Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod?While he cries out—"Allah Akbar! and there is no god but God!"Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wondered like a childNot as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun, and star, and wild."Oh, thou moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who hung you there on high?Answer! so my soul may worship: I must worship or die!"Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thunder's roll;And the old Arabian Whirlwind called another Arab soul.Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence nod;He has heard from cloud and lightning—"Know there is no god but God!"Call ye this man an imposter? He was called "The Faithful," when,A boy, he wandered o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men.He was always called "The Faithful." Truth he knew was Allah's breath;But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of Death."He was fierce!" Yes! fierce at falsehood—fierce at hideous bits of wood,That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude.But his heart was also gentle, and Affection's graceful palm,Waving in his tropic spirit, to the weary brought a balm."Precepts?" "Have on each compassion:" "Lead the stranger to your door:""In your dealings keep up justice:" "Give a tenth unto the poor.""Yet ambitious!" Yes! ambitious—while he heard the calm and sweetAiden-voices sing—to trample troubled Hell beneath his feet."Islam?" Yes! "Submit to Heaven!" "Prophet?" To the East thou art!What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?And the great heart of the desert stirred unto that solemn strain,Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main.And a hundred dusky millions honor still El Amin's rod—Daily chanting—"Allah Akbar! know there is no god but God!"Call him then no more "Impostor." Mecca is the Choral GateWhere, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in her morning wait.
Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!
Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod?While he cries out—"Allah Akbar! and there is no god but God!"Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wondered like a childNot as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun, and star, and wild.
"Oh, thou moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who hung you there on high?Answer! so my soul may worship: I must worship or die!"
Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thunder's roll;And the old Arabian Whirlwind called another Arab soul.
Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride,But a great, free son of Nature, lion-souled and eagle-eyed!
He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence nod;He has heard from cloud and lightning—"Know there is no god but God!"
Call ye this man an imposter? He was called "The Faithful," when,A boy, he wandered o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men.
He was always called "The Faithful." Truth he knew was Allah's breath;But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of Death.
"He was fierce!" Yes! fierce at falsehood—fierce at hideous bits of wood,That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude.
But his heart was also gentle, and Affection's graceful palm,Waving in his tropic spirit, to the weary brought a balm.
"Precepts?" "Have on each compassion:" "Lead the stranger to your door:""In your dealings keep up justice:" "Give a tenth unto the poor."
"Yet ambitious!" Yes! ambitious—while he heard the calm and sweetAiden-voices sing—to trample troubled Hell beneath his feet.
"Islam?" Yes! "Submit to Heaven!" "Prophet?" To the East thou art!What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?
And the great heart of the desert stirred unto that solemn strain,Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main.
And a hundred dusky millions honor still El Amin's rod—Daily chanting—"Allah Akbar! know there is no god but God!"
Call him then no more "Impostor." Mecca is the Choral GateWhere, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in her morning wait.
Mr. Wallace has published a few songs. They have not the stately movement of his other pieces, and the one which follows needs the application of the file; but it is, like the others, very spirited:
——The sunny eyes of the maiden fairGive answer better than voice or penThat as he loves he is loved again.—C. C. Leeds.
——The sunny eyes of the maiden fairGive answer better than voice or penThat as he loves he is loved again.—C. C. Leeds.
Love me dearly, love me dearly with your heart and with your eyes;Whisper all your sweet emotions, as they gushing, blushing rise;Throw your soft white arms about me;Say you cannot live without me:Say, you are my Aveline; say, that you are only mine,That you cannot live without me, young and rosy Aveline!Love me dearly, dearly, dearly: speak you love-words silver-clearly,So I may not doubt thus early of your fondness, of your truth.Press, oh! press your throbbing bosom closely, warmly to my own:Fix your kindled eyes on mine—say you live for me alone,While I fix my eyes on thine,Lovely, trusting, artless, plighted; plighted, rosy Aveline!Love me dearly; love me dearly: radiant dawn upon my gloom:Ravish me with Beauty's bloom:—Tell me "Life has yet a glory: 'tis not all an idle story!"As a gladdened vale in noonlight; as a weary lake in moonlight,Let me in thy love recline:Show me life has yet a splendor in my tender Aveline.Love me dearly, dearly, dearly with your heart and with your eyes:Whisper all your sweet emotions as they gushing, blushing rise.Throw your soft white arms around me; say youlived nottill you found me—Say it, say it, Aveline! whisper you are only mine;That you cannot live without me, as you throw your arms about me,That youcannotlive without me, artless, rosy Aveline!
Love me dearly, love me dearly with your heart and with your eyes;Whisper all your sweet emotions, as they gushing, blushing rise;Throw your soft white arms about me;Say you cannot live without me:Say, you are my Aveline; say, that you are only mine,That you cannot live without me, young and rosy Aveline!
Love me dearly, dearly, dearly: speak you love-words silver-clearly,So I may not doubt thus early of your fondness, of your truth.Press, oh! press your throbbing bosom closely, warmly to my own:Fix your kindled eyes on mine—say you live for me alone,While I fix my eyes on thine,Lovely, trusting, artless, plighted; plighted, rosy Aveline!
Love me dearly; love me dearly: radiant dawn upon my gloom:Ravish me with Beauty's bloom:—Tell me "Life has yet a glory: 'tis not all an idle story!"As a gladdened vale in noonlight; as a weary lake in moonlight,Let me in thy love recline:Show me life has yet a splendor in my tender Aveline.
Love me dearly, dearly, dearly with your heart and with your eyes:Whisper all your sweet emotions as they gushing, blushing rise.Throw your soft white arms around me; say youlived nottill you found me—Say it, say it, Aveline! whisper you are only mine;That you cannot live without me, as you throw your arms about me,That youcannotlive without me, artless, rosy Aveline!
Our limits will not permit us to quote any of the remaining poems of this volume in full, and we conclude our extracts with a few passages penciled while in a hasty reading. In the piece entitled The Kings of Sorrow, the poet sings:
WasHenot sad amid the grief and strife, the Lord of light and life,Whose torture made humanity divine, upon that woful hill of Palestine?Then is it not far better thus to be, thoughtful, and brave, and melancholy,Than given up to idle revelry, amid the unreligious brood of folly?For our sorrow is a worship, worship true, and pure, and calm,Sounding from the choir of duty like a high, heroic psalm,In its very darkness bearing to the bleeding heart a balm.Brothers, we must have no wailing: do we agonize alone?Look at all the pallid millions; hear a universal moan,From the mumbling, low-browed Bushman to a Lytton on his throne.Nor shall we have coward faltering: Brothers! we must be sublimeBy due labor at the forges blazing in the cave of Time;Knowing life was made for duty, and that only cowards prateOf a search for Happy Valley and the hard decrees of fate:Seeing through this night of mourning all the future as a star,And a joy at last appearing on the centuries afar,When the meaning of the sorrow, when the mystery shall be plain,When the Earth shall see her rivers roll through Paradise again.O! the vision gives to sorrow something white and purple-plumed:Even the hurricane of Evil comes a hurricane perfumed.
