University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
A COUNTRY WEDDING.

The house of Deacon Jones was a tolerably fair specimen
of Yankee architecture. A genuine Yankee consults
no order save the order of his own will; and to suit
himself and build as large a house as possible, is the rule
of every New England farmer. Should his means confine
him at first to small dimensions, he never fails improving
the first favorable opportunity of enlarging his
tenement by building what he significantly terms additions—they
are rarely improvements—till either age or
poverty compels him to desist. And it was in this manner
the dwelling of Deacon Jones had acquired most of
its size, and, in his judgment, all its importance.

It was originally a one story building, with two square
rooms in front and several small rooms back, and accommodated
his family very well. But when Mr. Jones, as
he was then called, found his substance increasing, he
could think of no better method of displaying his wealth
than by enlarging his dwelling; so he reared what he
denominated “a back kitchen,” joining his old house,
and extending back about forty feet. Here was a capacious
dairy room, cheese closet, and every convenience—a
significant term, and much better understood by a thrifty
New England farmer than the sublime—for his large
dairy. Yet still he was not satisfied. Some of his less

wealthy neighbors were already residing in their two
story houses, and it galled his pride to see the eyes of
strangers who visited the village attracted towards their
showy buildings, while his were passed carelessly by, when
he numbered so many more head of cattle, and sold so
much more butter and cheese than they did. These reasons
determined him to erect a wing, or body, rather, to
his lowly dwelling.

The new building was of two stories, of course, but to
make it appear more elevated, he directed the posts to be
made two feet longer than the usual dimensions. The
wing was thirty feet by twenty-four; the upper story being
divided into two chambers, with ample closets,
finished handsomely and designed for his daughters.

The lower story formed but one room, and many were
the conjectures of the good and inquisitive people in the
neighborhood, concerning the use for which such a huge
apartment could be designed. Some guessed Mr. Jones
was intending to open a tavern, and designed it for a barroom;
others surmised that he was about turning merchant,
and would convert it into a store; and the young
lads, who hated him for his opposition to their amusements,
declared that they knew he was preparing it for
a ball-room. One wag actually wrote tickets for a housewarming
in Mr. Jones' behalf, inviting all the young
ladies and gentlemen in Northwood to meet at his new
hall and celebrate its accomplishment.

The worthy proprietor deigned no explanation to any
of these surmises. He kept his workmen busily employed
in finishing it after the pattern he had shown them, and
on the Sabbath following its completion, after the services
were closed and a conference appointed at the school-house,
he arose in his place and communicated to his
brethren, in a solemn tone of voice, the important information,
that he had provided a room in which they
might for the future hold their conferences!

The circumstance caused quite a sensation in the little
community, and many who had formerly accused Mr.
Jones of worldly-mindedness, now acknowledged, that if

he had been a little too anxious to obtain property, he
seemed willing to improve it for useful and pious purposes.
He was soon after elected deacon, by an almost
unanimous vote of the church, a station he had long
coveted, and no doubt often sincerely prayed for, but
which, had he not made himself useful to his brethren,
might not have been so readily or spontaneously granted
him.

Selfishness is an insidious passion, mingling itself with
motives, and inspiring actions which claim to proceed
from holy and benevolent feelings. And—I would not
teach uncharitableness—when Deacon Jones surveyed his
spacious conference room, completely finished, with a
row of seats around, and furnished with a table, chairs,
and candlesticks, and appurtenances requisite for the accommodation
of his brethren, and was remembered publicly
in their prayers, as one who “had opened his doors”
for the reception of God's children, he felt quite secure of
the divine favor, and ever after attributed his worldly
prosperity to the particular approbation of the Most
High.

I have, perhaps, been more minute in the description
of this conference-room than the subject required. The
reader will pardon it when informed it was there the
wedding was to be celebrated, and there the guests were
received and seated.

Among those assembled when the Romillys arrived,
were Dr. Perkins and lady. The Doctor immediately
joined them, and after introducing his wife, a sweet
looking young woman, to Frankford and Sidney, he
proceeded to point out to the notice of the latter each
particular person in the room, describing their characters
and humors in his own lively manner. Sidney remembered
the names of many of the families, for nearly the
whole neighborhood was invited and assembled: of the
individuals he had but a faint recollection.

