Otsego, and
moving there from New Jersey in 1790, when his son was only a year old.
James, as the boy was known, was the eleventh of twelve
children--another instance of a single swan amid a flock of ducklings.
Cooperstown was at that time a mere outpost of civilization in the
wilderness, and it was in this wilderness that Cooper's boyhood was
passed. And just as Irving's boyhood left its impress on his work, so
did Cooper's in even greater degree. Mighty woods, broken only here and
there by tiny clearings, stretched around the little settlement; Indians
and frontiersmen, hunters, traders, trappers--all these were a part of
the boy's daily life. He grew learned in the lore of the woods, and laid
up unconsciously the stores from which he was afterwards to draw.
At the age of eleven, he was sent to a private school at Albany, and
three years later entered Yale. But he had the true woodland spirit; he
preferred the open air to the lecture-room, and was so careless in his
attendance at classes that, in his third year, he was dismissed from
college. There is some question whether this was a blessing or the
reverse. No doubt a thorough college training would have made Cooper
incapable of the loose and turgid style which characterizes all his
novels; but, on the other hand, he left college to enter the navy, and
there gained that knowledge of seamanship and of the ocean which make
his sea stories the best of their kind that have ever been written. His
sea career was cut short, just before the opening of the war of 1812, by
his marriage into an old Tory family, who insisted that he resign from
the service. He did so, and entered upon the quiet life of a well-to-do
country gentleman.
For seven or eight years, he showed no desire nor aptitude to be
anything else. He had never written anything for publication, had never
felt any impulse to do so, and perhaps never would have felt such an
impulse but for an odd accident. Tossing aside a dull British novel,
one day, he remarked to his wife that he could easily write a better
story himself, and she laughingly dared him to try. The result was
"Precaution," than which no British novel could be duller. But Cooper,
finding the work of writing congenial, kept at it, and the next year saw
the publication of "The Spy," the first American novel worthy of the
name. By mere accident, Cooper had found his true vein, the story of
adventure, and his true field in the scenes with which he was himself
familiar. In Harvey Birch, the spy, he added to the world's gallery of
fiction the first of his three great characters, the other two being, of
course, Long Tom Coffin and Leatherstocking.
The book was an immediate success, and was followed by "The Pioneers"
and "The Pilot," both remarkable stories, the former visualizing for the
first time the life of the forest, the latter for the first time the
life of the sea. Let us not forget that Cooper was himself a pioneer and
blazed the trails which so many of his successors have tried to follow.
If the trail he made was rough and difficult, it at least possesses the
merits of vigor and pristine achievement. "The Spy," "The Pioneers," and
"The Pilot" established Cooper's reputation not only in this country,
but in England and France. He became a literary lion, with the result
that his head, never very firmly set upon his shoulders, was completely
turned; he set himself up as a mentor and critic of both continents, and
while his successive novels continued to be popular, he himself became
involved in numberless personal controversies, which embittered his
later years.
The result of these quarrels was apparent in his work, which steadily
decreased in merit, so that, of the thirty-three novels that he wrote,
not over twelve are, at this day, worth reading. But those twelve paint,
as no other novelist has ever painted, life in the forest and on the
ocean, and however we may quarrel with his wooden men and women, his
faults of taste and dreary wastes of description, there is about them
some intangible quality which compels the interest and grips the
imagination of school-boy and gray-beard alike. He splashed his paint on
a great canvas with a whitewash brush, so to speak; it will not bear
minute examination; but at a distance, with the right perspective, it
fairly glows with life. No other American novelist has added to fiction
three such characters as those we have mentioned; into those he breathed
the breath of life--the supreme achievement of the novelist.
For seventeen years after the publication of "The Spy," Cooper had no
considerable American rival. Then, in 1837, the publication of a little
volume called "Twice-Told Tales" marked the advent of a greater than he.
No one to-day seriously questions Nathaniel Hawthorne's right to first
place among American novelists, and in the realm of the short story he
has only one equal, Edgar Allan Poe.
We shall speak of Poe more at length as a poet; but it is curious and
interesting to contrast these two men, contemporaries, and the most
significant figures in the literature of their country--Poe, an actor's
child, an outcast, fighting in the dark with the balance against him,
living a tragic life and dying a tragic death, leaving to America the
purest lyrics and most compelling tales ever produced within her
borders; Hawthorne, a direct descendant of the Puritans, a recluse and a
dreamer, his delicate genius developing gradually, marrying most
happily, leading an idyllic family life, winning success and substantial
recognition, which grew steadily until the end of his career, and which
has, at least, not diminished--could any contrast be more complete?
