 | CHAPTER XI. Home as found |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
“To show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very
age and body of the time, his form and pressure.”
Shakspeare.
When Mrs. Bloomfield entered the drawing-room,
she found nearly the whole party assembled. The
Fun of Fire had ceased, and the rockets no longer
gleamed athwart the sky; but the blaze of artificial
light within, was more than a substitute for that which
had so lately existed without.
Mr. Effingham and Paul were conversing by themselves,
in a window-seat, while John Effingham, Mrs.
Hawker, and Mr. Howel were in an animated discussion
on a sofa; Mr. Wenham had also joined the party,
and was occupied with Captain Ducie, though not so
much so as to prevent occasional glances at the trio
just mentioned. Sir George Templemore and Grace
Van Cortlandt were walking together in the great hall,
and were visible through the open door, as they passed
and repassed.
“I am glad of your appearance among us, Mrs.
Bloomfield,” said John Effingham, “for, certainly more
Anglo-mania never existed than that which my good
friend Howel manifests this evening, and I have hopes
that your eloquence may persuade him out of some of
those notions, on which my logic has fallen like seed
scattered by the way-side.”
“I can have little hopes of success where Mr. John
Effingham has failed.”
“I am far from being certain of that; for, somehow,
grudge against England, and he listens to all I say
with distrust and distaste.”
“Mr. John uses strong language habitually, ma'am,”
cried Mr. Howel, “and you will make some allowances
for a vocabulary that has no very mild terms in it;
though, to be frank, I do confess that he seems prejudiced
on the subject of that great nation.”
“What is the point in immediate controversy, gentlemen?”
asked Mrs. Bloomfield, taking a seat.
“Why here is a review of a late American work,
ma'am, and I insist that the author is skinned alive,
whereas, Mr. John insists that the reviewer exposes
only his own rage, the work having a national character,
and running counter to the reviewer's feelings and
interests.”
“Nay, I protest against this statement of the case,
for I affirm that the reviewer exposes a great deal
more than his rage, since his imbecility, ignorance,
and dishonesty are quite as apparent as any thing
else.”
“I have read the article,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, after
glancing her eye at the periodical, “and I must say
that I take sides with Mr. John Effingham in his opinion
of its character.”
“But do you not perceive, ma'am, that this is the
idol of the nobility and gentry; the work that is more
in favour with people of consequence in England than
any other. Bishops are said to write for it!”
“I know it is a work expressly established to sustain
one of the most factitious political systems that ever
existed, and that it sacrifices every high quality to
attain its end.”
“Mrs. Bloomfield, you amaze me! The first writers
of Great Britain figure in its pages.”
“That I much question, in the first place; but even
if it were so, it would be but a shallow mystification.
Although a man of character might write one article
of no character does not write the next. The principles
of the communications of a periodical are as different
as their talents.”
“But the editor is a pledge for all.—The editor of
this review is an eminent writer himself.”
“An eminent writer may be a very great knave, in
the first place, and one fact is worth a thousand conjectures
in such a matter. But we do not know that
there is any responsible editor to works of this nature
at all, for there is no name given in the title-page, and
nothing is more common than vague declarations of a
want of this very responsibility. But if I can prove
to you that this article cannot have been written by a
man of common honesty, Mr. Howel, what will you
then say to the responsibility of your editor?”
“In that case I shall be compelled to admit that he
had no connexion with it.”
“Any thing in preference to giving up the beloved
idol!” said John Effingham laughing. “Why not add
at once, that he is as great a knave as the writer himself?
I am glad, however, that Tom Howel has
fallen into such good hands, Mrs. Bloomfield, and I
devoutly pray you may not spare him.”
We have said that Mrs. Bloomfield had a rapid perception
of things and principles, that amounted almost
to intuition. She had read the article in question, and,
as she glanced her eyes through its pages, had detected
its fallacies and falsehoods, in almost every sentence.
Indeed, they had not been put together with ordinary
skill, the writer having evidently presumed on the easiness
of the class of readers who generally swallowed
his round assertions, and were so clumsily done that
any one who had not the faith to move mountains
would have seen through most of them without difficulty.
But Mr. Howel belonged to another school,
and he was so much accustomed to shut his eyes to
the palpable mystification mentioned by Mrs. Bloomfield,
have carried no weight with it, advanced in this particular
periodical became elevated to the dignity of
truth.
Mrs. Bloomfield turned to an article on America, in
the periodical in question, and read from it several disparaging
expressions concerning Mr. Howel's native
country, one of which was, “The American's first
plaything is the rattle-snake's tail.”
“Now, what do you think of this assertion in particular,
Mr. Howel?” she asked, reading the words we
have just quoted.
“Oh! that is said in mere pleasantry—it is only
wit.”
“Well, then, what do you think of it as wit?”
“Well, well, it may not be of a very pure water,
but the best of men are unequal at all times, and more
especially in their wit.”