After some lively rattle on Sidney's inquiries respecting
one particular young lady, Perkins said, “Romilly,
if you have really returned here with the patriarchal

intention of taking a wife from among the daughters of
your own land—by the way, could you ever seriously
think of a patriarch being in love?—why, I can promise
you the sight of a girl worthy to captivate an emperor.”

“Where is she?” inquired Sidney, looking round.

“She has not yet entered the room,” replied the doctor;
“she is the bridesmaid, and will, on that account,
be easy for you to distinguish, though her own loveliness
will distinguish her far better.”

“Am I acquainted with her name or family?” asked
Sidney, continuing the conversation more on account of
the interest it appeared to excite in his companion, than
from any he felt himself.

“No, I rather think not,” replied the doctor; “her
mother was sister to the old deacon there, and married a
merchant of Boston. They lived in high style for a few
years, when Mr. Redington—that was her husband's
name—dying suddenly, his affairs were found insolvent.
It was rumored at the time, that the widow and infant
daughter were defrauded by the villany of his partner;
but nothing could be proved, and Mrs. Redington, after
every thing was settled, found herself entirely destitute.
It has been said that her brother, the deacon, wrote to
her, offering her an asylum in his house; but his letter
contained so many reproaches for her former extravagance,
as he termed it, that she declined accepting his
benevolence, and resolved to obtain her own support by
her needle.

“She is represented as being a very extraordinary
woman, uniting the fortitude and energy of our sex with
the sensibility and meekness of hers; and she succeeded
in supporting herself and child in competency. Her
patient endurance of misfortune, and perseverance in
performance of her duties, gained her many valuable
friends; and when she died, which was when her daughter
was about twelve years old, a lady of the first respectability,
who was childless, took Annie Redington, and
adopted her for her own child. Here she was educated

in every accomplishment; but death, as she once observed
to me, seemed determined to deprive her of protectors,
and at the age of eighteen, she followed Mrs.
Eaton, her second mother, to the grave.

“Mr. Eaton was a very fashionable man, and although
he had always called Annie his daughter, yet very soon
after the decease of his wife, he was glad to recollect she
was not within the degrees of affinity which by Scripture
and law are forbidden to marry together. In short,
he was over ears in love with the fair orphan, and had
Annie possessed the vanity or ambition of many of her
sex, she would certainly have accepted his splendid alliance;
but, no—she was astonished, frightened, and
grieved, and having no relation except the deacon, was
forced, in the terrible dilemma, to apply to him for advice
and assistance. The old man bestirred himself most
manfully in the affair; he hurried to Boston, and notwithstanding
the entreaties, reproaches, and threats of
the widower lover, succeeded in freeing the lady from
duress. Eaton, when he found Annie determined to
depart, offered her money to any amount she wished;
but she refused accepting it, and the deacon practiced
what I call a most heroic act of self-denial, for he actually
told Eaton his gold might perish with him; adding,
with a sneer, that he felt quite able to maintain his
own niece without assistance.

“This happened about two years ago, and since then
Annie has resided constantly in Northwood. Indeed,
she is absolutely confined, having no relatives in any
other place, and no acquaintance excepting in Boston,
which she dares not visit for fear of encountering Mr.
Eaton. He remains unmarried, and perseveres in declaring
his determination yet to obtain her hand.”

“Indeed!” said Sidney, “and do you think it probable
he will succeed?” suppressing, though with difficulty,
a yawn. Should the reader feel the same inclination,
it must excite no wonder—the power of sympathy
is proverbial.

“Why, no,” answered Perkins; “I think his case is

hopeless. But there comes George Cranfield; he is
master of the ceremonies this evening, and we shall now
be marshalled round the room with all the formality of
a battalion at a muster. The etiquette of the ceremony
will assign us different stations; but don't forget to look
at the bridesmaid.”

“I should imagine the bride would be the more interesting
object,” said Sidney.

“No, by no means,” eagerly replied the other. “She
is pretty enough, but no more to be compared with
Annie Redington than I—to you, sir. Hercules
would be a borrowed simile, and I like to manufacture
my own comparisons.”

George Cranfield now approached, and affectionately
taking Sidney's hand, told him his seat was next to Mr.
Frankford.

After the bustle of a few minutes, the company was
arranged, all conversation hushed or carried on in low
whispers, and a stranger, who had not been apprised of
the cause which had assembled such a goodly number
together, might have thought the conference room was
occupied for its original destination.