[Illustration: HAWTHORNE]
Nathaniel Hawthorne was a direct descendant of that William Hawthorne
who came from England in 1630 with John Winthrop in the "Arabella," and
was born at Salem, Massachusetts, the family's ancestral home, in 1804.
He was a classmate of Longfellow at Bowdoin College, graduating without
especial distinction, and spending the twelve succeeding years at Salem,
living a secluded life in accordance with his abnormally shy and
sensitive disposition. He was already resolved on the literary life, and
spent those years in solitary writing. The result was a morbid novel,
"Fanshawe," and a series of short stories, none of which attracted
especial attention or gave indication of more than average talent. Not
until 1837 did he win any measure of success, but that year saw the
publication of the first series of "Twice-Told Tales," which, by their
charm and delicacy, won him many readers.
Even at that, he found the profession of letters so unprofitable that
he was glad to accept a position as weigher and gauger at the Boston
custom-house, but he lost the place two years later by a change in
administration; tried, for a while, living with the Transcendentalists
at Brook Farm, and finally, taking a leap into the unknown, married and
settled down in the old manse at Concord. It was a most fortunate step;
his wife proved a real inspiration, and in the months that followed, he
wrote the second series of "Twice-Told Tales," and "Mosses from an Old
Manse," which mark the culmination of his genius as a teller of tales.
Four years later, the political pendulum swung back again, and Hawthorne
was offered the surveyor-ship of the custom-house at Salem, accepted it,
and moved his family back to his old home. He held the position for four
years, completed his first great romance, and in 1850 gave to the world
"The Scarlet Letter," perhaps the most significant and vital novel
produced by any American. Hawthorne had, at last, "found himself." A
year later came "The House of the Seven Gables," and then, in quick
succession, "Grandfather's Chair," "The Wonder Book," "The Snow-Image,"
"The Blithedale Romance," and "Tanglewood Tales."
A queer product of his pen, at this time, was a life of Franklin Pierce,
the Democratic candidate for the Presidency; and when Pierce was
elected, he showed his gratitude by offering Hawthorne the consulship at
Liverpool, a lucrative position which Hawthorne accepted and which he
held for four years. Two years on the continent followed, and in 1860,
he returned home, his health breaking and his mind unsettled, largely by
the prospect of the Civil War into which the country was drifting. He
found himself unable to write, failed rapidly, and the end came in the
spring of 1864.
Of American novelists, Hawthorne alone shows that sustained power and
high artistry belonging to the masters of fiction; and yet his novels
have not that universal appeal which belongs to the few really great
ones of the world. Hawthorne was supremely the interpreter of old New
England, a subject of comparatively little interest to other peoples,
since old New England was distinguished principally by a narrow
spiritual conflict which other peoples find difficult to understand. The
subject of "The Scarlet Letter" is, indeed, one of universal appeal, and
is, in some form, the theme of nearly all great novels; but its setting
narrowed this appeal, and Hawthorne's treatment of his theme, symbolical
rather than simple and concrete, narrowed it still further. Yet with all
that, it possesses that individual charm and subtlety which is apparent,
in greater or less degree, in all of his imaginative work.
Contemporary with Hawthorne, and surviving him by a few years, was
another novelist who had, in his day, a tremendous reputation, but who
is now almost forgotten, William Gilmore Simms. We shall consider
him--for he was also a maker of verse--in the next chapter, in
connection with his fellow-townsmen, Henry Timrod and Paul Hamilton
Hayne. So we pause here only to remark that the obscurity which enfolds
him is more dense than he deserves, and that anyone who likes frontier
fiction, somewhat in the manner of Cooper, will enjoy reading "The
Yemassee," the best of Simms's books.
Hawthorne stands so far above the novelists who come after him that one
rather hesitates to mention them at all. With one, or possibly two,
exceptions, the work of none of them gives promise of permanency--so far
as can be judged, at least, in looking at work so near that it has no
perspective. Prophesying has always been a risky business, and will not
be attempted here. But, whether immortal or not, there are some five or
six novelists whose work is in some degree significant, and who deserve
at least passing study.
Harriet Beecher Stowe is one of these. Born in 1811, the daughter of
Lyman Beecher, and perhaps the most brilliant member of a brilliant
family, beginning to write while still a child, and continuing to do so
until the end of her long life, Mrs. Stowe's name is nevertheless
connected in the public mind with a single book, "Uncle Tom's Cabin," a
book which has probably been read by more people than any other ever
written by an American author. Mrs. Stowe had lived for some years in
Cincinnati and had visited in Kentucky, so that she had some surface
knowledge of slavery; she was, of course, by birth and breeding, an
abolitionist, and so when, early in 1851, an anti-slavery paper called
the "National Era" was started at Washington, she agreed to furnish a
"continued story."
