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I have hastily narrated the causes and principal events of the war, as they are little known in England. The Americans, even if they expend twice as much money, must persevere, until they have extirpated every Indian, and settled the territory with white people; if they do not, the Florida swamps will become the resort of runaway slaves, and the precedent of what can be done, will encourage a general rising of the slaves in the adjoining States, who will only have to retire to the banks of the Ouithlacoochee and defend themselves. So fatal is the climate to the European, that America even now will probably have to sacrifice life and treasure to a much greater extent before she obtains possession of the territory. I shall conclude by quoting a portion of a letter from the Genevese Traveller which appeared in the Times newspaper.

“The war was unrighteous in its commencement, and has been continued for years under circumstances the most profligate. There has not been a single campaign in which the army has not reaped a plentiful harvest of mortification and disgrace. When brought into action both officers and men fought valiantly, but the character of the country, its deep morasses and swamps, and the ignorance of the troops of Indian warfare, have uniformly tended to produce the most disastrous defeats.

“There is not to be found on the page of history, in any country, an instance of a scattered remnant of a tribe, so few in number, defending themselves against the assaults of a disciplined and numerous army, with the same heroism and triumphant results with those of the Seminoles in resisting the American troops. In every campaign the invaders have been at least ten to one against the invaded. At no period have the Indians been able to muster more than 700 or 800 warriors, and it is doubtful whether they have ever had more than half that number, while the American army, when in the field, has uniformly amounted to from 6,000 to 10,000 men.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven

Reply to the Edinburgh Review

The art of reviewing may be compared to French cookery; it has no medium—it must either be first-rate or it is worth nothing: nay, the comparison goes much further, as the attempt at either not only spoils the meat, but half poisons the guests. The fact is, good reviewing is of the highest order of literature, for a good reviewer ought to be superior to the party whose writings he reviews. Such men as Southey, Croker, and Lockhart on the one side, Brougham, Fontblanque, and Rintoul on the other, will always command respect in their vocations, however much they may be influenced by political feelings, or however little you may coincide with them in opinion. But, passing over these, and three or four more cordons bleus, what are reviewers in general? men of a degree of talent below that of the author whose works they presume to decide upon; the major portion of whom, having failed as authors, are possessed with but one feeling in their disappointment, which is to drag others down to their own debased level. To effect this, you have malevolence substituted for wit, and high-sounding words for sense; every paltry advantage is taken that can be derived from an intentional misrepresentation of your meaning, and (what is the great secret of all) from unfair quotations of one or two lines, carefully omitting the context—an act of unpardonable dishonesty towards the author, and but too often successful in misleading the reader of the Review. By acting upon this last-mentioned system, there is no book, whatever its merits may be, which cannot be misrepresented to the public: a work espousing atheism may be made to appear wholly moral; or, the Holy Scriptures themselves condemned as licentious and indecent. If such reviewing is fair, a jury may, upon a similar principle, decide upon a case by the evidence in favour of the prosecution; and beauty or deformity in architecture be pronounced upon by the examination of a few bricks taken out from different portions of a building.

That, latterly, the public have been more inclined to judge for themselves, than to pin their faith upon reviews, is certain; nevertheless, when what is termed a “slashing article” upon a popular work makes its appearance, the public are too apt to receive it without scrutiny. Satisfied with the general effect, as with that produced in a theatrical representation, they do not bear in mind that that which has the appearance of gold, would prove upon examination to be nothing more than tinsel.

Were all reviewers to be reviewed by authors as well as all authors by reviewers, the authors would have the best of it in the mélée. Again, were reviewers obliged to put their names to their several articles, there would be a great difference in their style; but, secure in their incognito from the disgrace of exposure, they make no scruple to assert what they well know to be false, and, coward-like, to assail those who have seldom an opportunity, whatever may be their power, to defend themselves. Never, perhaps, was there a better proof of the truth of the foregoing observations than is afforded by the article in the Edinburgh Review upon the first portion of my work on America; and as I have some pages to spare, I shall now take the unusual liberty of reviewing the Reviewer.

First, let me introduce to the public the writer of the article—Miss Harriet Martineau. My readers may inquire how I can so positively make this assertion? I reply that it is owing to my “craft.” A person who has long dealt in pictures will, without hesitation, tell you the name of the painter of any given work: a shepherd with a flock of three or four hundred sheep under his charge, will know every one of them individually, although to people in general, one sheep is but the counterpart of the others. Thus, there are little varieties of style, manner, and handling of the pen, which become evident to practised writers, although they are not always so to readers. But even if these peculiarities were not sufficient, the manner in which the article is managed (the remarks of Miss Martineau upon the merits of Miss Martineau) in my mind establishes to conviction, that the major portion of the article, if not the whole, has proceeded from her pen. This is a matter of no consequence, and I only mention it that my readers may understand why Miss Martineau, who forms so prominent a feature in the Edinburgh article, will also occasionally appear in mine. My reply, however, is not addressed to her, but to the Edinburgh Reviewer.

I have no doubt the Reviewer will most positively deny that Miss Martineau had any thing to do with the Review of my work: that of course. With his permission, I will relate a little anecdote. “When the Royal George went down at Spithead, an old gentleman, who had a son on board, was bewailing his loss. His friends came to console him. ‘I thought,’ observed one of them, ‘that you had received a letter?’—‘Yes,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but it was from Jack himself.’—‘Well, what more would you have?’—‘Ah,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘had it been from the captain, or from one of his messmates, or, indeed, from anybody else, it would have consoled me; but Jack,—he is such an incorrigible liar, that his very assertion that he is safe, convinces me that he has gone to the bottom.’”