WasHenot sad amid the grief and strife, the Lord of light and life,Whose torture made humanity divine, upon that woful hill of Palestine?Then is it not far better thus to be, thoughtful, and brave, and melancholy,Than given up to idle revelry, amid the unreligious brood of folly?For our sorrow is a worship, worship true, and pure, and calm,Sounding from the choir of duty like a high, heroic psalm,In its very darkness bearing to the bleeding heart a balm.Brothers, we must have no wailing: do we agonize alone?Look at all the pallid millions; hear a universal moan,From the mumbling, low-browed Bushman to a Lytton on his throne.Nor shall we have coward faltering: Brothers! we must be sublimeBy due labor at the forges blazing in the cave of Time;Knowing life was made for duty, and that only cowards prateOf a search for Happy Valley and the hard decrees of fate:Seeing through this night of mourning all the future as a star,And a joy at last appearing on the centuries afar,When the meaning of the sorrow, when the mystery shall be plain,When the Earth shall see her rivers roll through Paradise again.O! the vision gives to sorrow something white and purple-plumed:Even the hurricane of Evil comes a hurricane perfumed.
In the same:
... The Storm is silent while we speak;The awe-struck Cloud hath paused above the peak;The far Volcano statlier waves on highHis smoking censer to the solemn sky;And see, the troubled Ocean folds his handsWith a great patience on the yellow sands.
... The Storm is silent while we speak;The awe-struck Cloud hath paused above the peak;The far Volcano statlier waves on highHis smoking censer to the solemn sky;And see, the troubled Ocean folds his handsWith a great patience on the yellow sands.
In Rest:
So rest! and Rest shall slay your many woes;Motion is god-like—god-like is repose,A mountain-stillness, of majestic might,Whose peaks are glorious with the quiet lightOf suns when Day is at his solemn close.Nor deem that slumber must ignoble be.Jove labored lustily once in airy fields;And over the cloudy leaHe planted many a budding shootWhose liberal nature daily, nightly yieldsA store of starry fruit.His labor done, the weary god went backUp the long mountain trackTo his great house; there he did wile awayWith lightest thought a well-won holiday;For all the Powers crooned softly an old tuneWishing their Sire might sleepThrough all the sultry noonAnd cold blue night;And very soonThey heard the awful Thunderer breathing low and deep.And in the hush that dropped adown the spheres,And in the quiet of the awe-struck space,The worlds learned worship at the birth of years:They looked upon their Lord's calm, kingly face.And bade Religion come and kiss each starry place.
So rest! and Rest shall slay your many woes;Motion is god-like—god-like is repose,A mountain-stillness, of majestic might,Whose peaks are glorious with the quiet lightOf suns when Day is at his solemn close.Nor deem that slumber must ignoble be.Jove labored lustily once in airy fields;And over the cloudy leaHe planted many a budding shootWhose liberal nature daily, nightly yieldsA store of starry fruit.His labor done, the weary god went backUp the long mountain trackTo his great house; there he did wile awayWith lightest thought a well-won holiday;For all the Powers crooned softly an old tuneWishing their Sire might sleepThrough all the sultry noonAnd cold blue night;And very soonThey heard the awful Thunderer breathing low and deep.And in the hush that dropped adown the spheres,And in the quiet of the awe-struck space,The worlds learned worship at the birth of years:They looked upon their Lord's calm, kingly face.And bade Religion come and kiss each starry place.
In the same:
See what a languid glory bindsThe long dim chambers of the darkling West,While far below yon azure river windsLike a blue vein on sleeping Beauty's breast.
See what a languid glory bindsThe long dim chambers of the darkling West,While far below yon azure river windsLike a blue vein on sleeping Beauty's breast.
In The Gods of Old:
Not realmless sit the ancient godsUpon their mountain-thronesIn that old glorious Grecian HeavenOf regal zones.A languor o'er their stately formsMay lie,And a sorrow on their wide white brows,King-dwellers of the sky!But theirs is still that large imperial throngOf starry thoughts and firm but quiet wills,That murmured past the blind old King of Song,When staring round him on the Thunderer's hills.
Not realmless sit the ancient godsUpon their mountain-thronesIn that old glorious Grecian HeavenOf regal zones.A languor o'er their stately formsMay lie,And a sorrow on their wide white brows,King-dwellers of the sky!But theirs is still that large imperial throngOf starry thoughts and firm but quiet wills,That murmured past the blind old King of Song,When staring round him on the Thunderer's hills.
In the same:
... Still Love, sublime, shall wrapHis awful eyebrows in Olympian shrouds.Or take along the Heaven's dark wildernessHis thunder-chase behind the hunted clouds.And mortal eyes upturned shall beholdApollo's robe of goldSweep through the long blue corridor of the skyThat, kindling, speaks its Deity:And He, the Ruler of the Sunless LandOf restless ghosts, shall fitfully illumeWith smouldering fires, that stir in caverned eyes,Hell's mournful House of Gloom.
... Still Love, sublime, shall wrapHis awful eyebrows in Olympian shrouds.Or take along the Heaven's dark wildernessHis thunder-chase behind the hunted clouds.And mortal eyes upturned shall beholdApollo's robe of goldSweep through the long blue corridor of the skyThat, kindling, speaks its Deity:And He, the Ruler of the Sunless LandOf restless ghosts, shall fitfully illumeWith smouldering fires, that stir in caverned eyes,Hell's mournful House of Gloom.
In the Hymn to a Wind, Going Seaward:
Move on! Move on,Wind of the wide wild West! Tell thou to allThe Isles, tell thou to all the ContinentsThe grandeur of my land! Speak of its valesWhere Independence wears a pastoral wreathAmid the holy quiet of his flock;And of its mountains with their cloudy beardsTossed by the breath of centuries; and speakOf its tall cataracts that roll their bassAmid the choral of the midnight storms;And of its rivers lingering through the plainsSo long, that they seem made to measure time;And of its lakes that mock the haughty sea;And of its caves where banished gods might findNight large enough to hide their crownless heads;And of its sunsets broad and glorious thereO'er Prairies spread like endless oceans on—And on—and on—over the far dim leaguesTill vision shudders o'er immensity.
Move on! Move on,Wind of the wide wild West! Tell thou to allThe Isles, tell thou to all the ContinentsThe grandeur of my land! Speak of its valesWhere Independence wears a pastoral wreathAmid the holy quiet of his flock;And of its mountains with their cloudy beardsTossed by the breath of centuries; and speakOf its tall cataracts that roll their bassAmid the choral of the midnight storms;And of its rivers lingering through the plainsSo long, that they seem made to measure time;And of its lakes that mock the haughty sea;And of its caves where banished gods might findNight large enough to hide their crownless heads;And of its sunsets broad and glorious thereO'er Prairies spread like endless oceans on—And on—and on—over the far dim leaguesTill vision shudders o'er immensity.
In the same:
——Troubled FranceShall listen to thy calm deep voice, and learnThat Freedom must be calm if she would fixHer mountain moveless in a heaving world.
——Troubled FranceShall listen to thy calm deep voice, and learnThat Freedom must be calm if she would fixHer mountain moveless in a heaving world.
In a Chant to the East:
Still! Oh still!Despite of passion, sin, and ill,Despite of all this weary world hath brought,An angel band from Zion's holy hillWalks gently through the open gate of Thought.Oh, still! Oh, still!Despite of passion, sin, and ill,Onein red vesture comes in sorrow's time—Onecrowned with thorns from that far Orient clime,Who pitying looks on meAnd gently asks, "Poor man, what aileth thee?"