The first chapter appeared in April, and the story ran through the year,
attracting little attention. But its publication in book form marked the
beginning of an immense popularity and an influence probably greater
than that of any other novel ever written. It crystallized anti-slavery
sentiment, it was read all over the world, it was dramatized and gave
countless thousands their first visualization of the slave traffic. That
her presentation of it was in many respects untrue has long since been
admitted, but she was writing a tract and naturally made her case as
strong as she could. From a literary standpoint, too, the book is full
of faults; but it is alive with an emotional sincerity which sweeps
everything before it. She wrote other books, but none of them is read
to-day, except as a matter of duty or curiosity.
And let us pause here to point out that the underlying principle of
every great work of art, whether a novel or poem or painting or statue,
is sincerity. Without sincerity it cannot be great, no matter how well
it is done, with what care and fidelity; and with sincerity it may often
attain greatness without perfection of form, just as "Uncle Tom's Cabin"
did. But to lack sincerity is to lack soul; it is a body without a
spirit.
We must refer, too, to the most distinctive American humorist of the
last half century, Samuel Langhorne Clemens--"Mark Twain." Born in
Missouri, knocking about from pillar to post in his early years,
serving as pilot's boy and afterwards as pilot on a Mississippi
steamboat, as printer, editor, and what not, but finally "finding
himself" and making an immense reputation by the publication of a
burlesque book of European travel, "Innocents Abroad," he followed it up
with such widely popular stories as "Tom Sawyer," "Huckleberry Finn,"
"The Prince and the Pauper," and many others, in some of which, at
least, there seems to be an element of permanency. "Huckleberry Finn,"
indeed, has been hailed as the most distinctive work produced in
America--an estimate which must be accepted with reservations.
Three living novelists have contributed to American letters books of
insight and dignity--William Dean Howells, George W. Cable and Henry
James. Mr. Howells has devoted himself to careful and painstaking
studies of American life, and has occasionally struck a note so true
that it has found wide appreciation. The same thing may be said of Mr.
Cable's stories of the South, and especially of the Creoles of
Louisiana; while Mr. James, perhaps as the result of his long residence
abroad, has ranged over a wider field, and has chosen to depict the
evolution of character by thought rather than by deed, in his early work
showing a rare insight. Of the three, he seems most certain of a lasting
reputation.
Others of less importance have made some special corner of the country
theirs, and possess a sort of squatter-right over it. To Bret Harte
belongs mid-century California; to Mary Noailles Murfree, the Tennessee
mountains; to James Lane Allen and John Fox, present-day Kentucky; to
Mary Johnston, colonial Virginia; to Ellen Glasgow, present-day
Virginia; to Stewart Edward White, the great northwest. Others cultivate
a field peculiar to themselves. Frank R. Stockton is whimsically
humorous, Edith Wharton cynically dissective; Mary Wilkins Freeman is
most at home with rural New England character; and Thomas Nelson Page
has done his best work in the South of reconstruction days.
But of the great mass of fiction being written in America to-day, little
is of value as literature. It is designed for the most part as an
amusing occupation for idle hours. Read some of it, by all means, if you
enjoy it, since "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy"; but
remember that it is only the sweetmeat that comes at the end of the
meal, and for sustenance, for the bread and butter of the literary diet,
you must read the older books that are worth while.
* * * * *
It may be questioned whether America has produced any poet or novelist
or essayist of the very first rank, but, in another branch of letters,
four names appear, which stand as high as any on the scroll. The writing
of history is not, of course, pure literature; it is semi-creative
rather than creative; and yet, at its best, it demands a high degree of
imaginative insight. It appears at its best in the works of Prescott,
Motley, Bancroft and Parkman.
George Bancroft was, of this quartette, the most widely known half a
century ago, because he chose as his theme the history of America, and
because he was himself for many years prominent in the political life of
the country. Born in Massachusetts in 1800, graduating from Harvard,
and, after a course of study in Germany, resolving to be a historian, he
returned to America and began work on his history, the first volume of
which appeared in 1834. Three years later, came the second volume, and
in 1840, the third.
Glowing with national spirit as they did, they attracted public
attention to him, and he was soon drawn into politics. During the next
twelve years he held several government positions, among them Secretary
of the Navy and Minister to England, which gave him access to great
masses of historical documents. It was not until 1852 that his fourth
volume appeared, then five more followed at comparatively frequent
intervals. Again politics interrupted. He was sent as Minister to
Prussia and later to the German Empire, again largely increasing his
store of original documents, with which, toward the last, he seems to
have been fairly overburdened. In 1874, he published his tenth volume,
bringing his narrative through the Revolution, and eight years later,
the last two dealing with the adoption of the Constitution. His last
years were spent in revising and correcting this monumental work.
