Text: C. F. Briggs (?), Review of Mind among the Spindles, Broadway Journal (New York), January 4, 1845, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 2-3

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REVIEWS.

 

“An author may be considered as a merciful substitute to the legislature. He acts, not by punishing crimes, but by preventing them. If the author be, therefore, still so necessary an us, let us treat him with proper consideration, as a child of the public; and indeed a child of the public he is in all aspects; for while so well able to direct others, how incapable is he frequently found of guiding himself.”

———

MIND AMONG THE SPINDLES. [Republished from Charles Knight's weekly volumes.] Boston, Jordan, Swift, & Wiley, 1845.

OUR first review shall be of an American author, what one we will determine by lot, to save us from a partial feeling in the outset, when we have concluded our prefatory remarks. There should be no sectional feelings in literature or art. No political barriers or geographical distinctions can prevent our sympathies from embracing the whole world of mind; all the malice of ill-natured spirits that has been exerted the last half century, to make a gap between British and American minds, has been without the slightest effect. The authors of Great Britain are still our bosom friends, and such of our own authors as find their way to London, are kindly entreated, in spite of the Foreign Quarterly and Mrs. Trollope. We said a good many severe things, even malicious, about Dickens, as soon as he left us; but we seized on his Christmas Carol with as hearty a good will as old Scrooge poked his timid clerk in the ribs the morning after Christmas. It is the vainest of all efforts to fight against genius; no national prejudices are strong enough to contend with it; no laws can affect it; no earthly power control it. Mankind will gladly receive its productions, let them come whence they will. What matters it to us that Frederika Bremer is a Swede, inhabiting a country of which we hardly knew anything until we heard of it from her; she is our dear friend, and her name is often heard at our firesides, as though she were our cousin, or next door neighbour; and Mary Howitt's name is affectionately spoken by thousands in our country, who only know her by her pretty little stories; and her country people, too, are as fond of Mary Clavers, and Lydia Maria Child, as though they were the daughters of English soiL Many an Englishman, who thinks he does his country a service in speaking ill of America, entertains a feeling for Washington Irving, as for a kinsman. And we, who think it a proof of patriotism to abuse the land of our fathers, are ever on the alert to catch every ray of light that radiates from the minds of its people. We appear to feel no animosities against the better part of men, which is their mind, hut only against their poor perishable bodies, which, if let alone, would soon enough come to naught of themselves.

It would ill become us, then, in the outset of our career as reviewers, to enter upon our duty with a narrow feeling of [column 2:] partiality for our own authors, to the unjust exclusion of foreigners, from our sympathies. But this liberal feeling will compel us to give our first attention and widest space to the authors of our own country, because they have the greatest odds to contend with, having a forestalled opinion against them in the minds of their own countrymen, and the be§t paid and most fertile authors in the world for competitors, whose works are imported scot free to our markets.

An American author is one of those rare creatures, who think more seriously of the welfare of others, than of their own. He is prima facie a good fellow; and as a matter of course, an utterer of inspired thoughts; for having no inducements to exertion, he speaks because he must. He knows no law but the law of his own being, like the wind and the rain, the dew and the lightning. He is, because he is. There are no artificial stimulants to bring him out. No offers from booksellers; no demands from the public. His lightnings are produced by no machinery, but dart from the clouds of his imagination, because they will; they may not strike, nor dazzle always; but they flash of their own accord, without the aid of saltpetre or charcoal. They who sit in his light, think as little of his sufferings, from which they derive their enjoyments, as we do of the leviathan that was slaughtered in Coromandel, to afford us the luxury of spermaceti.

How different is the lot of the British author, who seizes his pen as Nelson did his sword, with thoughts of Westminster Abbey or a peerage. We have not even a “corner” for our poets; they are shoved aside entirely, unless one of their number, like Mr. Griswold, erects a Pantheon for the whole that he may have a niche for himself.

