Home as Found by James Fenimore Cooper (easy novels to read .txt) 📖

of the men that fought at Waterloo would have marched

through North America?' Do you believe that, Mr. Howel?"

 

"But that is merely an opinion, Mrs. Bloomfield; any man may be wrong

in his opinion."

 

"Very true, but it is an opinion uttered in the year of our Lord one

thousand eight hundred and twenty-eight; and after the battles of

Bunker Hill, Cowpens, Plattsburg, Saratoga, and New-Orleans! And,

moreover, after it had been proved that something very like ten

thousand of the identical men who fought at Waterloo, could not march

even ten miles into the country."

 

"Well, well, all this shows that the reviewer is sometimes mistaken."

 

"Your pardon Mr. Howel; I think it shows, according to your own

admission, that his wit, or rather its wit, for there is no _his_

about it--that its wit is of a very indifferent quality as witticisms

even; that it is ignorant of what it pretends to know; and that its

opinions are no better than its knowledge: all of which, when fairly

established against one who, by his very pursuit, professes to know

more than other people, is very much like making it appear

contemptible."

 

"This is going back eight or ten years--let us look more particularly

at the article about which the discussion commences."

 

"_Volontiers_"

 

Mrs. Bloomfield now sent to the library for the work reviewed, and

opening the review she read some of its strictures; and then turning

to the corresponding passages in the work itself, she pointed out the

unfairness of the quotations, the omissions of the context, and, in

several flagrant instances, witticisms of the reviewer, that were

purchased at the expense of the English language. She next showed

several of those audacious assertions, for which the particular

periodical was so remarkable, leaving no doubt with any candid

person, that they were purchased at the expense of truth.

 

"But here is an instance that will scarce admit of cavilling or

objection on your part, Mr. Howel," she continued; "do me the favour

to read the passage in the review."

 

Mr. Howel complied, and when he had done, he looked expectingly at

the lady.

 

"The effect of the reviewer's statement is to make it appear that the

author has contradicted himself, is it not?"

 

"Certainly, nothing can be plainer."

 

"According to your favourite reviewer, who accuses him of it, in

terms. Now let us look at the fact. Here is the passage in the work

itself. In the first place you will remark that this sentence, which

contains the alleged contradiction, is mutilated; the part which is

omitted, giving a directly contrary meaning to it, from that it bears

under the reviewer's scissors."

 

"It has some such appearance, I do confess."

 

"Here you perceive that the closing sentence of the same paragraph,

and which refers directly to the point at issue, is displaced, made

to appear as belonging to a separate paragraph, and as conveying a

different meaning from what the author has actually expressed."

 

"Upon my word, I do not know but you are right!"

 

"Well, Mr. Howel, we have had wit of no very pure water, ignorance as

relates to facts, and mistakes as regards very positive assertions.

In what category, as Captain Truck would say, do you place this?"

 

"Why does not the author reviewed expose this?"

 

"Why does not a gentleman wrangle with a detected pick-pocket?"

 

"It is literary swindling," said John Effingham, "and the man who did

it, is inherently a knave."

 

"I think both these facts quite beyond dispute," observed Mrs.

Bloomfield, laying down Mr. Howel's favourite review with an air of

cool contempt; "and I must say I did not think it necessary to prove

the general character of the work, at this late date, to any American

of ordinary intelligence; much less to a sensible man, like Mr.

Howel."

 

"But, ma'am, there may be much truth and justice in the rest of its

remarks," returned the pertinacious Mr. Howel, "although it has

fallen into these mistakes."

 

"Were you ever on a jury, Howel?" asked John Effingham, in his

caustic manner.

 

"Often; and on grand juries, too."

 

"Well, did the judge never tell you, when a witness is detected in

lying on one point, that his testimony is valueless on all others?"

 

"Very true; but this is a review, and not testimony."

 

"The distinction is certainly a very good one," resumed Mrs.

Bloomfield, laughing, "as nothing, in general, can be less like

honest testimony than a review!"

 

"But I think, my dear ma'am, you will allow that all this is

excessively biting and severe--I can't say I ever read any thing

sharper in my life."

 

"It strikes me, Mr. Howel, as being nothing but epithets, the

cheapest and most contemptible of all species of abuse. Were two men,

in your presence, to call each other such names, I think it would

excite nothing but disgust in your mind. When the thought is clear

and poignant, there is little need to have recourse to mere epithets;

indeed, men never use the latter, except when there is a deficiency

of the first."

 

"Well, well, my friends," cried Mr. Howel, as he walked away towards

Grace and Sir George, "this is a different thing from what I at first

thought it, but still I think you undervalue the periodical."

 

"I hope this little lesson will cool some of Mr. Howel's faith in

foreign morality," observed Mrs. Bloomfield, as soon as the gentleman

named was out of hearing; "a more credulous and devout worshipper of

the idol, I have never before met."

 

"The school is diminishing, but it is still large. Men like Tom

Howel, who have thought in one direction all their lives, are not

easily brought to change their notions, especially when the

admiration which proceeds from distance, distance 'that lends

enchantment to the view,' is at the bottom of their faith. Had this

very article been written and printed round the corner of the street

in which he lives, Howel would be the first to say that it was the

production of a fellow without talents or principles, and was

unworthy of a second thought."

 

"I still think he will be a wiser, if not a better man, by the

exposure of its frauds."