Still! Oh still!Despite of passion, sin, and ill,Despite of all this weary world hath brought,An angel band from Zion's holy hillWalks gently through the open gate of Thought.Oh, still! Oh, still!Despite of passion, sin, and ill,Onein red vesture comes in sorrow's time—Onecrowned with thorns from that far Orient clime,Who pitying looks on meAnd gently asks, "Poor man, what aileth thee?"
In the same:
The nations must forever turn to thee,Feeling thy lustrous presence from afar;And feed upon thy splendor as a seaFeeds on the shining shadow of a star.
The nations must forever turn to thee,Feeling thy lustrous presence from afar;And feed upon thy splendor as a seaFeeds on the shining shadow of a star.
In Wordsworth:
And many a brook shall murmur in my verse;And many an ocean join his cloudy bass;And many a mountain tower aloft, whereonThe black storm crouches, with his deep-red eyesGlaring upon the valleys stretch'd below;And many a green wood rock the small, bright birdsTo musical sleep beneath the large, full moon;And many a star shall lift on high her cupOf luminous cold chrysolite, set in goldChased subtilely over by angelic art;To catch the odorous dews which poets drinkIn their wide wanderings; and many a sunShall press the pale lips of the timorous mornCouch'd in the bridal east: and over allWill brood the visible presence of theOneTo whom my life has been a solemn chant.
And many a brook shall murmur in my verse;And many an ocean join his cloudy bass;And many a mountain tower aloft, whereonThe black storm crouches, with his deep-red eyesGlaring upon the valleys stretch'd below;And many a green wood rock the small, bright birdsTo musical sleep beneath the large, full moon;And many a star shall lift on high her cupOf luminous cold chrysolite, set in goldChased subtilely over by angelic art;To catch the odorous dews which poets drinkIn their wide wanderings; and many a sunShall press the pale lips of the timorous mornCouch'd in the bridal east: and over allWill brood the visible presence of theOneTo whom my life has been a solemn chant.
In the Last Words of Washington:
There is an awful stillness in the sky,When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,A star goes out in golden prophecy.There is an awful stillness in the world,When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,Sceptres refused and forehead crowned with truth,A Hero dies, with all the future clearBefore him, and his voice made jubilantBy coming glories, and his nation hushed,As though they heard the farewell of a god.A great man is to earth as God to Heaven.
There is an awful stillness in the sky,When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,A star goes out in golden prophecy.There is an awful stillness in the world,When after wondrous deeds and light supreme,Sceptres refused and forehead crowned with truth,A Hero dies, with all the future clearBefore him, and his voice made jubilantBy coming glories, and his nation hushed,As though they heard the farewell of a god.A great man is to earth as God to Heaven.
In Greenwood Cemetery:
O, ye whose mouldering frames were brought and placedBy pious hands within these flowery slopesAnd gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now?For man is more than element! The soulLives in the body as the sunbeam livesIn trees or flowers that were but clay without.Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the mind?Are ye where great Orion towers and holdsEternity on his stupendous front?Or where pale Neptune in the distant spaceShows us how far, in his creative mood,With pomp of silence and concentred brows,The Almighty walked? Or haply ye have goneWhere other matter roundeth into shapesOf bright beatitude: Or do ye knowAught of dull space or time, and its dark loadOf aching weariness?
O, ye whose mouldering frames were brought and placedBy pious hands within these flowery slopesAnd gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now?For man is more than element! The soulLives in the body as the sunbeam livesIn trees or flowers that were but clay without.Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the mind?Are ye where great Orion towers and holdsEternity on his stupendous front?Or where pale Neptune in the distant spaceShows us how far, in his creative mood,With pomp of silence and concentred brows,The Almighty walked? Or haply ye have goneWhere other matter roundeth into shapesOf bright beatitude: Or do ye knowAught of dull space or time, and its dark loadOf aching weariness?
Mr. Wallace is somewhat too much of a rhetorician, and he has a few defects of manner which, from this frequent repetition, he seems to regard as beauties. Peculiar phrases, of doubtful propriety, but which have a musical roll, occur in many of his poems, so that they become very prominent; this fault, however, belongs chiefly to his earlier pieces; the extracts we have given, we think will amply vindicate to the most critical judgments, the praise here awarded to him as a poet of singular and unusual powers, original, earnest, and in a remarkable degreenational. It can scarcely be said of any of our bards that they have caught their inspiration more directly from observation and experience, or that their effusions, whatever the distinction they have in art, are more genuine in feeling.
Having made it a point to faithfully report all that is said of our country by foreign travellers or journalists, we deem it a duty to lay before our readers not only the more agreeable accounts given by those who have impartially examined our institutions and manners, but also the more prejudiced relations of those who, urged by interest or ill-nature, have sketched simply the darker and more irregular outlines. And we are the more induced to follow this course since we are fully convinced that it is productive of equal good with the former. We have—particularly to English eyes—appeared as a people who eagerly devour all that is said to our discredit, and at the same time fiercely repudiate the slightest insinuation that we in any thing fall short of perfection. As regards the latter, we shall content ourselves with remarking, that even the disposition to deny the existence of imperfection among us, redounds far more to our credit, than the complacent exaltation of our weaker points to virtues; while as to the former, we are certain that a higher feeling than mere nervous, sensitive vanity, induces in us the desire
"To see ourselves as others see us,"
"To see ourselves as others see us,"
since there is no nation which more readily avails itself of the remarks of others, even when by far too bitter or unjust to improve. True to our national character of youthfulness, we are ever ready to act on every hint. We are,par excellence, alearningnation. Send even theyoungEnglishman on his continental tour, and the chances are ten to one that he returns with every prejudice strengthened, and his vanity increased. But the American—ductile as wax, evinces himself even at an advanced period of life, susceptible of improvement, yet firm in its retention. That we earnestly strive in every respect to improve is evident from many "little things" which foreigners ridicule. For instance, the habitual use of "fine language," and the attempt to clothe even our ordinary trains of thought in an elegant garb, which has been time and again cruelly ridiculed by Yankee goaders, is to a reflecting mind suggestive of commendation, from the very fact, that an attempt at least is madeto improve. Better a thousand times the impulse to progress, even through the whirlwinds of hyperbole and inflated expression, than the heavy miasma of a patois, the lightest breath of which at once proclaims the cockney or provincial.
For the entertainment of those who are willing to live, laugh, and learn, we are induced to give our readers a few extracts from a recently published work, by a German, entitled,Skizzen aus den Vereinigten Staaten von Nord Amerika: VonDr. A. Kirsten, (or,Sketches of the United States of North America, by Dr.A. Kirsten,) a work in which the author, after exhausting all the three-penny thunder of ignorant abuse, coolly informs his readers, that he has by no means represented things in their worst light. The American public at large are not aware that among the rulers of Germany, emigration to America is sternly yet anxiously discouraged. Rejoiced as they are to behold our country a receptacle for the sweepings of their prisons andFuchthaüser, or houses of correction, they still gaze with an alarmed glance at the almost incredible "forth-wandering" which has at times depopulated entire villages, and borne with it an amount of wealth, which, trifling as it may appear to us, is in a land of economy and poverty of immense importance. The reader who judges of Germany by Great Britain and Ireland, is mistaken. That emigration which is to the government of the latter countries health and safety, brings to the former death and destruction. As a proof of this, we need only point to the tone of all the German papers which are in any manner connected with the interests of their respective courts. In all we find the old song: Depreciation of America, as far as applicable to the prevention of emigration. To accomplish this end, writers are hired and poets feed; remedies against emigration are proposed by political economists, and where possible, even clergymen are induced to persuade their flocks to nibble still in the ancient stubble, or among the same old barren rocks.