Both Frankford and Sidney improved this interval in
a critical survey of the apartment and the company.
The room has been already described; and the company
were, even in the Englishman's opinion, a very
decent, clever, civil-looking set, and considering there
were none who had any pretensions to noble extraction,
or had received the polish which travel and good society
bestows, they seemed to understand how to behave
themselves with propriety.

At the head of the apartment was seated the Deacon
and his wife; he in his elbow chair, with his head reclining
backwards, eyes raised and half closed, as if in
the act of imploring a blessing on the approaching solemnity.
His thin and sharp visage, wrinkled and receding
forehead, whose baldness was shaded only by a few
snow-white hairs, made his appearance quite saintly; and
it was not till you caught the shrewd glance of his little

grey eye, cautiously peeping from its thick and overhanging
eyebrow, that you would imagine him engaged in
any earthly speculations, or interested by any sublunary
spectacle.

His wife was really his “better half,” being fat enough
for a Chinese beauty, and possessing that contented, kind,
benevolent countenance, which constitutes the beauty of
age in all countries.

Next were seated Squire Romilly and lady; then Mr.
Frankford, and either to honor him as being a stranger
from a far country, or else in consideration of his recent
illness, he was placed in a large easy chair, furnished
with a high cushion, the covering of patch-work, and
formed of as many stars as are displayed in the flag of
our country.

Sidney came next; then the sisters of the bride, each
with her spouse, then the remainder of Squire Romilly's
family, while friends and neighbors filled the remaining
seats.

These were all arrayed in their best; the young ladies
in white, the married in silks or crapes, and the men
mostly in suits of dark-colored cloth, which, although
homespun, would not, in some instances, have suffered
much by a comparison with foreign manufacture.

Nearly in the middle of the apartment was seated the
Rev. Mr. Cranfield, a clear space before him being left
for the bridal party. A wood fire blazed brightly in the
ample chimney, and a number of candles and lamps disposed
around the apartment, made the whole appear to
the best advantage.

It was evident from the glances of the assembly, that
they were quite as much interested with the appearance
of the strangers as the latter could be with them; and
they continued to reconnoitre each other till the sound
of approaching steps directed all eyes towards the door
to see the entrée of the bride. The door being thrown
wide open by young Cranfield, Silas Romilly entered,
leading by the hand a very amiable-looking girl, whose
downcast eye and blushing cheek told at once her history.

Sidney looked not at her; a young lady walked beside
her, apparently anxious, by assiduity, to save her
from all embarrassment. It was Annie Redington; and
Sidney, while he steadfastly regarded her, internally exclaimed,
“Perkins, you did not exaggerate!”

But now is no time to describe her, for the ceremonies
are commencing; and who would delay a wedding to
read the description of the most beautiful woman on
earth?

The marriage ceremony is the most interesting spectacle
social life exhibits. We see two rational beings, in
the glow of youth and hope, which invests life with the
halo of happiness, appear together, and, openly acknowledging
their preference for each other, voluntarily enter
into a league of perpetual friendship, and call heaven
and earth to witness the sincerity of their solemn vows—
we think of the endearing connexion, the important consequences,
the final separation—the smile that kindles to
ecstasy at their union must at length be quenched in the
tears of the mourning survivor!—but while life continues,
they are to participate the same joys, to endure
the like sorrows, to rejoice and weep in unison. Be constant,
man; be confiding, woman, and what can earth
offer so pure as your friendship, so dear as your affection!

The couple who now approached the altar of Hymen,
came in the simplicity of virtuous love, and the vows
they breathed were dictated by the truth as well as fervency
of their feelings. There was a slight embarrassment
visible in the countenance and manner of the bridegroom,
but it probably proceeded from his concern for
the timidity of his trembling bride. Silas Romilly had
never been called handsome, yet now when his coal-black
eyes were lighted up with animation, giving a deeper
glow to his healthy, though rather dark complexion, his
thick black hair combed back from a finely formed forehead,
his tall and manly figure, and the serious yet happy
air of his deportment, formed a portrait which no observer
could survey with indifference.