 

"Not he. If you will excuse a homely and a coarse simile, 'he will

return like a dog to his vomit, or the sow to its wallowing in the

mire.' I never knew one of that school thoroughly cured, until he

became himself the subject of attack, or, by a close personal

communication, was made to feel the superciliousness of European

superiority. It is only a week since I had a discussion with him on

the subject of the humanity and the relish for liberty in his beloved

model; and when I cited the instance of the employment of the

tomahawk, in the wars between England and this country, he actually

affirmed that the Indian savages killed no women and children, but

the wives and offspring of their enemies; and when I told him that

the English, like most other people, cared very little for any

liberty but their own, he coolly affirmed that their own was the only

liberty worth caring for!"

 

"Oh yes," put in young Mr. Wenham, who had overheard the latter

portion of the conversation, "Mr. Howel is so thoroughly English,

that he actually denies that America is the most civilized country in

the world, or that we speak our language better than any nation was

ever before known to speak its own language."

 

"This is so manifest an act of treason," said Mrs. Bloomfield,

endeavouring to look grave, for Mr. Wenham was any thing but accurate

in the use of words himself, commonly pronouncing "been," "ben,"

"does," "dooze," "nothing," "nawthing," "few," "foo," &c. &c. &c.,

"that, certainly, Mr. Howel should be arraigned at the bar of public

opinion for the outrage."

 

"It is commonly admitted, even by our enemies, that our mode of

speaking is the very best in the world, which, I suppose, is the real

reason why our literature has so rapidly reached the top of the

ladder."

 

"And is that the fact?" asked Mrs. Bloomfield, with a curiosity that

was not in the least feigned.

 

"I believe no one denies _that. You_ will sustain me in this, I

fancy, Mr. Dodge?"

 

The editor of the Active Inquirer had approached, and was just in

time to catch the subject in discussion. Now the modes of speech of

these two persons, while they had a great deal in common, had also a

great deal that was not in common. Mr. Wenham was a native of New-

York, and his dialect was a mixture that is getting to be

sufficiently general, partaking equally of the Doric of New England,

the Dutch cross, and the old English root; whereas, Mr. Dodge spoke

the pure, unalloyed Tuscan of his province, rigidly adhering to all

its sounds and significations. "Dissipation," he contended, meant

"drunkenness;" "ugly," "vicious;" "clever," "good-natured;" and

"humbly," (homely) "ugly." In addition to this finesse in

significations, he had a variety of pronunciations that often put

strangers at fault, and to which he adhered with a pertinacity that

obtained some of its force from the fact, that it exceeded his power

to get rid of them. Notwithstanding all these little peculiarities,

peculiarities as respects every one but those who dwelt in his own

province, Mr. Dodge had also taken up the notion of his superiority

on the subject of language, and always treated the matter as one that

was placed quite beyond dispute, by its publicity and truth.

 

"The progress of American Literature," returned the editor, "is

really astonishing the four quarters of the world. I believe it is

very generally admitted, now, that our pulpit and bar are at the very

summit of these two professions. Then we have much the best poets of

the age, while eleven of our novelists surpass any of all other

countries. The American Philosophical Society is, I believe,

generally considered the most acute learned body now extant, unless,

indeed, the New-York Historical Society may compete with it, for that

honour. Some persons give the palm to one, and some to the other;

though I myself think it would be difficult to decide between them.

Then to what a pass has the drama risen of late years! Genius is

getting to be quite a drug in America!"

 

"You have forgotten to speak of the press, in particular," put in the

complacent Mr. Wenham. "I think we may more safely pride ourselves on

the high character of the press, than any thing else."

 

"Why, to tell you the truth, sir," answered Steadfast, taking the

other by the arm, and leading him so slowly away, that a part of what

followed was heard by the two amused listeners, "modesty is so

infallibly the companion of merit, that _we_ who are engaged in that

high pursuit do not like to say any thing in our own favour. You

never detect a newspaper in the weakness of extolling itself; but,

between ourselves, I may say, after a close examination of the

condition of the press in other countries, I have come to the

conclusion, that, for talents, taste, candour, philosophy, genius,

honesty, and truth, the press of the United States stands at the

very----"

 

Here Mr. Dodge passed so far from the listeners, that the rest of the

speech became inaudible, though from the well-established modesty of

the man and the editor, there can be little doubt of the manner in

which he concluded the sentence.

 

"It is said in Europe," observed Johr Effingham, his fine face

expressing the cool sarcasm in which he was so apt to indulge, "that

there are _la vieille_ and _la Jeune France_. I think we have now had

pretty fair specimens of _old_ and _young_ America; the first

distrusting every thing native, even to a potatoe: and the second

distrusting nothing, and least of all, itself."

 

"There appears to be a sort of pendulum-uneasiness in mankind," said

Mrs. Bloomfield, "that keeps opinion always vibrating around the

centre of truth, for I think it the rarest thing in the world to find

man or woman who has not a disposition, as soon as an error is

abandoned, to fly off into its opposite extreme. From believing we

had nothing worthy of a thought, there is a set springing up who

appear to have jumped to the conclusion that we have every thing."

 

"Ay, this is _one_ of the reasons that all the rest of the world

laugh at us."

 

"Laugh at us, Mr. Effingham! Even _I_ had supposed the American name

had, at last, got to be in good credit in other parts of the world."

 

"Then even _you_, my dear Mrs. Bloomfield, are notably mistaken.

Europe, it is true, is beginning to give us credit for not being

quite as bad as she once thought us; but we are far, very far, from

being yet admitted to the ordinary level of nations, as respects

goodness."

 

"Surely they give us credit for energy, enterprize, activity----"

 

"Qualities that they prettily term, rapacity, cunning, and swindling!

I am far, very far, however, from giving credit to all that it