Diary in America, Series Two

There is a malevolent feeling in the assertion, that I have treated all other previous writers on America with contempt; and here again he intentionally quotes falsely. My words are “the majority of those who have preceded me.” As nearly as I can reckon, there have been about fifty works published on America, out of which there are not ten which deserve attention; and the ample quotations I have made from Monsieur de Tocqueville, Captain Hamilton, and others, in corroboration of my own opinions, fully evince the respect I have for their writings. In fact, the whole article is a tissue of falsehood and misrepresentation, and so weak that hardly one of its positions is tenable. Can any thing be more absurd, or more shallow, than to quote the Mississippi scheme and Mr Law as a proof that the French are, as well as the English and Americans, a speculative nation: one solitary instance of a portion of the French having, about sixty or seventy years ago, been induced to embark their capital, is brought forward, while the abject supineness of the French population of Lower Canada, in juxta-position with the energy and enterprise of the Americans, has for half a century stared us in the face.

The Reviewer has the kindness repeatedly to inform me that I have been hoaxed by the Americans, and, most unfortunately for himself, he has brought forward the “Original Draft of the Declaration of Independence” as a proof of it. That he would be very glad to prove it to be a hoax, I believe; as it is a sad discovery, and one which the American democrats should have kept secret. That the Americans did hoax Miss Martineau, and that they would have hoaxed me if they could, I admit, but even the Reviewer must acknowledge that they would not hoax themselves. Now it so happens, that this document, which has not long been discovered, is in the splendid public library of Philadelphia: it has been carefully preserved in a double plate-glass frame, so as to be read on both sides without handling; it is expensively mounted, and shewn to every visitor as a great curiosity, as it certainly is, the authenticity of it being undeniable, and acknowledged by the Americans. The paragraph which was expunged is verbatim as I gave it—a paragraph which affords more proof, if further proof were necessary, that Jefferson was one of the most unprincipled men who ever existed. The Reviewer recommends my perusal of the works of this “great and good man,” as Miss Martineau calls him. I suspect that I have read more of Mr Jefferson and other American authors than ever the Reviewer has; and I consider the writings of this Father of Democracy, opposed to his private life, to be a remarkable type of democracy in theory and in practice. To borrow a term from the Reviewer, those writings are “brave words” to proceed from an infidel, who proved his ardent love of liberty by allowing his own children to be put up to auction at his death, and wear away their existence in misery and bondage. I cannot help here observing a trifling inconsistency on the part of the Reviewer. After lauding the Father of Democracy, and recommending me to read his works; after sneering at our aristocracy by observing, “that no kind of virtue that we have heard of can suffer much from the loss of a court and of an hereditary nobility;” after, in short, defending and upholding democracy in every page, all of a sudden the Reviewer turns round and says, “We are no general admirers of democracy.” Indeed! if not general, you certainly appear to be particular admirers; and if neither general nor particular, may I inquire what the Edinburgh Review has been frothing, fizzing, hissing, and bubbling about, like a tea-kettle in a passion, for these last twenty years?

Never was there a more convincing proof of the boldness and arrogance which Reviewers (trusting to the irresponsibility arising from their concealment) assume, than is afforded by the following passage in the Edinburgh article:—

“An ardent pursuit of wealth and deep religious feelings go very well together.”

It is not for me to reply to the Reviewer in this instance; I must hand him over to higher authority. I must oppose the everlasting doctrines of inspiration to the cold, heartless, and arrogant philosophy of an Edinburgh reviewer. In vain are we again and again forewarned in the Scriptures against the love of money; in vain has our Saviour denounced it; in vain have the apostles followed in his steps. Let the Reviewer, if he ever has looked into the Bible, refer to the epistles to the Colossians and to the Ephesians. St. Paul declares that covetousness is idolatry. Hear also what he sayeth to Timothy:—

“But they that wish to be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition.” “For the love of money is the root of all evil.”