Priscilla Jones, to whom he was about to plight his
faith, was, in appearance, entirely his reverse. She was
a small, slender, delicate girl, and the wreath of white
roses entwined amidst her fair hair, was hardly paler than
her cheek. Her dress was a frock of plain white muslin,
trimmed around the bosom and sleeves with lace; the
only ornament she wore, was a gold chain around her
neck, to which was attached a small miniature picture of
a brother who had been drowned.

After a short pause, Mr. Cranfield inquired if they were
ready to proceed; and on George's replying they were,
he arose, and all obeyed his motion. He made a short,
but solemn prayer, fervently imploring a blessing on the
lovers; then addressing himself first to the bridegroom
and then to the bride, he recapitulated, in a pertinent
and impressive manner, the duties which the marriage
covenant imposed, and asked if they promised to perform
them. A bow and courtesy answered in the affirmative,
—no vocal response is necessary,—and he pronounced
them “lawfully married,” &c.; and the ceremonies, the
whole occupying fifteen or twenty minutes, were concluded.

After they were all again seated, a deep silence ensued,
which was first broken by Mr. Cranfield. He made some
observations, and addressed a few words of advice to the
young married pair;—but soon whispers began to be
heard in the distant parts of the room—and finally, on
the appearance of the assistants, who were the neighbors,
—one bearing a large waiter filled with tumblers and
glasses containing wine (the real juice of the grape), and
another with a still larger waiter filled with cake,—the
god of silence (if such a deity ever presides at an assembly)
resigned his charge, and a burst of loquacious gaiety
effectually prevented his return.

There were several kinds of cake, all very nice; and it
would have puzzled any one, except a professor in goût,
to have decided which was best. But what was significantly
termed the wedding cake was conspicuous by being

iced, covered with sugar plums of all colors and forms,
and tastefully decorated with myrtle and evergreen.

Of this cake all the young ladies, and, by their persuasions,
nearly all the young men, preserved a small slice
for the purpose of placing it beneath their pillows when
retiring to rest—it being the popular opinion, that, in
consequence of its peculiar virtues, they should be favored
with dreams revealing their future destiny.

Who would wish to be always wise or grave? Not
the young while celebrating a wedding. The evening
passed delightfully to most of the party, and many an
ardent wish was breathed for the felicity of the wedded
pair.

In the changes of place which now occurred, Dr. Perkins
soon elbowed his way to a seat near Sidney.

“You are obeying my instructions,” were his first
words to Sidney, the direction of whose eye made them
perfectly understood.

“Why, yes. You did not imagine I would be indifferent
to your panegyrics, did you?” replied Sidney.

“No, no, I had no fear of that; and now tell me honestly,
have you, at the South, any beauties who surpass
her?”

“Who?—the young lady now presenting the cake to
the bride? I think not,—one, perhaps,—yet it is seldom
we find a more faultless face.”

“And her mind, her disposition, Sidney, is as fair and
faultless. And after all our admiration of a perfect outside,
it is the perfection within which must perpetuate
our esteem.”

“You are enthusiastic in her praise, and a married
man too!” answered Sidney, laughing.

“And does being married,” said Perkins, “destroy all
perceptions of beauty or virtue, except in the individual
to whom my vows are pledged? You need not be jealous,
however, or imagine I feel any emotions in gazing
on the face of that fair girl which would not be awakened
by the sight of any similar piece of perfection. Yet
where is such n one to be found? There is nothing in

creation on which the eye of man can rest so lovely as
woman in her Eden charms of youth and innocence; and
I never look on such a one without thinking of the pure
pleasures there must be in heaven, where none but agreeable
objects meet the sight, and where we can feel assured
they will forever retain their loveliness. The recollecting
how soon our terrestrial beauties fade, is a melancholy
drawback to me—I regard them as fair flowers, which
the first cold blast will wither.”

“Yet, notwithstanding you are assured that beauty is
so evanescent, you appear to prize it very highly,” said
Sidney.

“And so does every man and every woman; and for
this reason, that we associate, in our imaginations, excellence
of mind and character with excellence of person.
After a few disappointments, we acknowledge the injustice
of the criterion; yet still we look and admire, and it
is not till tardy reason has confirmed experience that we
are fully convinced the worth of the jewel must not be
estimated by the casket that contains it.” Perkins paused,
and then added, laughing, “I have given you a longer
sermon on beauty than I intended; but George will, I
believe, give a longer one to Annie. See how attentive
he is. George is her undisguised admirer.”