It is an inspiring record--a life devoted consistently to one great
work, and that work the service of one's country, for such Bancroft's
really was. Every student of colonial and revolutionary America must
turn to him, and while his history has long since ceased to be generally
read, it maintains an honored place among every collection of books
dealing with America. It is easily first among the old-school histories
as produced by such men as Hildreth. Tucker, Palfrey and Sparks.
At the head of the other school, which has been called cosmopolitan
because it sought its subjects abroad rather than at home, stands
William Hickling Prescott. Of this school, Washington Irving may fairly
be said to have been the pioneer. We have seen how his residence in
Spain turned his attention to the history of that country and resulted
in three notable works. Prescott, however, was a historian by
forethought and not by accident. Before his graduation from Harvard, he
had determined to lead a literary life modelled upon that of Edward
Gibbon. His career was almost wrecked at the outset by an unfortunate
accident which so impaired his sight that he was unable to read or to
write except with the assistance of a cumbrous machine. That any man,
laboring under such a disability, should yet persevere in pursuing the
rocky road of the historian seems almost unbelievable; yet that is just
what Prescott did.
Let us tell the story of that accident. It was while he was at Harvard,
in his junior year. One day after dinner, in the Commons Hall, some of
the boys started a rude frolic. Prescott took no part in it, but just as
he was leaving, a great commotion behind him caused him to turn quickly,
and a hard piece of bread, thrown undoubtedly at random, struck him
squarely and with great force in the left eye. He fell unconscious, and
never saw out of that eye again. Worse than that, his other eye soon
grew inflamed, and became almost useless to him, besides causing him,
from time to time, the most acute suffering. But in spite of all this,
he persisted in his determination to be a historian.
After careful thought, he chose for his theme that period of Spanish
history dominated by Ferdinand and Isabella, and went to work. Documents
were collected, an assistant read to him for hours at a time, notes were
taken, and the history painfully pushed forward. The result was a
picturesque narrative which was at once successful both in Europe and
America; and, thus encouraged, Prescott selected another romantic theme,
the conquest of Mexico, for his next work. Following this came the
history of the conquest of Peru, and finally a history of the reign of
Philip II, upon which he was at work, when a paralytic stroke ended his
career.
Prescott was fortunate not only in his choice of subjects, but in the
possession of a picturesque and fascinating style, which has given his
histories a remarkable vogue. Fault has been found with him on the
ground of historical inaccuracy, but such criticism is, for the most
part, unjustified. His thoroughness, his judgment, and his critical
faculty stand unimpeached, and place him very near the head of American
historians.
Prescott's successor, in more than one sense, was John Lothrop Motley.
A Bostonian and Harvard man, well-trained, after one or two unsuccessful
ventures in fiction, he turned his attention to history, and in 1856
completed his "Rise of the Dutch Republic," for which he could not find
a publisher. He finally issued it at his own expense, with no little
inward trembling, but it was at once successful and seventeen thousand
copies of it were sold in England alone during the first year. It
received unstinted praise, and Motley at once proceeded with his
"History of the United Netherlands." The opening of the Civil War,
however, recalled his attention to his native land, he was drawn into
politics, and did not complete his history until 1868. Six years later
appeared his "John of Barneveld"; but his health was giving way and the
end came in 1877.
In brilliancy, dramatic instinct and power of picturesque narration,
Motley was Prescott's equal, if not his superior. The glow and fervor of
his narrative have never been surpassed; his characters live and
breathe; he was thoroughly in sympathy with his subject and found a
personal pleasure in exalting his heroes and unmasking his villains. But
there was his weakness; for often, instead of the impartial historian,
he became a partisan of this cause or that, and painted his heroes
whiter and his villains blacker than they really were. In spite of that,
or perhaps because of it--because of the individual and intensely
earnest personal point of view--his histories are as absorbing and
fascinating as any in the world.
The last of this noteworthy group of historians, Francis Parkman, is
also, in many respects, the greatest. He combined the virtues of all of
them, and added for himself methods of research which have never been
surpassed. Through it all, too, he battled against a persistent
ill-health, which unfitted him for work for months on end, and, even at
the best, would permit his reading or writing only a few minutes at a
time.