Our Divine Master is even more explicit, for he says—“No servant can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and Mammon.” Thus says our Lord—now hear the Edinburgh Reviewer.—“An ardent pursuit of wealth and deep religious feelings go very well together.”

Here the Edinburgh Reviewer has placed himself on the horns of a dilemma. The Holy Writings assert most positively and repeatedly one thing, while he asserts another. If, therefore, he acknowledge the Scriptures, he must at the same time acknowledge his own grievous error, and, I may add, his deep sin: if, on the contrary, he still hold to his own opinion, hath he not denied his faith, and is he not worse than an infidel?

The reviewer sneers at my observation, that “Washington had no power to control the nature of man.” It may be, as he observes, a very simple remark; but, at all events, it has one advantage over his own, which is, that it is a very true one. Miss Martineau makes an observation in her book, which is quite as great a truism as mine; for she also says that “Human nature is the same everywhere.”

How far I have succeeded in my analysis of human nature it is not for me to decide; but that it is the same every where I will now venture to support by something more than assertion on the part of Miss Martineau.

When I was at Boston, in company with some of the young ladies, the conversation turned upon Miss Martineau, with whom they stated that they had been intimate. Naturally anxious to know more of so celebrated a personage, I asked many questions. I was told much to interest me, and, among other little anecdotes, they said that Miss Martineau used to sit down surrounded by the young ladies, and amuse them with all the histories of her former loves. She would detail to them “how Jack sighed and squeezed her hand; how Tom went down on his knees; how Dick swore and Sam vowed; and how—she was still Miss Martineau.” And thus would she narrate and they listen until the sun went down, and the firefly danced, while the frogs lifted up their voices in full concert.

And I said to myself, “Who would have supposed that this Solon in petticoats would ever have dwelt upon her former days of enthusiasm and hope, or have cherished the reminiscences of love? How true it is that human nature is the same everywhere.”

Once more:—

I was conversing with a lady at New York, who informed me that she had seen a letter from Miss M, written to a friend of hers, after her return to England, in which Miss M declared that her door was so besieged with the carriages of the nobility, that it was quite uncomfortable, and that she hardly knew what to do.

Thinks I to myself, I recollect an old story.

“Oh! Grandmother,” cried Tom, running in, out of breath, “there’s at least a thousand cats in our garden.”—“No, no, Tom,” quickly replied, the old lady; “not a thousand, Tom.”—“Well I’m sure there’s five hundred.”—“No, nor five hundred,” replied the old lady, not taking her eyes off her knitting.—“Well, then, grandmother, I’m sure there’s fifty.”—“I don’t think there are fifty, Tom.”—“Well, at all events, there’s our cat and another.”—“Ah! Tom,” replied the old lady, “that may be.”

I believe that the carriage of Lord Brougham is occasionally to be seen at the door of Miss Martineau.

But when I heard this I was pleased, for I said to myself, “So, then, this champion of democracy, this scorner of rank and title, is flattered by the carriages of the nobility crowding at her door;” and, again I said to myself, “human nature is the same everywhere.”

But the Reviewer, in his virulence, has not been satisfied with attacking me; he has thought it necessary to libel the whole profession to which I have the honour to belong. He has had the folly and impertinence to make the following remark: “No landsmen can have been on board of a ship a week, without coming to the conclusion that a sensible house dog is more like the people he has left at home than most of his new companions, and that it (the house dog) would be nearly as capable of solving problems on national character.”

Indeed!!

Is it possible that the Reviewer should still remain the dupe of such a vulgar error? That at one time it was the custom to send to sea the fool of the family, is certain, and had the Reviewer flourished in those days, he would probably have been the one devoted to the service—but tempora mutantur. Is the Reviewer aware that one-half, and certainly the most successful half, of English diplomacy, is now carried on by the admirals and captains, not only in the Mediterranean, but all over the world. Is he aware that when the Foreign Office wishes to do its work cheaply and well, it demands a vessel from the Admiralty, which is made over to that office, and is set down as employed on “particular service:” that during that service the captain acts from instructions given by the Foreign Office alone, and has his cabin piled with voluminous documents; and that, like the unpaid magistracy of England, we sailors do all the best of the work, and have nothing but our trouble for our pains. Nay, even the humble individual who pens this remonstrance was for months on this very service, and, when it was completed, the Foreign Office expressed to the Admiralty its satisfaction at his conduct during his short diplomatic career.