“Is he a favored one?” asked Sidney.

“Why, no; I think not. She esteems him undoubtedly,
but I guess there is not much love in the matter;
however, it is the general opinion here that she will
marry him.”

“Marry him!” repeated Sidney, looking rather blank.

“Yes, marry him,” re-echoed Perkins, laughing at the
earnestness of Sidney's manner; “and should you have
any objection to urge against the fitness of the union?
George is an excellent young man, and liberally educated—a
large item, you know, in his favor, especially
with the ladies. Then his father has a pretty good property,
to which George is sole heir, and you can see he
looks very well.”

“There is nothing under heaven to prevent his success,”

said Sidney, peevishly, “as I suppose he has ample
opportunity to cultivate her good graces.”

“O yes, I believe, between ourselves, that the old
deacon would give his consent with all his heart. Yet I
will give him his due; he has been very kind and indulgent
to Annie since her residence with him.”

“And who could be otherwise?”

“Why, no one who saw with your eyes,” replied Perkins,
regarding Sidney archly; “but the deacon's eyes
require more substantial charms. A good farm, a fine
horse, or even a fat cow, have beauties more congenial to
his taste than had Helen herself.”

“Can you not introduce me to your belle?”

“With pleasure; and now your brother has married
her cousin you may claim some intimacy as a relation.
O, how I wish you would woo and marry her, and settle
here among us!”

A sigh was the answer to this remark.

“I shall love no more,” thought Sidney, as he followd
the doctor.

“Miss Redington, Mr. Sidney Romilly, the brother of
your friend Silas,” said Dr. Perkins.

The usual compliments ensued, and the doctor contrived,
by displacing a couple of stout yeomen, and interrupting
one or two confidential communications, to
seat Sidney and himself immediately within the bridal
circle.

The conversation soon became very lively; and Sidney
supported his part with that ease and elegance which
an acquaintance with the world and with the manners
of good society alone imparts. Miss Redington had not,
since her residence in the country, met with a gentleman
of such varied information and winning deportment.
Time fled noiselessly on, unheeded by any in that circle,
and none of them seemed to remember they were ever
to separate. But a bustle began to arise at length among
the elderly part of the company, and Sidney heard the
unwelcome intelligence that it was time to retire.

Now was the time for the display of true Yankee politeness

and hospitality. The people, especially in the
interior towns, were not, twenty-five years ago, accustomed
to the courtly manner of sending cards to invite
their guests. Verbal invitations were then the compliments
mostly used. And on the present occasion, there
were very urgent invitations tendered from all to all; but
Sidney in particular, was overwhelmed with their civilities.

Nor did the Englishman depart unnoticed. He was
invited over and over to “come with young Romilly”—
to “come at any time”—to “come and see how poor
folks live”—and assured he should “find a welcome if
he found nothing else.”

And even after they had left the house and, as Sidney
thought, were fairly clear from the good company, one
farmer-looking fellow came up, and, taking Sidney by
the hand, said,—

“I 'spose you've most forgotten me, but that makes
no odds: I remember you well enough, and want you
should come and see me and be acquainted. I have
made some improvements on my farm I should like to
show you. And pray bring this gentleman too,” turning
to Frankford. “I have read of the fine breed of
cattle they raise in old England, sir, but if you will take
pains to come and see me at my poor house, I guess I
can show you some that will match 'em.”

“He has a good house, I am certain,” said Sidney, as
he walked with Frankford to the chaise. “You may
easily tell a rich Yankee farmer—he is always pleading
poverty.”

“For what reason?” inquired Frankford: “I should
think he would rather boast.”

“It is boasting in disguise. He knows that his wealth
is of a kind which will display itself; and the more he
disclaims the more minute he hopes will be your survey,
wonder, and admiration.”

When they had reached home, and all drawn their
chairs around a good fire, kindled by Harvey, who had
been sent forward for that purpose, Sidney asked Frankford

how he liked the wedding and the appearance of
the people.

“Shall I answer you on my honor, and in sincerity?”
said the Englishman.

“Yes—sincerely,” replied Sidney.

“Well, your wedding ceremony was very interesting,
and your people appeared better than I expected, and—
I will speak truth—better than I wished: all except
your deacon—he is a most confounded bore,—although
now connected with your family.”