Dr. Kirsten, it would appear, is either a natural and habitual grumbler, or a paid hireling. If the former, we can only pity—if the latter, despise him. Could our voice be heard by his patrons, we would, however, advise them to employ a better grumbler—one who can wield lance and sword against his foes, instead of mops and muddy water. A weaker lancer, or more impotent and impudent abuser, has rarely appeared, even among our earlier English decriers.
Like many other weak-minded individuals, the Herr Doctor appears to have started under the fullest conviction that our country was, if not a true "Schlaraffen Land," orPays de Cocagne, or Mahomet's Paradise, in which pigeons ready roasted fly to the mouth, at least a realizedIcarie, or perfected Fourier-dom. All the books which he had read, relative to America, described it in glowing colors, and inclined his mind favorably toward it. Such was his faith in these books, or also so great his fear, that these glorious dreams might be dissipated, that he did not even ascertain or confirm their truth by the personal experience of those who had been there, and we are informed naively enough in the preface, that previous to his departure he had but once had an opportunity of conversing with an educated German, who had resided for a long time in America. Such weak heedlessness as this does not, to our ears at least, savor of the characteristic prudence and deliberation ofthe German, and strongly confirms us in the belief, that the doctor wandered forth well knowing what he was about—in other words, that he went his way with his opinions already cut and dried.
"After an eight weeks' voyage I arrived in New-York. It was at the end of August. Even in the vicinity of the Gulf Stream a terrible heat oppressed us, which increased as we approached land; but it was in that city that I became aware of what the heat in America really was. Many visits which I was obliged to make, caused during the day a cruel exhaustion, while at night I found no refreshment in slumber, partly because the heat was hardly diminished, and partly from the musquitoes, and to me unaccustomed alarms of fire, which were nightly repeated, from which I found that life in America was by no means so agreeable as I had been led to infer from books and popular report."
From the single, mysterious, educated German with whom the doctor had conferred previous to his departure, he had learned that, in the United States, any thing like marked distinction of class, rank, or caste, did not exist; and that this was particularly the case among Germans living there. "The educated and refined knew how to draw into their society the less gifted, and it was really singular to observe in how short a time the latter rose to a higher degree of culture. People actually destitute of knowledge and manners, in fact could not be found. Moreover, I there anticipated a southern climate, for which I had some years longed."
How miserably the poor doctor was disappointed in these moderate and reasonable anticipations, appears from the following lamentable account:
"Ere long I, indeed, became acquainted with many Germans, who received me in the kindest manner, and of whom recollections will ever be dear to me. But this was not the case with the Americans, as I had been led to anticipate, nor indeed with the Germans, generally. Among these I found neither connection nor unity, and they mostly led a life such as I had in Germany never met with, while nothing like social cultivation, in a higher sense, was to be found. Led into the society of those who by day were devoted to business, but in the evening scattered themselves, here and there, without a point of union, I found myself in the noisy, but pleasure-wanting city, forlorn and unwell. Many, to whom I complained of what I missed in New-York, thought that it might be found in Philadelphia."
But even in Philadelphia our pilgrim found not the promised Paradise, where there was no distinction of rank or family, and where the more educated and refined would eagerly adopt him, the lowly brother, into their Icarian circle. Neither did he discover the golden tropical region—the southern heaven—for which his soul had longed for years. Alas! no. "After a residence of four weeks in New-York, I repaired to Philadelphia, and there found that among the Germans, things were the same as in New-York—in fact, there was even less unity among them." But although the doctor did not discover any Germans inspired with the sublime spirit of harmony, he certainly appears to have met with several who had acquired the American virtue of common sense.
"A German who had been for a long time resident in the United States asserted that he had, as yet, met with no fellow-countryman, who had been in the beginning satisfied with America. Others were of the opinion, that I would first be pleased with the country when I had found a profitable employment.And some others, that I would never be satisfied."
And so the doctor, ever dependent on others for happiness, looked here and there, like the pilgrim after Aden, or the hero of the Morning Watch, for the ideal of his dreams. The so-called entirely German towns in Pennsylvania were German only in name. The heat disgusted him with the south—the cold with the north. After residing nine months in Poughkeepsie, he returned to New-York, and there remained for some time, occupied, as it would appear, solely with acquiring information. This residence at an end, he returned to Germany.
We pass over the first chapters of his work, devoted to an ordinary account of the climate, animals, and plants of the country, to a more interesting picture, namely—its inhabitants. From this we learn that the American is cold, dry, and monosyllabic, in his demeanor and conversation. During his return to Germany he was delayed for a period of something less than nine days at Falmouth, England, where, during his daily walks, he experienced that in comparison with us the English are amiable, communicative, and agreeable. Indeed, he found that when, during a promenade in America, strangers returned his greetings, these polite individuals were invariably Britons, "which proves that while in more recent times, the English have assumed or approached the customs of other nations, the Americans have remained true to the character and being of the earlier emigrants, and are at present totally distinct from the English of to-day.
"This is especially shown by the demeanor of Americans towards foreigners, and nearly as much so by their conduct to one another. Regard them where we will, they are ever the same. In the larger or the smaller towns, in the streets or in the country, every one goes his own way without troubling himself about others, and without saluting those with whom he is unacquainted. Never do we see neighbors associating with each other; and neighborly friendship is here unknown. If acquaintances meet, they nod to each other, or the one murmurs,'How do you do?' while the other replies, 'Very well,' without delaying an instant, unless business affairs require a conversation. This concluded, they depart without a word, unless, indeed, as an exception, they wish each other good morning, or evening. Nor are they less distant in hotels, or during journeys in railroad cars and steamboats."—"Continued conversations, in which several take part, are extremely rare. Any one speaking frequently to a stranger, at table or during a journey, runs the risk not merely of being regarded as impertinent, but as entertaining dishonest views; and, indeed, one should invariably be on his guard against Americans who manifest much friendliness, since, in this manner, pickpockets are accustomed to make their advances.
"In a corresponding degree this coldness of disposition is manifested towards more intimate acquaintances. Never do we observe among friends a deep and heart-inspired, or even a confiding relationship. Nay, this is not even to be found among members of the same family. The son or the daughter, who has not for several days seen his or her parents, returns and enters the room without a greeting, or without any signs of joy being manifested by either. Or else the salutation is given and returned in such a manner that scarcely a glance passes between the parties. The direst calamities are imparted and listened to with an apathy evincing no signs of emotion, and a great disaster, occurring on a railroad or steamboat, in the United States, excites in Germany more attention and sympathy than in the former country, even when friends and perhaps relatives have thereby suffered. Even the loss of a member of the family is hardly manifested by the survivors."
In a recent English work we were indeed complimented for ourpatience, but it was reserved for Doctor Kirsten to discover in us, this degree of iron-hearted, immovable,nil admirarism. But when he goes on to assert that "in the most deadly peril—in such moments as those which precede the anticipated explosion of a steamboat boiler, even their ladies preserve the same repose and equanimity," so that any expression from a stranger is coldly listened to, without producing evident impression,oursurprise is changed to wonder, and we are tempted to inquire, Can it be possible, that we are such Spartans—endowed with such superior human stoicism?
