master, he mounted his box in triumph, and went on his journey.”  I fully believe that this brutal history would be as distasteful to the travelled and polished few who are to be found scattered through the Union, as it is to me:  but if they do not deem the possibility of such a scene to be a national degradation, I differ from them.  The American people (speaking of the great mass) have no more idea of what constitutes the difference between this “Prince of a five acre patch,” and themselves, than a dray-horse has of estimating the points of the elegant victor of the race-course.  Could the dray-horse speak, when expected to yield the daintiest stall to his graceful rival, he would say, “a horse is a horse;” and is it not with the same logic that the transatlantic Houynnhnm puts down all superiority with “a man is a man?”

This story justifies the reply of Talleyrand, when asked by Napoleon what he thought of the Americans, “Sire, ce sont des fiers cochons, et des cochons fiers.”

CHAPTER 29

Literature—­Extracts—­Fine Arts—­Education

The character of the American literature is, generally speaking, pretty justly appreciated in Europe.  The immense exhalation of periodical trash, which penetrates into every cot and corner of the country, and which is greedily sucked in by all ranks, is unquestionably one great cause of its inferiority.  Where newspapers are the principal vehicles of the wit and wisdom of a people, the higher graces of composition can hardly be looked for.

That there are many among them who can write well, is most certain; but it is at least equally so, that they have little encouragement to exercise the power in any manner more dignified than becoming the editor of a newspaper or a magazine.  As far as I could judge, their best writers are far from being the most popular.  The general taste is decidedly bad; this is obvious, not only from the mass of slip-slop poured forth by the daily and weekly press, but from the inflated tone of eulogy in which their insect authors are lauded.

To an American writer, I should think it must be a flattering distinction to escape the admiration of the newspapers.  Few persons of taste, I imagine, would like such notice as the following, which I copied from a New York paper, where it followed the advertisement of a partnership volume of poems by a Mr, and Mrs. Brooks; but of such, are their literary notices chiefly composed.

“The lovers of impassioned and classical numbers may promise themselves much gratification from the muse of Brooks, while the many-stringed harp of his lady, the Norna of the Courier Harp, which none but she can touch, has a chord for every heart.”