“Make no difference on that account,” replied Sidney;
“say of him what you please, we will resign him entirely
to your mercy.”

“I should show him but little if his destiny depended
on me,” said the Englishman, “for I received none at his
hands. Did you see our encounter?”

“No; nothing particular. I thought, however, you
and the deacon were engaged in some interesting discussion.”

“As agreeable as you were enjoying by the side of
that beautiful girl! Strange, with what delusive coloring
imagination invests objects! When we are happy ourselves,
we think no one need complain. I wish you had
been compelled to exchange seats with me for one half
hour, at least.”

“Why, you had the best seat in the apartment,” remarked
Squire Romilly, “and was treated with marked
attention, I thought.”

“That I willingly acknowledge,” said Frankford. “My
chair was a good one, and the cake and wine, both excellent,
were almost forced upon me by that motherly-looking
deaconess, in quantities sufficient to have satisfied
the appetite of a Milo.”

“Of what, then, do you complain?” inquired Sidney.

“Of your cursed long-winded deacon,” replied Frankford.
“He was resolutely bent on coercing my admiration,
and I have had to listen to every minutiæ of his
history, from the hour of his birth, up to this twenty-fifth
of November, 18—.”

“And have been much edified, I presume,” said Sidney,
laughing heartily, “or you would have contrived
to have escaped him.”

“Escape him, Romilly!” ejaculated the Englishman,
“the thing was impossible; I might as well have escaped
from Newgate. He drew his chair opposite mine, and
so close that our noses were more than once absolutely
in contact. And then he poured forth his tribulations,
and he has undergone more perils than ever did St.
Paul. I have been through the wars to some purpose.
First the old French war, as he called it, where, at the
age of thirteen, he made his debut in arms; and then the
war of the Revolution, where, if we credit him, the
British were sorely beaten, and chiefly by his invincible
valor. Then he commenced his civil life,—moved into
the wilderness—felled forest trees—and fought wolves;
till, finally, he had succeeded in bringing his farm into
the best state of cultivation of any one in the town of
Northwood; as was evident from his having obtained
the premium for the best calf at the last cattle show.”

“And so ended his history?”

“No, indeed, I found it only the exordium. Then
came an eulogium on his wife's talents for managing a
dairy; next the marriages of his daughters, and the
death of his son. And I congratulated myself on having
arrived near the conclusion, for death, as I thought, was
the end of all; but my joy was soon turned to sorrow,
for from the decease of that child he dated his experience;
and very minutely he related the travail of his
soul, I assure you; from thence the transition was easy
to the state of the church, and the zeal with which he
had labored in its formation; and finally, and lastly, I
found he had been deacon thereof for the space of nine
years.”

The mirth of Sidney, and indeed of the Squire and
family, at this recital, was too violent to be restrained,
and the room echoed with their peals of laughter.

Frankford's countenance, at first, betrayed some chagrin;

but the sympathy of good humor at length conquered,
and he joined heartily in the mirth.

“You will probably, Mr. Frandford, report this conversation,
as a perfect specimen of Yankee manners and
character,” said Squire Romilly.

“And if I should, sir,” replied the Englishman,
“could you tax me with being guilty of much error or
exaggeration? I shall make exceptions,” continued he,
looking round on the family, till his eye rested on Sophia;
“but exceptions, you know, do not invalidate a
general rule.”

“Yet in fixing the standard of national character and
manners,” said the Squire, “we consider the influence
which wisdom and talent exert in the state, and not
the wisdom and talents of every individual who composes
it. Your nation is renowned for literature and
arts; yet the number of educated persons bears no proportion
to the ignorant. And your national character
is decided by the influence men of honor and abilities
exercise over public sentiment. We ask a like indulgence.
It is true we have citizens who are and deserve
to be ridiculed by Europeans; but they are not those
who possess most of the esteem and confidence of their
own countrymen. Shall I conclude, because I find you,
sir, an accomplished gentleman, that of such is the majority
of your inhabitants? And should I make the
tour of England, would such expectations be realized?
You smile, and I presume would not wish me to measure
the intelligence, manners and morals of the farmers
of Yorkshire, the manufacturers of Birmingham, and
miners of Cornwall by such a standard. Neither must
you decide, because you find among us those who are
egotists in conversation and bigots in religion, that egotism
and bigotry are therefore characteristics of Americans.”