Numerous as English authors are, it is a marvel, considerring [[considering]] the hot-bed in which they are forced, that their number should be so small. With such splendid rewards as are showered upon their poets and romancers, it is a wonder that the whole nation does not give itself up to literature.

Considering the rewards of authors with us, the appearance of even one, would be proof of national superiority. In England authors are sure of something. If not a peerage, a baronetage; if not that, knighthood, a pension, a consulship, employment in a public office, or a guinea a sheet at least. If none of these, they are sure to be lionized, and reviewed, and read, and illustrated, and at last put into Westminster Abbey. We must confess that some of these honors have not a very dazzling aspect seen from our point of observation, at the distance of three thousand miles, but they appear to have a strong influence upon British minds.

We have seen the British Parliament engaged day after day, debating the subject of copyright, and grave statesmen and great orators advocating the rights of an author to the control of his own productions; and we have seen our own national Legislature receive numerous petitions on the same subject, from different parts of the Union, and treat them with silent contempt. At the first session of the present Congress there were several petitions, signed by some of the best men in the nation, presented to both houses, praying for an international copyright, received in silence, referred to a committee, and never heard of again.

In France and in Germany, the most reliable instrument to carve a fortune with, or cut a road to preferment, is the pen; with us it is a magnet in the hands of those who use it, to draw upon them contempt and poverty.

The only author upon whom our Government, or the Nation, has bestowed an office, is Mr. Irving And among all of our foreign ambassadors, what one could be more safely trusted with the interests of the Republic? And among all of our literary men, what one could have so dishonored his [page 3:] country at a foreign court, as our bullying and incompetent ambassador to Mexico?

The appointment of Mr. Irving was the “lonestar” of Mr Tyler's administration; we would that the appointment of Mr.-Shannon were the sole mistake. Mr. Everett is a literary man, though not an author; but he is a politician, and he gained his appointment by his political, which with us means party services. The same was the case with Bancroft, whose history would have done but little towards giving him a collectorship without his politics.

The whole nation was in a ferment a few months since, and every paper in the country had something to say about the hostility of John Bull, at the appearance in an English Review of an article that questioned the originality of some of the Abderites in Mr. Griswold's collection. And the Thunderer of the great North American Review, with the aid of a Harvard Professor, retaliated in an article which gave a dreadful scorching to a score or two of British poets whose works had been a century or more forgotten. These were hopeful signs, as the philanthropists say, that public sentiment was coming right upon an important subject; and that the nation would at last manifest a sufficient interest in her authors to enable them to compete with Englishmen on equal terms, by modifying our copyright law, so that the present system of literary piracy should be abolished. But the nation was content to rail at John Bull, and let her own authors sink or swim, as they could.

Mr. Paulding, another of our authors who has had the rare fortune to receive an appointment from our Government, also wrote a reply to the famous Review of our poets in the Foreign Quarterly; in which he not only made himself appear exceedingly ridiculous, but exceedingly dishonest, by gravely .stating as facts, idle newspaper reports, which were pure inventions. The obnoxious article in the Foreign Quarterly was written in a bad spirit, beyond question; but what then, as honest Fluellen says;

It ill became our authors to manifest an angry spirit at the appearance of a Review unfavorable to some of them, from an English pen; since, in many instances, they have been indebted to a British review for an introduction to their own countrymen; and we could name several who

had to wait for a foreign endorsement before they could pass current at home.

We put our hand upon a genuine American book lying before us, which owes its publication in London, and its republication here, to the generous and hearty commendations bestowed upon it by Mr. Dickens and Harriet Martineau. It is a book of which the whole country should be proud; for if the Northern slaves — as the South Carolina statesmen call our honest laborers, who live by the sweat of their own brows — can produce a work like this, what may we not expect from our educated classes who have leisure to register their thoughts and observations. Among all the vehement abusers of the Foreign Quarterly and Mr. Dickens, we fear that there are not many who can say of this modest book as he has said of it in his Notes: “I brought away from Lowell four hundred good solid pages,which I have read from beginning to end. Of the merits of the Lowell Offering, as a literary production, I will only observe, putting entirely out of sight the fact of these articles having been Written by these girls, after the arduous labors of the day, that it will compare advantageously with a great many English Annuals.” [column 2:]

Ought not such hearty good feeling as this, expressed towards an American production which Americans themselves hardly knew the existence of, to have been enough to outweigh the ill opinions of a dozen such articles as that in the Foreign Quarterly Review?