"This coldness of the American is legibly impressed on his features. In both sexes we frequently meet with pretty, and occasionally beautiful, faces; but seldom, however, do we perceive in either, aught cheerful or attractive. In place thereof we observe, even in the fairest, a certain earnestness, verging towards coldness. From the great majority of faces we should judge that no emotion could be made to express itself upon them, and such is truly the case.
"That the nearest acquaintances address each other withSirandMaster, orMissandMistress, and that husband and wife, parents and children, yes, even the children themselves employ these titles to each other, has undoubtedly much to do with their marked and cold demeanor. But this must have a deeper ground than that merely caused by the use of distant forms of salutation.
"And yet, the Americans are by no means of a bad disposition, since they are neither crafty and treacherous, nor revengeful, nor even prone to distrust; on the contrary, quite peaceable, and by the better classes, there is much charity for apparent misery; seldom does one suffering with bodily ailments leave the house of a wealthy man without being munificently aided; the which charity is silently extended to him, without a sign of emotion. Those who are capable of work—no matter what the cause of their sufferings may be, seldom receive alms, for the Americans go upon the principle that work is not disgraceful, and without reflecting that the applicant may not have been accustomed to work, refuse in any manner to aid him. If any man want work, he can apply to the overseers of the poor, who are obliged to receive him in a poor-house, and maintain him until he find such. Much is done at the state's expense for the aged, sick, and insane."
After this our doctor lets fall a few flattering drops of commendation by way of admitting that this iron immobility of the American is not without its good points, but fearing that he has spoken too favorably, he brings up the chapter by remarking that—
"The here-mentioned good traits in the American character can, however, by no means overbalance or destroy the evil impression which their coldness produces, but merely soften it."
From our appearance and deportment he proceeds to a bold, hasty, and remarkably superficial criticism of education in America. The father of a family in America, we are informed, is occupied with business from morning to night, and leaves all care for the education and training of his children to the mother, who is, however, generally quite incapable to fulfil such duty. No teacher dare correct a child, for fear of incurring legal punishment, in consequence of which they grow up destitute of decency, order, or obedience. Some few, indeed, find their way eventually into academies and colleges, which are not so badly managed; but, as for school-boys, since there is no one to insure their regular attendance at school, they play truantà discrétion. As for the children of the lower and middle classes, they pass their boyhood in idleness, and grow up in ignorance, until at a later period they enter into business, when they are compelled to perfect themselves in the arts of reading and writing, yet they quickly acquire the business spirit of their fathers.
"The education of the girls is, however, of an entirely different nature. On them the mothers expend much care and trouble, which is, however, of the most perverted kind, since it is in its nature entirely external. Before all, do they seek to give them an air of decency and culture, which is, nevertheless, more apparent than real. In accordance with the republican spirit of striving after equality, every mother—no matter how poor, or how low her rank may be—desires to bring her daughter up in such a manner that she may be inferior in respectability and external culture to no one." "In fact, the daughters of the poorest workman bear themselves like those of the richest merchant. In their mien we see a pride flashing forth, which can hardly be surpassed by that of the haughtiest daughters of the highest German nobility. And that their daughters may in every respect equal those of others, we see poor men lavishing upon them their last penny; and while the boys run in the streets, covered with ragged and dirty fragments of clothing, the sisters wear bonnets with veils, bearing parasols, and while at school, short dresses and drawers."
After this fearful announcement, we are informed, that the poor girls profit as little in school as their unhappy brothers, and that no regard is paid to their future destiny.
"Even after the maiden has left school, her mother instructs her in no feminine employment, not even in domestic affairs, and least of all, in cookery. While the former lives, and the daughter remains unmarried, she (the mother,) attends to housekeeping, as far as the word can be taken in the German sense, while her daughter passes the time in reading, more frequently with bedecking herself, but generally in idleness. When the daughter, however, marries, we may well imagine how a house is managed in such hands. The principal business henceforth is self-adornment and housekeeping. All imaginable care is bestowed upon these branches, but none whatever on any other. Cookery is of the lowest grade; nearly every day sees the same dishes, and those, also, which are prepared with the least trouble. Very frequently, indeed, the husbands are obliged to prepare their meals before and after their business hours. Knitting and spinning, either in town or country, is unknown; only manufactured or woven stockings are worn, and shirts are generally purchased ready-made in the shops." "Washing is the only work which they undertake, and this is done by young ladies of wealthy family. This takes place every Monday, for there are very few families who own linen sufficient for more than a single week's wear.
"So long as the father lives, his daughters stick to him, useless as they are, and heavy as the burden may be to him. It ishisbusiness to see where the money comes from wherewith to nourish and decently clothe them: on this account the servant girls in America generally consist of Irish, Germans, and blacks. Even these, taking pattern from their mistresses, refuse to perform duties which are expected from every housemaid in Germany—for examples, boot-brushing, clothes-cleaning, and the bringing of water across the way, as well as street and step-cleaning; for which reason we often see respectable men performing these duties."
From this terrible plague of daughters, and daughterly extravagance, the doctor finds that poorer men in America are by no means as well off as would be imagined from their high wages. "The father with many daughters, so far from advancing in wealth, generally falls behind. Fearing the cost of a family, many men remain unmarried, and in no country in the world are there so many old maids as in the United States." From which the author finds that dreadful instances of immorality and infanticide result.
Filial duty, he asserts, is unknown. When the son proposes emigration to another place, or the undertaking of a new business, he announces it to his father "perhaps the evening before; while the daughters act in like manner as regards marriage, or, it may be, mention it to him for the first time after it has really taken place—from which the custom results that parents give their children no part of their property before death. Nothing is known of a true family life, in which parents are intimately allied to children, or brothers and sisters to each other." We spare our readers the sneer at those writers who have praised the Americans in their domestic relations, with which this veracious, high-minded, and unprejudiced chapter concludes.
In science and art, we are sunk, it seems, almost beneath contempt; the former being cultivated only so far as it is conducive to money-making. The professions of Divinity, Law, and Medicine, are badly and superficially taught and acquired. "There are, indeed," says the doctor, "in New-York and Philadelphia, institutions where the student has opportunities of becoming, if he will, an excellent physician; but these are far from being well patronized."
As regards general education, he asserts that, though a few professors in our colleges are highly educated men, this cannot be said of their pupils, since the latter set no value on knowledge not directly profitable, "and the backward condition of ancient languages, natural science, even geography, history and statistics, save as applicable to their own country, is really a matter of wonder."
But in the fine arts, it appears, we are sunk so far beneath contempt that we really wonder that the doctor should have found it, in this particular, worth while to abuse us. "There are but two monuments in all America worthy of mention, and both are in Baltimore. Philadelphia and New-York havenothing of the kind to show, though each city possesses two public squares or parks planted with trees, which are well adapted to receive such works of art, and where the eye sadly misses them." "Public and private collections of statues and pictures are altogether wanting, and the walls of the rich are generally devoid of paintings and copper-plate engravings. What they have generally consists of family portraits, or those of Washington and other presidents. But to dazzle the eye, we find in the possession of the wealthy, the most worthless pictures in expensive gold frames. Of late years a public gallery has been established in New-York for the sale of such productions. As far however as the works of native artists are concerned, we find among them none inspired by high art; on the contrary, they are generally, to the last degree, mediocre affairs, or mere daubs (wahre Klecksereien) not worth hanging up; the better however are exaggerated and unnatural both in subject and color. This is also the case with most of the copper-plate engravings exposed for sale in the French shop-windows, and which appear almost as if manufactured in Paris expressly for the American taste. The inferior appreciation of art in the Americans and their delight in extravagance is particularly shown in the political caricatures, which are entirely deficient in all refined wit, consisting either of stupid allusions to eminent men or party leaders, or direct and clumsy exaggerations."