“Here,” continued Mrs. Bloomfield, pointing to
another paragraph, “is a positive statement or misstatement,
which makes the cost of the `civil department of
the United States Government,' about six times more
than it really is.”
“Our government is so extremely mean, that I ascribe
that error to generosity.”
“Well,” continued the lady, smiling, “here the reviewer
asserts that Congress passed a law limiting the
size of certain ships, in order to please the democracy;
and that the Executive privately evaded this law, and
built vessels of a much greater size; whereas the provision
of the law is just the contrary, or that the ships
should not be less than of seventy-four guns; a piece
of information, by the way, that I obtained from Mr.
Powis.”
“Ignorance, ma'am; a stranger cannot be supposed
to know all the laws of a foreign country.”
“Then why make bold and false assertions about
them, that are intended to discredit the country? Here
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
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
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 John 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 suits the interests and prejudices
of Europe, especially of our venerable kinswoman,
Old England, to circulate and think to the pre
judice of this country, which, in my poor judgment,
has as much substantial merit to boast of as any nation
on earth; though, in getting rid of a set of ancient
vices and follies, it has not had the sagacity to discover
that it is fast falling into pretty tolerable—or if
you like it better—intolerable substitutes.”
“What then do you deem our greatest error—our
weakest point?”
“Provincialisms, with their train of narrow prejudices,
and a disposition to set up mediocrity as perfection,
under the double influence of an ignorance that
irresistible tendency to mediocrity, in a nation where
the common mind so imperiously rules.”
“But does not the common mind rule every where?
Is not public opinion always stronger than law?”
“In a certain sense, both these positions may be
true. But in a nation like this, without a capital, one
that is all provinces, in which intelligence and tastes
are scattered, this common mind wants the usual
direction, and derives its impulses from the force of
numbers, rather than from the force of knowledge.
Hence the fact, that the public opinion never or seldom
rises to absolute truth. I grant you that as a mediocrity,
it is well; much better than common even; but
it is still a mediocrity.”
“I see the justice of your remark, and I suppose we
are to ascribe the general use of superlatives, which is
so very obvious, to these causes.”
“Unquestionably; men have gotten to be afraid to
speak the truth, when that truth is a little beyond the
common comprehension; and thus it is that you see
the fulsome flattery that all the public servants, as they
call themselves, resort to, in order to increase their
popularity, instead of telling the wholesome facts that
are needed.”
“And what is to be the result?”
“Heaven knows. While America is so much in
advance of other nations, in a freedom from prejudices
of the old school, it is fast substituting a set of prejudices
of its own, that are not without serious dangers.
We may live through it, and the ills of society may
correct themselves, though there is one fact that menaces
more evil than any thing I could have feared.”
“You mean the political struggle between money
and numbers, that has so seriously manifested itself of
late!” exclaimed the quick-minded and intelligent Mrs.
Bloomfield.
“That has its dangers; but there is still another evil
disposition to confine political discussions to political
men. Thus, the private citizen, who should presume
to discuss a political question, would be deemed fair
game for all who thought differently from himself. He
would be injured in his pocket, reputation, domestic
happiness, if possible; for, in this respect, America is
much the most intolerant nation I have ever visited.
In all other countries, in which discussion is permitted
at all, there is at least the appearance of fair play,
whatever may be done covertly; but here, it seems to
be sufficient to justify falsehood, frauds, nay, barefaced
rascality, to establish that the injured party has had
the audacity to meddle with public questions, not being
what the public chooses to call a public man. It is
scarcely necessary to say that, when such an opinion
gets to be effective, it must entirely defeat the real
intentions of a popular government.”
“Now you mention it,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, “I
think I have witnessed instances of what you mean.”
“Witnessed, dear Mrs. Bloomfield! Instances are
to be seen as often as a man is found freeman enough
to have an opinion independent of party. It is not for
connecting himself with party that a man is denounced
in this country, but for daring to connect himself with
truth. Party will bear with party, but party will not
bear with truth. It is in politics as in war, regiments
or individuals may desert, and they will be received
by their late enemies with open arms, the honour of a
soldier seldom reaching to the pass of refusing succour
of any sort; but both sides will turn and fire on the
countrymen who wish merely to defend their homes
and firesides.”
“You draw disagreeable pictures of human nature,
Mr. Effingham.”
“Merely because they are true, Mrs. Bloomfield.
Man is worse than the beasts, merely because he has
a code of right and wrong, which he never respects.
pretend to calculate its changes, though no one can
explain the principle that causes the attraction or its
vagaries at all. So it is with men; they pretend to
look always at the right, though their eyes are constantly
directed obliquely; and it is a certain calculation
to allow of a pretty wide variation — but here
comes Miss Effingham, singularly well attired, and
more beautiful than I have ever before seen her!”
The two exchanged quick glances, and then, as if
fearful of betraying to each other their thoughts, they
moved towards our heroine, to do the honours of the
reception.
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