MIND AMONG THE SPINDLES, is a selection of thirty-eight articles, mostly prose, from the Lowell Offering. It was published by Charles Knight, in London, among his weekly volumes, with an introductory letter by Harriet Martineau, and is now republished in Boston, with the introduction of the English editor, as a recommendation to the American reader.

These papers must necessarily possess an interest for the English reader which they do not for us; part of this interest arises from wonder that the female operatives in a Cotton mill should be able, not only to write at all, but have leisure and ability to write in a manner that will compare favourably with English Annuals; and partly from the freshness of the life described, so new to an English reader, but so familiar with us. But they possess sufficient novelty in this meridian to recommend them to notice, and to many of our Broadway girls they will present scenes as new as to an English countess. Every woman in America should possess a copy of this modest little book, for the honor of her sex.

Although the articles are the productions of different minds, they are all distinguished by an earnest simplicity and an entire absence of attempt at fine writing, which we could hardly have looked for in the productions of so great a number of young women in any condition of life.

It is true that the Lowell Offering was often spoken of a year or two ago by people who looked upon a factory girl who could write, with some such feelings as they would have looked upon a learned pig, and that the papers were favorably noticed by the North American Review, and some other literary periodicals; but the present publication is owing entirely to the favorable reception which the work has received in England.

We have room but for one extract, an exceedingly simple but vivid description of a sugar-bee, which will make the visitors of Thompson and Weller's candy saloon have watery mouths as they read the account of making our forest confectionary.

THE SUGAR-MAKING EXCURSION.

IT was on a beautiful morning in the month of March, cone of those mornings so exhilarating that they make even age and decrepitude long for a ramble,) that friend H. called to invite me to visit his sugar lot — as he called it — in company with the party which, in the preceding summer, visited Moose Mountain upon the whortleberry excursion. It was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions and friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to Moose Mountain.

A pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us safely to the domicile of friend H., who had reached home an hour previously, and was prepared to pilot us to his sugar camp. “Before we go,” said he, “you must one and all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some gingered cider.” We complied with his request, and after a little social chat with Mrs. H., who welcomed us with a cordiality not to be surpassed, and expressed many a kind wish that we might spend the day agreeably, we made for the sugar camp, preceded by friend H., who walked by the side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and which be steadied with the greatest care at every uneven place in the path.

Arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended on a pole, which was supported by crotched stakes, driven in the ground, and each half full of boiling syrup. This was made by boiling down the sap, which was gathered [page 4:] from troughs that were placed under spouts which were driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first made in the tree with an auger. Frier d H. told us that it had taken more than two barrels of sap to make what syrup each kettle contained. A steady fire of oak bark was burning underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend H.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring the syrup, replenishing the fire, &c.

Abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh, and taking out a large rundlet, which might contain two or three gallons, poured the contents into a couple of pails. I This we perceived was milk, and as she raised one of the pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her father called out, “Ho, Abigail! hast thee strained the milk?” “Yes, father,” said Abigail.

“Well,” said friend H., with a chuckle, “Abigail understands what she is about, as well as her mother would; and I’ll warrant Hannah to make better maple-sugar than any other woman in New England, or in the whole United states — and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar is turned off and cooled.” Abigail turned to her work, emptied the milk into the kettles, and then stirred their contents well together, and put some hark on the fire.

“Come, Jemima,” said Henry L., “let us try to assist Abigail a little, and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar ourselves; and who knows but what she will give us a gob to carry home as a specimen to show our friends; and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it will never do us any harm to know how the thing is done.” Abigail furnished us each with a large brass scummer, and instructed us to take off the scum as it arose, and put it into the pails; and Henry called two others of our party to come and hold the pails.

