Those who belong to the cult of John Bull take him as the symbol of that which has been most vital and successful in the island story.  England has had more than its share of men of genius.  It has had its artists, its wits, its men of quick imagination.  But these have not been the builders of the Empire, or those who have sustained it in the hours of greatest need.  Men of a slower temper, more solid than brilliant, have been the nation’s main dependence.  “It’s dogged as does it.”  On many a hard-fought field men of the bull-dog breed have with unflinching tenacity held their own.  In times of revolution they have maintained order, and never yielded to a threat.  Had they been more sensitive they would have failed.  Their foibles have been easily forgiven and their virtues have been gratefully recognized.

When we try to form an idea of that which is most distinctive in the American temperament, we need not inquire what Americans actually are.  The answer to that question would be a generalization as wide as humanity.  They are of all kinds.  Among the ninety-odd millions of human beings inhabiting the territory of the United States are representatives of all the nations of the Old World, and they bring with them their ancestral traits.

But we may ask, When these diverse peoples come together on common ground, what sort of man do they choose as their symbol?  There is a typical character understood and appreciated by all.  In every caricature of Uncle Sam or Brother Jonathan we can detect the lineaments of the American frontiersman.

James Russell Lowell, gentleman and scholar that he was, describes a type of man unknown to the Old World:—­

  “This brown-fisted rough, this shirt-sleeved Cid,
  This backwoods Charlemagne of Empires new. 
  Who meeting Caesar’s self would slap his back,
  Call him ‘Old Horse’ and challenge to a drink.”

Mr. Lowell bore no resemblance to this brown-fisted rough.  He would not have slapped Caesar on the back, and he would have resented being himself greeted in such an unconventional fashion.  Nevertheless he was an American and was able to understand that a man might be capable of such improprieties and at the same time be a pillar of the State.  It tickled his fancy to think of a fellow citizen meeting the imperial Roman on terms of hearty equality.

  “My lungs draw braver air, my breast dilates
  With ampler manhood, and I face both worlds.”

Dickens, with all his boisterous humor and democratic sympathies, could not interpret Jefferson Brick and Lafayette Kettle and the other expansive patriots whom he met on his travels.  Their virtues were as a sealed book to him.  Their boastful familiarity was simply odious.