Like the others, Parkman was born in Boston, and, as a boy, was so
delicate that he was allowed to run wild in the country, acquiring a
love of nature which is apparent in all his books. In search of health,
he journeyed westward from St. Louis, in 1846, living with Indians and
trappers and gaining a minute knowledge of their ways. The results of
this journey were embodied in a modest little volume called "The Oregon
Trail," which remains the classic source of information concerning the
far West at that period.
Upon his return to the East, he settled down in earnest to the task
which he had set himself--a history, in every phase, of the struggle
between France and England for the possession of the North American
continent. Years were spent in the collection of material--and in 1865
appeared his "Pioneers of France in the New World," followed at periods
of a few years by the other books completing the series, which ends with
the story of Montcalm and Wolfe.
The series is a masterpiece of interpretative history. Every phase of
the struggle for the continent is described in minute detail and with
the intimate touch of perfect knowledge; every actor in the great drama
is presented with incomparable vividness, and its scenes are painted
with a color and atmosphere worthy of Prescott or Motley, and with
absolute accuracy. His work satisfies at once the student and the lover
of literature, standing almost unique in this regard. His flexible and
charming style is a constant joy; his power of analysis and presentment
a constant wonder; and throughout his work there is a freshness of
feeling, an air of the open, at once delightful and stimulating. He said
the last word concerning the period which his histories cover, and has
lent to it a fascination and absorbing interest which no historian has
surpassed. The boy or girl who has not read Parkman's histories has
missed one of the greatest treats which literature has to offer.
Other historians there are who have done good service to American
letters and whose work is outranked only by the men we have already
mentioned--John Bach McMaster, whose "History of the People of the
United States" is still uncompleted; James Ford Rhodes, who has
portrayed the Civil War period with admirable exhaustiveness and
accuracy; Justin Winsor, Woodrow Wilson, William M. Sloane, and John
Fiske. John Fiske's work, which deals wholly with the different periods
of American history, is especially suited to young people because of its
simplicity and directness, and because, while accurate, it is not
overburdened with detail.
We have said that, during the Colonial period of American history, most
of the New England divines devoted a certain amount of attention to the
composition of creaking verse. More than that, they composed histories,
biographies and numberless works of a theological character, which
probably constitute the dullest mass of reading ever produced upon this
earth. The Revolution stopped this flood--if anything so dry can be
called a flood--and when the Revolution ended, public thought was for
many years occupied with the formation of the new nation. But in the
second quarter of the nineteenth century there arose in New England a
group of writers who are known as Transcendentalists, and who produced
one of the most important sections of American literature.
Transcendentalism is a long word, and it is rather difficult to define,
but, to put it as briefly as possible, it was a protest against
narrowness in intellectual life, a movement for broader culture and for
a freer spiritual life. It took a tremendous grip on New England,
beginning about 1830, and kept it for nearly forty years; for New
England has always been more or less provincial--provincialism being the
habit of measuring everything by one inadequate standard.
The high priest of the Transcendental movement was Amos Bronson Alcott,
born on a Connecticut farm in 1799, successively in youth a clockmaker,
peddler and book-agent, and finally driven by dire necessity to teaching
school. But there could be no success at school-teaching for a man the
most eccentric of his day--a mystic, a follower of Oriental philosophy,
a non-resistant, an advocate of woman suffrage, an abolitionist, a
vegetarian, and heaven knows what besides. So in the end, he was sold
out, and removed with his family to Concord, where he developed into a
sort of impractical idealist, holding Orphic conversations and writing
scraps of speculation and criticism, and living in the clouds generally.
Life would have been far less easy for him but for the development of an
unexpected talent in one of his daughters, Louisa May Alcott. From her
sixteenth year, Louisa Alcott had been writing for publication, but with
little success, although every dollar she earned was welcome to a family
so poor that the girls sometimes thought of selling their hair to get a
little money. She also tried to teach, and finally, in 1862, went to
Washington as a volunteer nurse and labored for many months in the
military hospitals. The letters she wrote to her mother and sisters were
afterwards collected in a book called "Hospital Sketches." At last, at
the suggestion of her publishers, she undertook to write a girls' story.
The result was "Little Women," which sprang almost instantly into a
tremendous popularity, and which at once put its author out of reach of
want.
Other children's stories, scarcely less famous, followed in quick
succession, forming a series which has never been equalled for
long-continued vogue. Few children who read at all have failed to read
"Little Men," "Little Women," "An Old-Fashioned Girl," "Eight Cousins,"
and "Rose in Bloom," to mention only five of them, and edition after
edition has been necessary to supply a demand which shows no sign of
lessening. The stories are, one and all, sweet and sincere and helpful,
and while they are not in any sense literature, they are, at least, an
interesting contribution to American letters.
