Letters From An American Farmer By Hector St. John De Crevecoeur



















































































































































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     Me to sequestred scenes, ye muses, guide,
     Where nature wantons in her virgin-pride;
     To mossy banks edg'd round with - Page 13
Letters From An American Farmer By Hector St. John De Crevecoeur - Page 13 of 291 - First - Home

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- "Me To Sequestred Scenes, Ye Muses, Guide, Where Nature Wantons In Her Virgin-Pride; To Mossy Banks Edg'd Round With Op'ning Flow'rs, Elysian Fields, And Amaranthin Bow'rs.

... Welcome, ye shades!

All hail, ye vernal blooms! Ye bow'ry thickets, and prophetic glooms! Ye forests hail! ye solitary woods. ..."

and the "solitary woods" (rhyming with "floods") are a good place to leave the "young gentleman educated at Yale College." Livingston was, plainly enough, a poet of his time and place. He had a fine eye for Nature - seen through library windows. He echoed Goldsmith and a whole line of British poets - echoed them atrociously.

That one finds no "echoes" in Crevecoeur is one of our reasons for praising his spontaneity and vigour. He did not import nightingales into his America, as some of the poets did. He blazed away, rather, toward our present day appreciation of surrounding nature - which was not banal then. Crevecoeur's honest and unconventionalised love of his rural environment is great enough to bridge the difference between the eighteenth and the twentieth century. It is as easy for us to pass a happy evening with him as it was for Thomas Campbell, figuring to himself a realisation of Cowley's dreams and of Rousseau's poetic seclusion; "till at last," in Southey's words, "comes an ill-looking Indian with a tomahawk, and scalps me - a most melancholy proof that society is very bad." It is the freshness, the youthfulness, of these Letters, after their century and more of dust-gathering, that is least likely to escape us.

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