By way of amends for all this abuse, our author admits that we excel in all practical arts and labor-saving inventions. "But in proportion to the backward state of the fine arts, is the advance which the Americans have made in all pertaining to mechanics, and technical art. Particular attention is paid to the supplanting of hand labor by machinery. Even the most trifling apparatus or tool is constructed with regard to practical use, and it only needs a more careful observation of this to convince us that in all such matters they have the advantage of Germany.
"It is often truly startling to see how simply and usefully those articles used in business are constructed—for example, the one-horse cars (drays or trucks?) and hand-carts, employed in conveying merchandise to and from stores. As a proof how far the Americans have advanced in mechanic arts, we may mention that high houses, of wood or brick, several stories high and entire, are transported on rollers to places several feet distant. Occasionally, to add a story, the house is raised by screws into the air and the building substructed. In either case the family remains quietly dwelling therein."
But alas, even these few rays of commendatory comfort vanish in the dark, after reflection, that it is precisely this ingenuity and enterprise in business and practical matters which unfits us for all the kinder and more social duties, and renders us insensible to every soothing and refining influence. No allowance for past events, unavoidable circumstances, or our possible future destiny, appears to cross the doctor's mind. All is dark and desolate. True, every man of high and low degree—the laborer and shop-man—the lawyer and clergyman, pause in the street to study any mechanical novelty which meets their eye—but ere they do this the doctor is mindful to suggestthat they pass picture shop-windows without deigning to glance therein. The professions are studied like trades, and in matters of criminal law our condition is truly deplorable. It happened not many months since, he informs us, that the publisher of a slanderous New-York paper, was castigated by a lady, with a hunting whip, in Broadway, at noon. The said lady had been (according to custom) unjustly and cruelly abused in the journal referred to. So great was her irritation that she actually followed the editor along the streets, lashing him continually. But thefinaleof this startling incident consists of the fact that the lady, on pleading guilty, was fined six cents.
There is an obscurity attached to his manner of narrating this anecdote, which leaves the opinion of the author a little uncertain. Six cents would in some parts of Germany be a serious fine, worthy of appeal, mercy, and abatement. In different parts of Suabia and even Baden, notices may be seen posted up, in which the commission of certain local offences is prohibited by fines ranging from four to twelve cents. On the whole, as a zealous defender of the purity and dignity of woman, when unjustly assailed, we are inclined to think that the author sides withthelady.
But we need not follow the doctor further in his career of discontent and prejudice. Before concluding, we would however caution the reader against supposing that he expresses views in any degree accordant with the feelings and opinions of his countrymen. The best, the most numerous, the most impartial, and we may add, by far the most favorable works on America, are from German pens. In confirmation of our assertion that his work is unfavorably regarded at home we may adduce the fact that it has been severely handled by excellent reviewers among them; take for example the following, from the LeipzigCentral Blatt. After favorably noticing the late excellent work ofQuentinon the United States, he proceeds to say of the doctor'sSketches, that
"Herr Kirstenseems to desire to be that for North America, whichNicolaiof noted memory was in his own time for Italy. Already, on arrival, we find him in ill temper, caused by the excessive heat, which ill-humor is aggravated by his being obliged to make many calls by day, andthe musquitoes and alarms of fire which disturbed his slumbers during the night. In other places he was no better pleased.
"The Germans were disagreeable on account of their want of unity, the Americans from their coldness—in short, he missed home life—could not accustom himself to the new country, and returned after a sojourn of less than two years to Germany. In 'sketches,' resulting from such circumstances, we naturally encounter only the darker side of American life. Much may indeed be true of what he asserts regarding the natural capabilities, climate, soil, and inhabitants of the land, the manners and customs of the latter, their common and party spirit, education of children, and the condition of science and art; but particulars are either too hastily generalized, or else the better points, as for example, the characteristic traits of the people, their extraordinary progress in physical and mental culture, and the excellent management of the country, are either entirely omitted or receive by far too slight notice. His narrow-minded and ill-natured disposition to find fault is also shown by his reproaching the Americans with faults which they share in common with every nation in America,ourselves included, as, for example, excesses committed by political partisans. Still, the book may not be entirely without value, at least to those who see every thing on the other side of the water only in a rosy light, and believe that the German emigrant as soon as his foot touches shore, enters a state of undisturbed happiness."
So much for the critical doctor's popularity at home. In conclusion, we may remark that our main object in this notice, in addition to amusing our readers, has been to prove by this exception, and the displeasure which it excites in Germany, the rule, that by the writers of that country our own has been almost invariably well spoken of. And we have deemed these remarks the more requisite, lest some reader might casually infer that Dr. Kirsten expressed the views and sentiments of any considerable number of his countrymen.
New-York,October 1st, 1851.
My Dear Sir,—I readily comply with your wish that I should furnish you with such reminiscences of the late Mr. Cooper as occur to me, although the pressure of professional engagements absolutely forbids such details as I would gladly record. For nearly thirty years I have been the occasional medical adviser, and always the ardent personal friend of the illustrious deceased; but our intercourse has been so fragmentary, owing to the distance we have lived apart, and the busy lives we have both led, that the impressions which now throng upon and impress me are desultory and varied, though endearing. I first knew Mr. Cooper in 1823. He at that time was recognized as the author of "Precaution," of "the Spy," and of "the Pioneers." The two last-named works had attracted especial notice by their widely extended circulation, and the novelty of their character in American literature. He was often to be seen at that period in conversation at the City Hotel in Broadway, near Old Trinity, where many of our most renowned naval and military men convened. He was the original projector of a literary and social association called the "Bread and Cheese Club," whose place of rendezvous was at Washington Hall. They met weekly, in the evening, and furnished the occasion of much intellectual gratification and genial pleasure. That most adhesive friend, the poet Halleck, Chancellor Kent, G. C. Verplanck, Wiley, the publisher of Mr. Cooper's works, Dekay, the naturalist, C. A. Davis (Jack Downing), Charles King, now President of Columbia College, J. Depeyster Ogden, J. W. Jarvis, the painter, John and William Duer, and many others, were of the confederacy. Washington Irving, at the period of the formation of this circle of friends, was in England, occupied with his inimitable "Sketch Book." I had the honor of an early admittance to the Club. In balloting for membership the bread declared an affirmative; and two ballots of cheese against an individual proclaimed non-admittance.