But to return to the Transcendentalists.
The most picturesque figure of the group was Margaret Fuller. Starting
as a morbid and sentimental girl, her father's death seems suddenly to
have changed her, at the age of twenty-five, into a talented and
thoughtful woman. Her career need not be considered in detail here,
since it was significant more from the inspiration she gave others than
from any achievement of her own. She proved herself a sympathetic
critic, if not a catholic and authoritative one, and a pleasing and
suggestive essayist.
What she might have become no one can tell, for her life was cut short
at the fortieth year. She had spent some years in Italy, in an epoch of
revolutions, into which she entered heart and soul. A romantic marriage,
in 1847, with the Marquis Ossoli, served further to identify her with
the revolutionary cause, and when it tumbled into ruins, she and her
husband escaped from Rome and started for America. Their ship
encountered a terrific storm off Long Island, was driven ashore, broken
to pieces by the waves, and both she and her husband were drowned.
[Illustration: EMERSON]
By far the greatest of the Transcendental group and one of the most
original figures in American literature was Ralph Waldo Emerson--a
figure, indeed, in many ways unique in all literature. Born in Boston in
1803, the son of a Unitarian clergyman and a member of a large and
sickly family, he followed the predestined path through Harvard College,
graduating with no especial honors, entered the ministry, and served as
pastor of the Second Church of Boston until 1832. Then, finding himself
ill at ease in the position, he resigned, and, settling at Concord,
turned to lecturing, first on scientific subjects and then on manners
and morals. His reputation grew steadily, and, especially in the
generation younger than himself, he awakened the deepest enthusiasm.
In 1836, the publication of a little volume called "Nature" gave
conclusive evidence of his talent, and, followed as it was by his
"Essays," "Representative Men," and "Conduct of Life," established his
reputation as seer, interpreter of nature, poet and moralist--a
reputation which has held its own against the assaults of time.
And yet no personality could be more puzzling or elusive. He was at once
attractive and repulsive--there was a certain line which no one crossed,
a charmed circle in which he dwelt alone. There was about him a certain
coldness and detachment, a self-sufficiency, and a prudence which held
him back from giving himself unreservedly to any cause. He lacked
heart and temperament. He was a homely, shrewd and cold-blooded Yankee,
to put it plainly. Yet, with all that, he was a serene and benignant
figure, of an inspiring optimism, a fine patriotism, and profound
intellect--a stimulator of the best in man. Upon this basis, probably,
his final claim to memory will rest.
Another Transcendental eccentric with more than a touch of genius was
Henry David Thoreau, and it is noteworthy that his fame, which burned
dimly enough during his life, has flamed ever brighter and brighter
since his death. This increase of reputation is no doubt due, in some
degree, to the "return to nature," which has recently been so prominent
in American life and which has gained a wide hearing for so noteworthy a
"poet-naturalist"; but it is also due in part to a growing recognition
of the fact that as a writer of delightful, suggestive and inspiring
prose he has had few equals.
Thoreau is easily our most extraordinary man of letters. Born in Concord
of a poor family, but managing to work his way through Harvard, he spent
some years teaching; but an innate love of nature and of freedom led him
to seek some form of livelihood which would leave him as much his own
master as it was possible for a poor man to be. To earn money for any
other purpose than to provide for one's bare necessities was to Thoreau
a grievous waste of time, so it came about that for many years he was a
sort of itinerant tinker, a doer of odd jobs. Another characteristic,
partly innate and party cultivated, was a distrust of society and a
dislike of cities. "I find it as ever very unprofitable to have much to
do with men," he wrote; and finally, in pursuance of this idea, he built
himself a little cabin on the shore of Walden pond, where he lived for
some two years and a half.
It was there that his best work was done, for, at bottom, Thoreau was a
man of letters rather than a naturalist, with the most seeing eye man
ever had. "Walden, or Life in the Woods," and "A Week on the Concord and
Merrimac Rivers" contain the best of Thoreau, and any boy or girl who is
interested in the great outdoors, as every boy and girl ought to be,
will enjoy reading them.
The last of the Transcendental group worthy of mention here is George
William Curtis, a versatile and charming personality, not a genius in
any sense, but a writer of pleasant and amusing prose, an orator of no
small ability, and one of the truest patriots who ever loved and labored
for his country. It is in this latter aspect, rather than as the author
of "Nile Notes" and "The Potiphar Papers," that Curtis is best
remembered to-day. The books that he produced have, to a large extent,
lost their appeal; but the work he did during the dark days of
reconstruction and after entitles him to admiring and grateful
remembrance.
