And it is precisely
because Longfellow kept his feet in their proper place, in society as
well as in verse, that some critics, nowadays, would have us believe
that he was not a truly American poet.
Traces of this curious theory of Americanism in its application to
Washington may now be found in many places. You shall hear historians
describe him as a transplanted English commoner, a second edition of
John Hampden. You shall read, in a famous poem, of Lincoln as
"New birth of our new soil, the _first_ American."
He knew it, I say: and by what divination? By a test more searching than
any mere peculiarity of manners, dress, or speech; by a touchstone able
to divide the gold of essential character from the alloy of superficial
characteristics; by a standard which disregarded alike Franklin's fur
cap and Putnam's old felt hat, Morgan's leather leggings and
Witherspoon's black silk gown and John Adams's lace ruffles, to
recognize and approve, beneath these various garbs, the vital sign of
America woven into the very souls of the men who belonged to her by a
spiritual birthright.
For what is true Americanism, and where does it reside? Not on the
tongue, nor in the clothes, nor among the transient social forms,
refined or rude, which mottle the surface of human life. The log cabin
has no monopoly of it, nor is it an immovable fixture of the stately
pillared mansion.
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