composed weighty pamphlets, eloquent sermons, and sparkling satire in praise of the old order of things.
When their cause was lost forever, they wrote gossipy letters from their exile in London
or pathetic verses in their new home in Nova Scotia
Their place in our national life and literature has never been filled, and their talents and virtues are never likely to receive adequate recognition.
They took the wrong fork of the road.
There were gentle spirits, too, in this period, endowed with delicate literary gifts, but quite unsuited for the clash of controversy — members, in Crevecceur's touching words, of the “secret communion among good men throughout the world.”
“I am a lover of peace, what must I do?”
asks Crevecceur in his Letters from an American farmer
. “I was happy before this unfortunate Revolution.
I feel that I am no longer so, therefore I regret the change.
My heart sometimes seems tired with beating, it wants rest like my eyelids, which feel oppressed with so many watchings.”
, an immigrant from Normandy
, was certainly no weakling, but he felt that the great idyllic American adventure — which he described so captivatingly in his chapter entitled What is an American