“But tell me, Abigail,” said Henry, with a roguish leer, “was that milk really intended for whitening the sugar?”

“Yes,” said Abigail with all the simplicity of a Quakeress, “for thee must know that the milk will all rise in a scum, and with it every particle of dirt or dust which may have found its way into the kettles.”

Abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied by her little brother, and brought from thence a large tin baker, and placed it before the fire. Her brother brought a peck measure two-thirds full of potatoes, which Abigail put into the baker, and leaving them to their fate, returned to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistence carried several parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little log hut of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of slabs. We began to fancy that we were to have an Irish lunch. Henry took a sly peep into the hut when we first arrived, and he declared there was nothing inside, save some squared logs, which were placed back against the walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. But he was mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience which the building contained, — as will presently be shown.

Abigail and her brother had been absent something like half an hour, and friend H. had in the meantime busied himself in gathering sap, and putting it in some barrels hard by. The kettles were clear from scum, and their contents were bubbling like soap. The fire was burning cheerfully, the company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker told that the potatoes were cooked.

Abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker, carried it inside the building, but soon returned, and placed it again before the fire, Then she called to her father, who came and invited us to go and take dinner.

We obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised, when we saw how neatly arranged was every thing. The walls of the building were celled around with boards, and side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or let down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with leather hinges and a prop underneath. The tables were covered with napkins, white as the driven snow, and loaded with cold ham, neat's tongue, pickles, bread, apple sauce, preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and potatoes — without which a Yankee dinner is never complete. For beverage, there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the building — there being a rock chimney in one corner. “Now, neighbors,” said friend H., “if you will but seat yourselves on these squared logs, and put up with these rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. We might have had our dinner at the house, but I thought that it would be a [column 2:] novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this little hut which I built to shelter us from what stormy weather we might have in the season of making sugar.”

We arranged ourselves round the room, and right merry were we, for friend H.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be otherwise. He recapitulated to us the manner of ‘his life while a bachelor; the many bear fights which he had had; told us how many bears he had killled [[killed]]; how a she-bear den-ned in his rock dwelling the first winter after he commenced clearing his land — he having returned home to his father's to attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he killed her two cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made his Hannah a present of their skins to make a muff and tippet; also his courtship, marriage, &c.

In the midst of dinner, Abigail came in with some hot mince-pies, which had been heating in the baker before the fire out of doors, and which said much in praise of Mrs. H.'s cookery.

We had finished eating and were chatting as merrily as might be, when one of the little boys called from without, “Father, the sugar has grained.” We immediately went out, and found one of the boys stirring some sugar in a bowl to cool it. The fire was raked from beneath the kettles, and Abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents with all haste. Friend H. put a pole within the bail of one of the kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of the company to take the other down, and having placed it in the snow, they assisted friend H. to take down the other; and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool the sugar, friend H.'s children eat their dinners, cleared away the tables, put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh, together with the dinner dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the pails of scum, which were to be carried home for the swine. A firkin was also put into the sleigh: and after the sugar was sufficiently cool, it was put into the firkin, and covered up with great care.

After this we spent a short time promenading around the rock-maple grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. A large sap trough, which was very neatly made, struck my fancy, and friend H. said he would make me a present of it for a cradle. This afforded a subject for mirth. Friend H. said we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest child had been rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath the shade of a tree, while his wife sat beside it knitting, and he was hard by, hoeing corn.

Soon we were on our way to friend H.'s house, which we all reached in safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening, eating maple sugar, apples, beech-nuts, &c. We also had tea about eight o’clock which was accompanied by every desirable luxury — after which we started for home.

As we were about taking leave, Abigail made each of us a present of a cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart. — “Heigh ho!” said Henry L., “how lucky! We have had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast — have learned how to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!”

We went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of our quaker friends.

I cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar which was that day made was nearly as white as loaf-sugar, and tasted much better.