Now my opinion of the veracity of the Edinburgh Review may be estimated by the above anecdote; the very circumstance of its denial would, with me, be sufficient to establish the fact. But to proceed.

The Review has pronounced the first portion of my work to be light and trifling, and full of errors; it asserts that I have been hoaxed by the Americans; that I am incapable of sound reasoning; cannot estimate human nature; and, finally, requests as a favour that I will write no more. Such are the general heads of the Review.

Now here we have a strange inconsistency, for why should the Edinburgh Review, if the work be really what he asserts it to be, “light and trifling,” etcetera, waste so much powder and shot upon a tomtit? Why has he dedicated twenty-seven pages of ponderous verbosity to so light and trifling a work? How seldom is it that the pages of the Quarterly or Edinburgh condescend to notice even the very best of light literature! Do they not, in their majesty, consider it infra dig. to review such works, and have not two or three pages bestowed upon them been considered as an immense favour on their part, and a high compliment to the authors? Notwithstanding which, we have here twenty-seven pages of virulent attack upon my light and trifling work. Does not the Edinburgh reviewer at once shew that the work is not light and trifling? does he not contradict his own assertions, by the labour and space bestowed upon it? nay, more, is it not strange that he should think it necessary to take the unfair advantage of reviewing a work before it is half finished, and pounce upon the first portion, with the hopes of neutralising the effects which he evidently dreads from the second.

I will answer the question for him. He indulges in his precipitate and unmeasured attacks, because he feels that the work is written in a style that will induce every one to read it; because he feels assured that the occasional, and apparently careless hits at democracy, are only preparatory to others more severe, and that these will come out in the second part, which will be read with as much avidity as the first. He perceives the drift of the work; he feels that it has been purposely made amusing, and that it will be more injurious to the cause which the Edinburgh Review upholds than a more laboured treatise; that those who would not look at a more serious work will read this, and that the opinions it contains will be widely disseminated, and impressed without the readers being aware of it; moreover, that it will descend to a class of readers who have hitherto been uninformed upon the subject: in short, he apprehends the greater danger to his cause from the work having, as I have said, been made amusing, and from its being in appearance, although not in reality, “light and trifling.”

I candidly acknowledge that the Reviewer is right in his supposition: my great object has been to do serious injury to the cause of democracy. To effect this, it was necessary that I should write a book which should be universally read—not merely by the highly educated portion of the community, for they are able to judge for themselves; but read by every tradesman and mechanic; pored over even by milliners’ girls, and boys behind the counter, and thumbed to pieces in every petty circulating library. I wrote the work with this object, and I wrote accordingly. Light and trifling as it may appear to be, every page of it (as I have stated) has been the subject of examination and deliberation: it has given me more trouble than any work I ever wrote; and, my labour having been so far crowned with success, I trust that I shall have “done the State some service.”³⁸ The review in the Edinburgh will neither defeat nor obstruct my purpose, as that publication circulates chiefly among those classes who have already formed their opinions; and I have this advantage over it, that, as for one that reads the Edinburgh Review, fifty will read my work, so will fifty read my reply who will never trouble themselves about the article in the Edinburgh Review.

And now let us enter a little into detail. The Reviewer finds great fault with my introduction, as being wholly irrevelant to the Diary which follows it. I admit, that if it were an introduction to the Diary alone, there then would be some justice in his remark. But such is not the case: an introduction is, I believe, generally understood to refer to the whole of the work, not a portion of it; and now that the work is complete, I leave it to the public to decide whether the introduction is suitable or not, as bearing upon the whole. I believe, also, it is the general custom to place an introduction at the commencement of a work; I never heard of one being introduced into the middle or at the end of it. The fault, therefore, of its imputed irrelevancy is not mine: it is the Reviewer’s, who has thought proper to review the work before it was complete. He quotes me, as saying, “Captain Marryat’s object was to examine and ascertain what were the effects of a democratic form of government upon a people which, with all its foreign admixture, may still be considered as English;” and then, without waiting till I have completed my task, he says, that the present work “has nothing, or next to nothing, to do with such an avowal.” Whether such an assertion has any thing to do with the work now that it is completed, I leave the public to decide. The Reviewer has no excuse for this illiberal conduct, for I have said, in my Introduction, “In the arrangement of this work, I have considered it advisable to present to the reader first, those portions of my Diary which may be interesting, and in which are recorded traits and incidents which will bear strongly upon the commentaries I shall subsequently make;” notwithstanding which the reviewer has the mendacity to assert that, “not until the last paragraph of the last volume, does he learn for the first time that the work is not complete.” I will be content with quoting his own words against him—“An habitual story teller prefers invention to description.”

The next instance of the Reviewer’s dishonesty is, his quoting a portion of a paragraph and rejecting the context. He quotes, “I had not been three weeks in the country before I decided upon accepting no more invitations, charily as they were made,” and upon this quotation he founds an argument that, as I did not enter into society, I could of course have no means of gaining any knowledge of American character or the American institutions. Now, if the reviewer had had the common honesty to finish the paragraph, the reason why I refused the invitations would have been apparent; “because I found that, although invited, my presence was a restraint upon the company, and every one was afraid to speak.” Perhaps the sagacity of the Reviewer will explain what information I was likely to gain from people who would not open their mouths. Had he any knowledge of the Americans, he would admit that they never will venture to give their opinions in the presence of each other; it was not that they were afraid of me, but of each other, as Monsieur de Tocqueville has very truly pointed out in his work. Moreover, I have now, for the first time, to learn that the best way of arriving at the truth is to meet people who are on their guard, and whose object is to deceive.

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.