* * * * *
It is scarcely possible to close a chapter upon American prose writers
without referring to at least one of the great editors who have done so
much to mould American public opinion. To James Gordon Bennett and
Charles A. Dana only passing reference need be made; but Horace Greeley
deserves more extended treatment.
[Illustration: GREELEY]
Early in the last century, on a rocky little farm in New Hampshire,
lived a man by the name of Zaccheus Greeley, a good neighbor, but a bad
manager--so bad that, in 1820, when his son Horace was nine years old,
the farm was seized by the sheriff and sold for debt. The proceeds of
the sale did not pay the debt, and so, in order to escape arrest, for
they imprisoned people for debt in those days, Zaccheus Greeley fled
across the border into Vermont, where his family soon joined him. He
managed to make a precarious living by working at odd jobs, in which, of
course, the boy joined him whenever he could be of any use.
He was a rather remarkable boy, with a great fondness for books, and
when he was eleven years old, he tried to get a position in a printing
office, but was rejected because he was too young. Four years later, he
heard that a boy was wanted in an office at East Poultney, and he
hastened to apply for the position. He was a lank, ungainly and
dull-appearing boy, and the owner of the office did not think he could
ever learn to be a printer, but finally put him to work, with the
understanding that he was to receive nothing but his board and clothes
for the first six months, and after that forty dollars a year
additional.
The boy soon showed an unusual aptitude for the business, and finally
decided that the little village was too restricted a field for his
talents. With youth's sublime confidence, he decided to go to New York
City. He managed to get a position in a printing office there, and two
years later, at the age of twenty-two, he and a partner established the
first one-cent daily newspaper in the United States. It was ahead of the
times, however, and had to be abandoned after a few months.
But he had discovered his peculiar field, and in 1840 he established
another paper which he called the "Log Cabin," in which he supported
William Henry Harrison through the famous "log cabin and hard cider"
campaign. The paper was a success, and in the year following he
established the New York "Tribune," which was destined to make him both
rich and famous. For more than thirty years he conducted the "Tribune,"
making it the most influential paper in the country. He became the most
powerful political writer in the United States, and in every village
groups gathered regularly to receive their papers and to see what "Old
Horace" had to say. He was to his readers a strong and vivid
personality--they had faith in his intelligence and honesty, and they
believed that he would say what he believed to be right, regardless of
whose toes were pinched. It was as different as possible to the
anonymous journalism of to-day, when not one in a hundred of a
newspaper's readers knows anything about the personality of the editor.
We have already referred to the fact that, at the beginning of
secession, Greeley doubted the right of the North to compel the seceding
states to remain in the Union. Indeed, he counselled peaceful separation
rather than war, as did many others, but he was later a staunch
supporter of President Lincoln's policy.
We have also spoken of the fact that, when Grant was re-nominated for
President in 1872, a large section of the party, believing him
incompetent, broke away from the party and named a candidate of their
own. The party they formed was called the Liberal Republican, and their
candidate was Horace Greeley. They managed to secure for him the support
of the Democratic convention, which placed him at the head of the
Democratic ticket, but they could not secure the support of the
Democrats themselves, who could not forget that Greeley had been
fighting them all his life; and the result was that he was
overwhelmingly defeated. He had not expected such a result, his health
had been undermined by the labors and anxieties of the campaign, and
before the rejoicing of the Republicans was over, Greeley himself lay
dead.
SUMMARY
IRVING, WASHINGTON. Born at New York City, April 3, 1783; went abroad
for health, 1804; returned to America, 1806; published "Knickerbocker's
History of New York," 1809; attache of legation at Madrid, 1826-29;
secretary of legation at London, 1829-32; minister to Spain, 1842-46;
died at Sunnyside, near Tarrytown, New York, November 28, 1859.
COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. Born at Burlington, New Jersey, September 15,
1789; entered Yale, 1802, but left after three years; midshipman in
United States navy, 1808-11, when he resigned his commission; published
first novel, "Precaution," anonymously, 1820, and followed it with many
others; died at Cooperstown, New York, September 14, 1851.
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL. Born at Salem, Massachusetts, July 4, 1804;
graduated at Bowdoin College, 1825; served in Custom House at Boston,
1838-41; at Brook Farm, 1841; settled at Concord, Massachusetts, 1843;
surveyor of the port of Salem, 1846-49; United States consul at
Liverpool, 1853-57; published "Twice-Told Tales," 1837; "Mosses from an
Old Manse," 1846; "The Scarlet Letter," 1850; "The House of the Seven
Gables," 1851; and a number of other novels and collections of tales;
died at Plymouth, New Hampshire, May 19, 1864.
STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. Born at Litchfield, Connecticut, June 14, 1812;
educated at Hartford, Connecticut; taught school there and at
Cincinnati; published "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 1852; "Dred," 1856; and a
number of other novels; died at Hartford, Connecticut, July 1, 1896.
CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANGHORNE. Born at Florida, Missouri, November 30, 1835;
apprenticed to printer, 1847; alternated between mining and newspaper
work, until the publication of "Innocents Abroad," 1869, made him
famous as a humorist; died at Redding, Connecticut, April 22, 1910;
published many collections of short stories and several novels.
BANCROFT, GEORGE. Born at Worcester, Massachusetts, October 3, 1800;
graduated at Harvard, 1817; collector of the port of Boston, 1838-41;
Democratic candidate for governor of Massachusetts, 1844; secretary of
the navy, 1845-46; minister to Great Britain, 1846-49; minister to
Berlin, 1867-74; published first volume of his "History of the United
States," 1834, last volume, 1874; died at Washington, Jan. 17, 1891.
PRESCOTT, WILLIAM HICKLING. Born at Salem, Massachusetts, May 4, 1796;
published "History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella," 1838;
"Conquest of Mexico," 1843; "Conquest of Peru," 1847; "History of the
Reign of Philip II," 1858; died at Boston, January 28, 1859.
MOTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP. Born at Dorchester (now part of Boston),
Massachusetts, April 15, 1814; graduated at Harvard, 1831; studied
abroad, 1831-34; United States minister to Austria, 1861-67, and to
Great Britain, 1869-70; published "Rise of the Dutch Republic," 1856;
"History of the United Netherlands," 1868; "Life and Death of John of
Barneveld," 1874; died in Dorset, England, May 29, 1877.
PARKMAN, FRANCIS. Born at Boston, September 16, 1823; graduated at
Harvard, 1844; published "The Conspiracy of Pontiac," 1851, and
continued series of histories dealing with the French in America to "A
Half Century of Conflict," 1892; died at Jamaica Plain, near Boston,
November 8, 1893.
ALCOTT, AMOS BRONSON. Born at Wolcott, Connecticut, November 29, 1799; a
book-peddler and school-teacher, conducting a school in Boston, 1834-37;
removed to Concord, 1840; published "Orphic Sayings," 1840; "Tablets,"
1868; "Concord Days," 1872; "Table-Talk," 1877; "Sonnets and Canzonets,"
1882; died at Boston, March 4, 1888.
ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY. Born at Germantown, Pennsylvania, November 29, 1832;
teacher in early life and army nurse during Civil War; published "Little
Women," 1868; "Old-Fashioned Girl," 1869; "Little Men," 1871, and many
other children's stories; died at Boston, March 6, 1888.
FULLER, SARAH MARGARET, MARCHIONESS OSSOLI. Born at Cambridgeport,
Massachusetts, May 23, 1810; edited _Boston Dial_, 1840-42; literary
critic _New York Tribune_, 1844-46; published "Summer on the Lakes,"
1843; "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," 1845; "Papers on Art and
Literature," 1846; went to Europe, 1846; married Marquis Ossoli, 1847;
drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850.
EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. Born at Boston, Massachusetts, May 25, 1803;
graduated at Harvard, 1821; Unitarian clergyman at Boston, 1829-32;
commenced career as lecturer, 1833, and continued for nearly forty
years; edited the _Dial_, 1842-44; published "Nature," 1836; "Essays,"
1841; "Poems," 1846; "Representative Men," 1850; and other books of
essays and poems; died at Concord, Massachusetts, April 27, 1882.
THOREAU, HENRY DAVID. Born at Concord, Massachusetts, July 12, 1817;
graduated at Harvard, 1837; lived alone at Walden Pond, 1845-47;
published "A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers," 1849; "Walden, or
Life in the Woods," 1854; died at Concord, May 6, 1862. Several
collections of his essays and letters were published after his death.
CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM. Born at Providence, Rhode Island, February 24,
1824; joined the Brook Farm Community, 1842, and afterwards spent some
years in travel; published "Nile Notes of a Howadji," "The Howadji in
Syria," "The Potiphar Papers," and other books; prominent as an
anti-slavery orator and as the editor of "Harper's Weekly"; died at West
New Brighton, Staten Island, August 31, 1892.
GREELEY, HORACE. Born at Amherst, New Hampshire, February 3, 1811;
founded _New York Tribune_, 1841; member of Congress from New York,
1848-49; candidate of Liberal-Republican and Democratic parties for
President, 1872; died at Pleasantville, Westchester County, New York,
November 29, 1872.