House dogs! Hear this, ye public of England! A sensible house dog is to be preferred to St. Vincent, Nelson, Collingwood, Exmouth, and all those great men who have aided their country as much with their pen as with their sword; as much by their acuteness and firmness in diplomacy, as by their courage and conduct in action.

Now, Mr Reviewer, don’t you feel a little ashamed of yourself? Would you really like to give up your name as the author of this bare-faced libel? Would you like openly to assert that such is your opinion, and that you will stand by it?

No liberal, high-minded man, whatever his politics may have been, has ever refused to do justice to a service which has been the bulwark of England. Lord Brougham has lately published a work containing the lives of celebrated persons in the reign of George the Third. I will just quote a few passages from his life of Lord St. Vincent.

“The present sketches would be imperfect if Lord St. Vincent were passed over in silence, for he was almost as distinguished among the statesmen, as the warriors of the age.

“A statesman of profound views and of penetration, hardly equalled by any other man of his time.

“But the consummate vigour and wisdom of his proceedings during the dreadful period of the mutiny, are no less a theme of wonder and of praise.

“When the Addington ministry was formed, he was placed at the head of the Admiralty; and now shone forth in all its lustre that great capacity for affairs with which he was endowed by nature, and which ample experience of men, habits of command, and an extended life of deep reflection, had matured.

“The capacity of a statesman and the valour of the hero, outshone by the magnanimous heart which beats only to the measures of generosity and justice.”

Here, again, the Reviewer is in what the Yankees would call an “everlasting awkward fix;” for he contradicts Lord Brougham, the patron and sole supporter of his fast-waning review, without the aid of whose admirable pen, it would long ago have gone to its proper place. He must now either admit that he is himself wrong, or that it is Lord Brougham who is in error. He has but to choose.

I have but one more remark to make upon the review itself. At the close of it, the Reviewer observes, that my remarks upon the marine are interesting and useful. How does he know? Upon his own argument, if we house dogs are not competent upon shore matters, he must be equally ignorant of anything connected with our profession; and I therefore consider it a piece of unpardonable presumption on the part of a land lubber like him to offer any opinion on the subject.

The Reviewer, whoever it may be, has proved himself wholly incompetent to his task; he has attacked, but has yet to learn the art of parrying, as has been proved by his laying himself so open. His blows have been stopped, and, without giving, he has received severe punishment. I am the more surprised at this, as I really considered that there was a certain tact in the Edinburgh Review, which enabled it to know where to direct the blow, so as to make it tell; a species of professional knowledge proper to executioners, reviewers, and cab-drivers, and which may be summed up in the following axiom: “The great art of flogging is, to know where to find a bit of raw.”

So little have I felt the castigation intended, that I have had some compunction in administering this discipline to the Reviewer in return. Surely the Edinburgh Review can put a better head on, when it takes notice of this second portion of my work? I will give it an anecdote.

A lady of my acquaintance was blessed with a son, then about three years old. She was very indulgent, and he was very much spoiled. At last he became so unmanageable that she felt it was her imperative duty to correct him. She would as soon have cut off her right arm, but that would not have mended the matter, nor the child. So one day, when the young gentleman had been more than usually uproarious, she pulled up his petticoats and administered what she considered a most severe infliction. Having so done, with a palpitating heart she sat down to recover herself, miserable that she had been compelled to punish, but attempting to console herself with the reflection that she had done her duty. What then was her surprise to have her reveries interrupted by the young urchin, who, appearing only to have been tickled, came up to her, and laying down his head on her lap, pulled up his coats, and cried, “More whipping, Ma; please, more whipping.” So weak has been the wrist, whether it be feminine or not, that has applied the punishment, that I also feel inclined to exclaim with the child, “More whipping, (Miss Martineau?) please, more whipping.”