From the meetings of this society Mr. Cooper was rarely absent. When presiding officer of the evening, he attracted especial consideration from the richness of his anecdotes, his wide American knowledge, and his courteous behavior. These meetings were often signally characterized by the number of invited guests of high reputation who gathered thither for recreative purposes, both of mind and body; jurists of acknowledged eminence, governors of different States, senators, members of the House of Representatives, literary men of foreign distinction, and authors of repute in our own land. It was gratifying to observe the dexterity with which Mr. Cooper would cope with some eastern friend who contributed to our delight with a "Boston notion," or with Trelawny, the associate of Byron, descanting on Greece and the "Younger Son," or with any guests of the Club, however dissimilar their habits or character; accommodating his conversation and manners with the most marvellous facility. The New-York attachments of Mr. Cooper were ever dominant. I witnessed a demonstration of the early enthusiasm and patriotic activity of our late friend in his efforts, with many of our leading citizens, in getting up the Grand Castle Garden Ball, given in honor of Lafayette. The arrival of the "Nation's Guest" at New-York, in 1824, was the occasion of the most joyful demonstrations, and the celebration was a splendid spectacle; it brought together celebrities from many remote parts of the Union. Mr. Cooper must have undergone extraordinary fatigue during the dayand following night; but nearly as he was exhausted, he exhibited, when the public festivals were brought to a close, that astonishing readiness and skill in literary execution for which he was always so remarkable. Adjourning near daybreak to the office of his friend Mr. Charles King, he wrote out more quickly than any other hand could copy, the very long and masterly report which next day appeared in Mr. King's paper—a report which conveyed to tens of thousands who had not been present, no inconsiderable portion of the enjoyment they had felt who were the immediate participants in this famous festival. The manly bearing, keen intelligence, and thoroughly honorable instincts of Mr. Cooper, united as they were with this gift of writing—soon most effectively exhibited in his literary labors, now constantly increasing—excited my highest expectations of his career as an author, and my sincere esteem for the man. There was a fresh promise, a vigorous impulse, and especially an American enthusiasm about him, that seemed to indicate not only individual fame, but national honor. Since that period I have followed his brilliant course with no less admiration than delight.
It was to me a cause of deep regret that soon after his return from Europe, crowned with a distinct and noble reputation, he became involved in a series of law-suits, growing out of libels, and originating partly in his own imprudence, and partly in the reckless severity of the press. But these are but temporary considerations in the retrospect of his achievements; and if I mistake not, in these difficulties he in every instance succeeded in gaining the verdict of the jury. It was a task insurmountable to overcome afactas stated by Mr. Cooper. Associated as he was in my own mind with the earliest triumphs of American letters, I think of him as the creator of the genuine nautical and forest romances of "Long Tom Coffin" and "Leatherstocking;" as the illustrator of our country's scenes and characters to the Europeans; and not as the critic of our republican inconsistencies, or as a litigant with caustic editors.
It is well known that for a long period Mr. Cooper, at occasional times only, visited New-York city. His residence for many years was an elegant and quiet mansion on the southern borders of Otsego Lake. Here—in his beautiful retreat, embellished by the substantial fruits of his labors, and displaying everywhere his exquisite taste, his mind, ever intent on congenial tasks, which, alas! are left unfinished, surrounded by a devoted and highly cultivated family, and maintaining the same clearness of perception, serene firmness, and integrity of tone, which distinguished him in the meridian of his life—were his mental employments prosecuted. He lived chiefly in rural seclusion, and with habits of methodical industry. When visiting the city he mingled cordially with his old friends; and it was on the last occasion of this kind, at the beginning of April, that he consulted me with some earnestness in regard to his health. He complained of the impaired tone of the digestive organs, great torpor of the liver, weakness of muscular activity, and feebleness in walking. Such suggestions were offered for his relief as the indications of disease warranted. He left the city for his country residence, and I was gratified shortly after to learn from him of his better condition.
During July and August I maintained a correspondence with him on the subject of his increasing physical infirmities, and frankly expressed to him the necessity of such remedial measures as seemed clearly necessary. Though occasionally relieved of my anxieties by the kind communications of his excellent friend and attending physician, Dr. Johnson, I was not without solicitude, both from his own statements as well as those of Dr. Johnson himself, that his disorder was on the increase; certain symptoms were indeed mitigated, but the radical features of his illness had not been removed. A letter which I soon received induced me forthwith to repair to Cooperstown, and on the 27th of August I saw Mr. Cooper at his own dwelling. My reception was cordial. With his family about him he related with great clearness the particulars of his sufferings, and the means of relief to which he was subjected. Dr. Johnson was in consultation. I at once was struck with the heroic firmness of the sufferer, under an accumulation of depressing symptoms. His physical aspect was much altered from that noble freshness he was wont to bear; his complexion was pallid; his interior extremities greatly enlarged by serous effusion; his debility so extreme as to require an assistant for change of position in bed; his pulse sixty-four. There could be no doubt that the long continued hepatic obstruction had led to confirmed dropsy, which, indeed, betrayed itself in several other parts of the body. Yet was he patient and collected. That powerful intellect still held empire with commanding force, clearness, and vigor. I explained to him the nature of his malady; its natural termination when uncontrolled; dwelt upon the favorable condition and yet regular action of the heart, and other vital functions, and the urgent necessity of endeavoring still more to fulfil certain indications, in order to overcome the force of particular tendencies in the disorder. I frankly assured him that within the limits of a week a change in the complaint was indispensable to lessen our forebodings of its ungovernable nature.
He listened with fixed attention; and now and then threw out suggestions of cure such as are not unfrequent with cultivated minds.
The great characteristics of his intellect were now even more conspicuous than before. Not a murmur escaped his lips; conviction of his extreme illness wrought no alterationof features; he gave no expression of despondency; his tone and his manner were equally dignified, cordial, and natural. It was his happiness to be blessed with a family around him whose greatest gratification was to supply his every want, and a daughter for a companion in his pursuits, who was his intelligent amanuensis and correspondent as well as indefatigable nurse.[1]
I forbear enlarging on matters too professional for present detail. During the night after my arrival he sustained an attack of severe fainting, which convinced me still further of his great personal weakness. An ennobling philosophy, however, gave him support, and in the morning he had again been refreshed by a sleep of some few hours' duration. I renewed to him and to his family the hopes and the discouragements in his case. Never was information of so grave a cast received by any individual in a calmer spirit. He said little as to his prospects of recovery. Upon my taking leave of him, however, shortly after, in the morning, I am convinced from his manner that he shared my apprehensions of a fatal termination of his disorder. Nature, however strong in her gifted child, had now her healthful rights largely invaded. His constitutional buoyancy and determination, by leading him to slight that distant and thorough attention demanded by primary symptoms, doubtless contributed to their subsequent aggravation.
I shall say but a few words more on this agonizing topic. The letters which I received, after my return home, communicated at times some cheering facts of renovation, but on the whole, discouraging demonstrations of augmenting illness, and lessened hope, were their prominent characteristics. A letter to me from his son-in-law, of the 14th of September, announced: "Mr. Cooper died, apparently without much pain, to-day at half-past one, P.M., leaving his family, although prepared by his gradual failure, in deep affliction. He would have been sixty-two years old to-morrow."
A life of such uniform and unparalleled excellence and service, a career so brilliant and honorable, closed in a befitting manner, and was crowned by a death of quiet resignation. Conscious of his approaching dissolution, his intelligence seemed to glow with increased fulness as his prostrated frame yielded by degrees to the last summons. It is familiarly known to his most intimate friends, that for some considerable period prior to his fatal illness, he appropriated liberal portions of his time to the investigation of scriptural truths, and that his convictions were ripe in Christian doctrines. With assurances of happiness in the future, he graciously yielded up his spirit to the disposal of its Creator. His death, which must thus have been the beginning of a serene and more blessed life to him, is universally regarded as a national loss.