The Reviewer has pronounced that “no author is cleverer than his works.” If no author be cleverer than his works, it is equally certain that no reviewer is cleverer than his review. Does the Reviewer recollect the fable of the jackass who put on the lion’s skin? Why did he not take warning from the fabled folly of his ancestor and hold his tongue? He might still have walked about and have been supposed to be a Reviewer.

He asserts that I am not capable of serious reflection: he is mistaken. I have seldom cut the leaves of the Edinburgh, having been satisfied with looking at its outside, and thinking how very appropriate its colours of blue and yellow were to the opinions which it advocates. But at times I have been more serious. I have communed with myself as it lay before me, and I have mentally exclaimed:– Here is a work written by men whom the Almighty has endowed with talents, and who will, if there be truth in Scripture, have to answer for the talents committed to their keeping,—yet these men, like madmen, throw about fire, and cry it is only in sport; they uphold doctrines as pernicious as, unfortunately, they are popular; disseminate error under the most specious guise; wage war against the happiness of their fellow-creatures, unhinging society, breeding discontent, waving the banner of infidelity and rebellion, and inviting to anarchy and bloodshed. To such prostitution of talent to this work of the devil, they are stimulated by their pride and their desire of gain! And I have surmised that hereafter they will have their reward; but, remembering that we are forbid to judge, I have checked my thoughts as they have turned upon what might hereafter be the portion below of—an Edinburgh Reviewer.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve

Discourse on the Evidences of the American Indians being the Descendants of the Lost Tribes of Israel

Those who study the Scriptures, either as a matter of duty or pleasure—who seek in them divine revelations, or search for the records of history, cannot be ignorant of the fact that the Jewish nation, at an early period, was divided into twelve tribes, and occupied their ancient heritage under geographical divisions, during the most splendid periods under the kingdoms of Judah and of Israel.

Their early history—the rise, progress, and downfall of the nation—the proud distinction of being the chosen people—their laws, government, and wars—their sovereigns, judges, and temples—their sufferings, dispersions, and the various prophecies concerning this ancient and extraordinary people, cannot be unknown to you all. For their history is the foundation of religion, their vicissitudes the result of prophecy, their restoration the fulfilment of that great promise made to the Patriarch Abraham, almost I may say in the infancy of nature.

It is also known to you that the Jewish nation was finally overpowered, and nine and a half of the tribes were carried captives to Samaria; two and a half, to wit: Judah, Benjamin, and half Menassah, remained in Judea or in the transjordani cities.

The question before us for consideration is, what has become of the missing or dispersed tribes—to what quarter of the world did they direct their footsteps, and what are the evidences of their existence at this day?

An earthquake may shake and overturn the foundations of a city—the avalanche may overwhelm the hamlet—and the crater of a volcano may pour its lava over fertile plains and populous villages—but a whole nation cannot vanish from the sight of the world, without leaving some traces of its existence, some marks of habits and customs.

It is a singular fact that history is exceedingly confused, or rather, I may say, dark, respecting the ultimate dispersion of the tribes among the cities of the Medes. The last notice we have of them is from the second Book of Esdras, which runs thus:

“Whereas thou sawest another peaceable multitude: these are the ten tribes which were carried away prisoners out of their own land in the time of Osea, whom Salmanazar, king of Assyria, led away captive, and he carried them over the waters, so they came unto another land.

“They took this counsel among themselves that they would leave the multitude of the heathen, and go into a further country wherein never mankind dwelt, that they might there keep their statutes, which they never kept in their own land (Assyria), and there was a great way to go, namely, a year and a half.”

Esdras, however, has been deemed apocryphal. Much has been said concerning the doubtful character of that writer. He wrote in the first century of the Christian church, and Tertullian, St. Ereneus, Clemens Alexandrius, Pico di Mirandola, and many learned and pious men, had great confidence in his writings. Part of them have been adopted by Protestants, and all considered orthodox by Catholics. With all his old Jewish attachments to the prophecies and traditions, Esdras was nevertheless a convert to Christianity. He was not an inspired writer or a prophet, although he assumed to be one, and followed the course as well as the manner of Daniel.

The Book of Esdras, however, is of great antiquity, and as an historical record is doubtless entitled to great respect.

The precise number which left Babylon and other cities, and took to the desert, cannot be accurately known; but they were exceedingly numerous, for the edict of Ahasherus, which decreed their destruction, embraced 127 provinces, and reached from Ethiopia to the Indies. Benjamin of Tudela, who travelled in the eleventh century through Persia, mentions that in some of the provinces, at the time of that decree, the Jews occupied forty cities, two hundred boroughs, one hundred castles, which contained 300,000 people. I incline to the opinion that 300,000 of the tribes left Persia.

There is no doubt that, in the march from the Euphrates to the north-east coast of Asia, many of the tribes hesitated in pursuing the journey: some remained in Tartary, many went into China. Alverez states in his History of China, that the Jews had been living in that kingdom for more than six hundred years. He might with great probability have said 1,600 years. He speaks of their being very numerous in some of the provinces, and having synagogues in many of the great cities, especially in that of Hinan and in its metropolis Kai-tong-fu, where he represents them to have a magnificent place of worship, and a repository, the Holy Volume, adorned with richly embroidered curtains, in which they preserve an ancient Hebrew manuscript roll.

They know but little of the Mosaic law, and only repeat the names of David, Abraham, Isaiah, and Jacob. In a Hebrew letter written by the Jews of Cochin-China to their brethren at Amsterdam, they give as the date of their retiring into India, the period when the Romans conquered the Holy Land.

It is clearly evident, therefore, that the tribes, in their progress to a new and undiscovered country, left many of their numbers in China and Tartary, and finally reached the Straits of Behring, where no difficulty prevented their crossing to the north-west coast of America, a distance less than thirty miles, interspersed with the Copper Islands, probably frozen over; and reaching our continent, spread themselves in the course of two thousand years to Cape Horn, the more hardy keeping to the north, to Labrador, Hudson’s Bay, and Greenland; the more cultivated fixing their residence in the beautiful climate and rich possessions of Central America, Mexico, and Peru.

But it may here be asked, could the scattered remnants of Israel have had the courage to penetrate through unknown regions, and encounter the hardships and privations of that inhospitable country? Could they have had the fortitude, the decision, the power, to venture on a dreary pilgrimage of eighteen months, the time mentioned by Esdras as the period of their journey? Could they not? What obstacles had hitherto impeded their progress, that had broken down their energies, or impaired their constancy and fidelity?

They knew that their brethren had severed the chains of Egyptian bondage; had crossed in safety the arm of the Red Sea; had sojourned for years in the wilderness; had encamped near Mount Sinai, and had possessed themselves of the Holy Land.

They remembered the kingdoms of Judah and Israel in all their glory; they had witnessed the erection and destruction of their Temple; they had fought and conquered with the Medes, the Assyrians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. They had encountered sufferings upon sufferings unmoved; had bowed their necks submissively to the yoke.

Kings, conquerors, nations, Christians, Mahometans, and Heathens, all had united in the design of destroying the nation; but they never despaired—they knew they were the elect and chosen of the Lord. The oath, that He never would abandon his people, had been fulfilled 3,500 years, and, therefore, with the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night, they abandoned the Heathens and the Persian territory, passed the confines of Tartary and China, and, no doubt, through great sufferings, reached the north-eastern coast of Asia, and came in sight of that continent, wherein, as they had reason to believe, “mankind never before had dwelt.”