Will you allow me to add a few words to this letter, already perhaps of undue extent. It has been my gratification during a life of some duration to have become personally acquainted with many eminent characters in the different walks of professional and literary avocation. I never knew an individual more thoroughly imbued with higher principles of action than Mr. Cooper: he acted upon principles, and fully comprehended the principles upon which he acted. Casual observers could scarcely, at times, understand and appreciate his motives or conduct. An independence of character worthy of the highest respect, and a natural boldness of temper which led him to a frank, emphatic, and intrepid utterance of his thoughts and sentiments, were uncongenial to that large class of people, who, from the want of moral courage, or a feeble physical temperament, habitually conform to public opinion, and endeavor to conciliate the world. Mr. Cooper was one of the most genuine Americans in his tone of mind, in manly self-reliance, in sympathy with the scenery, the history, and the constitution of his country, which it has ever been my lot to know. His genius was American, fresh, vigorous, independent, and devoted to native subjects. The opposition he met with on his return from Europe, in consequence of his patriotic, though, perhaps, injudicious attempts to point out the faults and duties of his countrymen, threw him reluctantly on the defensive, and sometimes gave an antagonistic manner to his intercourse; but, whoever, recognizing his intellectual superiority, and respecting his integrity of purpose, met him candidly, in an open, cordial and generous spirit, soon found in Mr. Cooper an honest man, and a thorough patriot.
How strongly is impressed upon my memory his personal appearance, so often witnessed during his rambles in Broadway and amidst the haunts of this busy population. His phrenological development might challenge comparison with that of the most favored of mortals. His manly figure, high, prominent brow, clear and fine gray eye, and royal bearing, revealed the man of will and intelligence. His intellectual hardihood was remarkable. He worked upon a novel with the patient industry of a man of business, and set down every fact of costume, action, expression, local feature, and detail of maritime operations or woodland experience, with a kind of consciousness and precision that produced a Flemish exactitude of detail, while in portraying action, he seemed to catch by virtue of an eagle glance and an heroic temperament, the very spirit of his occasion and convey it to the reader's nerves and heart, as well as to his understanding. Herein Mr. Cooper was a man of unquestionable originality. As to his literary services, some idea may be formed of the consideration in which they are held by the almost countless editions ofmany of his works in his own country, and their circulation abroad by translations into almost every living tongue.
I may add a word or two on the extent of his sympathies with humanity. What a love he cherished for superior talents in every ennobling pursuit in life—how deep an interest he felt in the fortunes of his scientific and literary friends—what gratification he enjoyed in the physical inquiries of Dekay and Le Conte, the muse of Halleck and of Bryant, the painting of Cole, the sculpture of Greenough! Dunlap, were he speaking, might tell you of his gratuities to the unfortunate playwright and the dramatic performer. With the mere accumulators of money—those golden calves whose hearts are as devoid of emotion as their brains of the faculty of cogitation—he held no congenial communion at any time: they could not participate in the fruition of his pastime; and he felt in himself an innate superiority in the gifts with which nature had endowed him. He was ever vigilant, a keen observer of men and things; and in conversation frank and emphatic. It was a gratifying spectacle to encounter him with old Col. Trumbull, the historical painter, descanting on the many excellencies of Cole's pencil, in the delineation of American forest-scenery—a theme the richest in the world for Mr. Cooper's contemplation. A Shylock with his money-bags never glutted over his possessions with a happier feeling than did these two eminent individuals—the venerable Colonel with his patrician dignity, and Cooper with his somewhat aristocratic bearing, yet democratic sentiment; the one fruitful with the glories of the past, the other big with the stirring events of his country's progress, in the refinement of arts, and national power. Trumbull was one of the many old men I knew who delighted in Cooper's writings, and who in conversation dwelt upon his captivating genius.
To his future biographer Mr. Cooper has left the pleasing duty rightly to estimate the breadth and depth of his powerful intellect—psychologically to investigate the development and functions of that cerebral organ, which for so many years, with such rapid succession and variety, poured out the creations of poetic thought and descriptive illustration—to determine the value of his capacious mind by the influence which, in the dawn of American literature, it has exercised, in rearing the intellectual fabric of his country's greatness—and to unfold the secret springs of those disinterested acts of charity to the poor and needy, which signalized his conduct as a professor of religious truth, and a true exampler of the Christian graces. He has unquestionably done more to make known to the transatlantic world his country, her scenery, her characteristics, her aboriginal inhabitants, her history, than all preceding writers. His death may well be pronounced a national calamity. By common consent he long occupied an enviable place—the highest rank in American literature. To adopt the quaint phraseology of old Thomas Fuller, the felling of so mighty an oak must needs cause the increase of much underwood. Who will fill the void occasioned by his too early departure from among us, time alone must determine. With much consideration, I remain,
Dear sir, yours most truly,JOHN W. FRANCIS.
In the last number of theInternationalwe were able merely to announce the death of our great countryman Mr. Cooper. The following account of proceedings in reference to the event is compiled mainly from theEvening Post.
A meeting of literary men, and others, was held at the City Hall in New-York, on the 25th of September, for the purpose of taking the necessary measures for rendering fit honors to the memory of the deceased author. Rufus W. Griswold, calling the meeting to order, said it had been convened to do justice to the memory of the most illustrious American who had died in the present century. Since the design of such a meeting had first been formed, a consultation among Mr. Cooper's friends had been held, and it had been determined that the present should be only a preparatory meeting, for the making of such arrangements as should be thought necessary for a more suitable demonstration of respect for that eminent person, whose name, more completely than that of any of his cotemporaries and countrymen, had filled the world.
On motion of Judge Duer, Washington Irving was elected President of the meeting. On motion of Joseph Blunt, Fitz Greene Halleck and Rufus W. Griswold were appointed Secretaries.
Mr. Blunt said, that as it had been thought proper to consider this occasion as merely preliminary, and for the purpose of making arrangements to do honor to the distinguished author who has left us, he would move that a committee of five be appointed by the chair, to report what measures should be adopted, by the literary gentlemen of this city and of the country, so far as they may see fit to join them, for the purpose of rendering appropriate honors to the memory of the late J. Fenimore Cooper.
The motion was adopted, and the chair appointed the following gentlemen members of the committee: Judge Duer, Richard B. Kimball, Dr. Francis, Fitz Greene Halleck, and George Bancroft; to whom Washington Irving and Rufus W. Griswold were subsequently added. The meeting then adjourned.
This committee afterwards met and appointed as a General Committee to carry out the designs of the meeting: Washington Irving, James K. Paulding, John W. Francis, Gulian C. Verplanck, Charles King, RichardB. Kimball, Rufus W. Griswold, Lewis Gaylord Clarke, Francis L. Hawks, John A. Dix, George Bancroft, Fitz Greene Halleck, John Duer, William C. Bryant, George P. Morris, Charles Anthon, Samuel Osgood, J. M. Wainright, and William W. Campbell.
R. W. Griswold, Donald G. Mitchell, Parke Godwin, C. F. Briggs, and Starbuck Mayo were appointed a Committee of Correspondence.
Besides letters from many of the gentlemen present, others had been received from some twenty of the most eminent literary men of the United States, all expressing the warmest sympathy in the proposal to do every possible honor to the memory of Mr. Cooper. We copy from these the following: