COOPER’S ANTI-INTELLECTUALISM:
THE COMIC MAN OF LEARNING

J. Gerald Kennedy

In his influential study, Anti-intellectualism in American Life, Richard Hofstadter describes the great shift in political values during the early nineteenth century which brought about "the decline of the gentleman" in American government and the ascendancy of the democratic populist.¹ Among other results, the spread of egalitarian attitudes transformed public regard for intellectual leaders (evident in the general esteem for the Founding Fathers) into a suspicion of learning and a mistrust of men committed to ideas. As Hofstadter points out, this antipathy first emerged when opponents of Thomas Jefferson advanced the notion that his powerful intellect somehow unfitted him for public office.² Washington Irving’s satirical portrait of Jefferson (William the Testy of Knickerbocker’s History) epitomized contemporary disdain for the intellectual: "Had he been a less learned man, it is possible he would have been a much greater governor."³ Hostility toward the man of learning intensified with the emergence of Jacksonian democracy; indeed, Jackson’s battle with John Quincy Adams in 1828 came to be viewed, as Hofstadter observes, in terms of a clash between the aristocratic man of intellect and the democratic man of action.⁴ When the rival Whig Party upset the Democrats in 1840 with the egalitarian "log cabin and hard cider" campaign of William Henry Harrison, the displacement of the learned gentleman in American politics had been accomplished.

Since James Fenimore Cooper cared so deeply about both democracy and the inherent role of the gentleman (one of whose necessary attributes was education), his response to the revolution described by Hofstadter is of particular interest. In a sense, Cooper struggled throughout his career to reconcile his belief in the superiority of the ‘‘enlightened’’ gentleman with his faith in government by the people, the potential contradictions of which he swept away with Jeffersonian logic, assuming that an informed electorate would inevitably choose the gentleman over the common man. The rise of Jacksonian democracy presented a threat to such logic, however, for it firmly established a new set of values antithetical to leadership by educated gentlemen:

Its distrust of expertise, its dislike for centralization, its desire to uproot the entrenched classes, and its doctrine that important functions were simple enough to be performed by anyone,

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amounted to a repudiation not only of the system of government by gentlemen which the nation had inherited from the eighteenth century, but also of the special value of the educated classes in civic life.⁵

Cooper’s response to this challenge was characteristically aggressive: while maintaining party loyalty, he attempted to reverse the populist tendencies of the Jacksonian movement through a series of propagandistic novels and treatises which culminated in the publication of The American Democrat.⁶ Insisting in that work that "men of education" must be accorded their "proper place in society," Cooper used a suggestive analogy to describe that position: "If the head is necessary to the body, so is the head of society . . . necessary to direct the body of society."⁷ That is, he perceived the leadership of the gentleman in terms of his capacity for thought.

But if Cooper sought to resist the anti-intellectual, leveling influence of egalitarian thought, the evidence of his major novels suggests that his attitude about learning was ambiguous at best, and that, in some measure, he shared the very scorn for intellect which he criticized in The American Democrat. Repeatedly, Cooper used a specific character type—the ludicrous man of learning—to satirize certain traits which he evidently associated with university training and advanced degrees. In two of the Leatherstocking tales and in the first of the "anti-rent" novels, we find an explicit contrast between the fatuous behavior of educated men and the simpler, more efficacious ways of "natural" gentlemen. Unlike the absurd David Gamut, the Calvinist singing master in The Last of the Mohicans (1826), and Dr. Obed Bat, the physician-naturalist in The Prairie (1827), Cooper’s frontier hero, Natty Bumppo, acts decisively in desperate situations; persistently, the scout ridicules the schooling of his comic counterparts and defends the value of what he calls "natural l’arning," a wisdom derived from experience, common sense, and humility.⁸ Though the holder of a "gentleman’s degree," Corny Littlepage of Satanstoe (1845) embodies the instinctive courage and manly virtue of Leatherstocking; his boldness and candor contrast sharply with the intellectual posturing of Rev. Mr. Worden, the "loping Dominie," and Jason Newcome, the Yankee schoolmaster. The scope of the present essay does not permit a detailed discussion of these comic savants, but their distinguishing characteristics may be summarized: through strange attire, a peculiar build, or physical awkwardness, they invariably cut a ridiculous figure; they are incurably garrulous, verbose, and pedantic, fond of intellectual subtleties and high-flown expressions; they are imprac-

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tical and often incapable of performing mundane tasks; despite their learning, they reveal a naivete about human nature and are easily deceived by appearances; with the exception of Jason Newcome, they prove themselves to be cowards.

We can begin to explore the implications of this anti-intellectual caricature through a closer consideration of the figure which served as Cooper’s prototype—Dr. Archibald Sitgreaves, the comic surgeon in The Spy (1821). As the battlefield physician in a novel about the American Revolution, Sitgreaves occupies a potentially heroic position. Yet he functions primarily as a buffoon, whose long-winded speeches and eccentric theories relieve scenes of intense action or unbearable sentiment. The surgeon’s initial appearance in the novel indicates his comic status:

His head was bald and bare, but a well-powdered wig was to be seen half-concealed in the pocket of his breeches. His coat was off, and his arms [were] naked to the elbow—blood had disfigured much of his dress, and his hands and even face bore this mark of his profession—in his mouth was a cigar—in his right hand some instruments of strange formation, and in his left the remnants of an apple, with which he occasionally relieved the duty of his before-mentioned cigar.⁹

That which makes Sitgreaves preposterous, however, is his passion for knowledge; he lectures everyone on the need to respect the "lights of science," and he describes simple events in ponderous terms. When a gunshot breaks the silence, the doctor opines, "It sounds prodigiously like the concussion on the atmosphere made by the explosion of fire arms" (p. 141). His intellectual curiosity causes him to take a lively interest in combat, for he regards combat as a source of bodies on which to experiment. At one point he nonchalantly remarks, "Still, war has its advantages—it particularly promotes the knowledge of surgery" (p. 413). His cerebral detachment from ordinary human concerns produces several ghastly remarks, the most chilling of which occurs when he contemplates the execution of the novel’s hero, Harvey Birch; Sitgreaves confides that he plans to transform the spy into an anatomical specimen: "I intend making as handsome a skeleton of him as there is in the States of North America—the follow has good points, and his bones are well knit. . . . I will make a perfect beauty of him. I have long been wanting something of the sort to send as a present to my old aunt in Virginia, who was so kind to me when a boy" (pp. 252-53). Like Melville’s Cadwallader Cuticle (in White-Jacket), Sitgreaves relishes the opportunity to exhibit his skills and prides himself on amputation, which he calls "a very pretty operation" (p. 119). At the close

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of one chapter, the surgeon taunts a patient with his bone-cutting saw, giving it "a whirl of triumph" as he walks away.

By devoting his life to "science and the extension of knowledge," the surgeon has transformed himself into an inhumane monster—or so he appears at certain moments—whose moral deformity illustrates the dangers popularly associated with the intellectual in the early nineteenth century. Yet the full extent of Cooper’s critique becomes evident only when we see the role of Sitgreaves in relation to that of his friend and counterpart, Captain John Lawton, the cavalry officer. If the doctor represents the absurd man of thought, Lawton functions as the gallant man of action, whose signification within the author’s value system becomes plain when the Captain acknowledges himself to be "a Virginian, and a gentleman" (p. 87). Lawton’s Herculean stature and irrepressible wit, together with his shrewdness and courage, make him the most vividly appealing character in the novel, the embodiment of that virile gentility upon which Cooper later based his theories of social and political station.¹⁰ By apparent design, Lawton displays the prowess and practical intelligence so conspicuously absent in the learned Sitgreaves.

Repeatedly contrasting their responses to specific situations, Cooper dramatizes the distinctions between the two men. For example, when Lawton and Sitgreaves observe a lone rifleman fleeing through the woods, the physician declines to participate in a chase, first insisting that he is a "noncombattant" and then confessing his fear of injury: "It would be but a sorry compliment to science, to say that a Doctor of Medicine had fractured both his legs by injudiciously striking them against a pair of bar-posts" (p. 258). Later, when the Skinners set fire to the Wharton house, Lawton bravely rescues Frances Wharton, then returns to the burning structure, and finally emerges with two men in his arms—Dr. Sitgreaves and the dead Skinner whom the surgeon had foolishly and unsuccessfully tried to save because his wounds looked challenging. Bold where his counterpart is silly or fainthearted, Lawton also proves more perceptive; Cooper makes this contrast explicit in describing the Captain’s return to the Wharton house after a short absence: "It never required more than a single look to acquaint the trooper with the particulars of every scene that was not uncommonly veiled, and the first survey that he took on entering the house told him more than the observations of a day had put into the possession of Dr. Sitgreaves" (p. 265).

Perhaps the most telling difference between the two concerns their respective attitudes toward Harvey Birch, the spy. A shadowy,

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enigmatic figure, Birch excites the antipathy of both men early in the novel: Lawton attempts several times to kill or capture the spy, whereas Sitgreaves expresses the desire (noted earlier) to convert Birch into an anatomical specimen. But as events unfold, Lawton develops a respect for the spy, whose timely advice and assistance (he saves Sarah Wharton from the fire) reveal his heroic qualities. Lawton’s own nobility enables him to discern the virtue of his ostensible adversary; thus when the surgeon announces his plan to dissect Birch, the Captain retorts: "Let me tell you, Mr. Archibald Sitgreaves, you were wanting to dissect, just now, a damned honest fellow." The ensuing debate typifies the blindness of the man of learning and the insight of the man of action:

"It was the peddler—one of the most notorious spies in the enemy’s service," returned [Sitgreavesl; "and I must say that I think it an honor to such a man to be devoted to the use of science."

"He may be a spy—he must be one," said Lawton musing; "but he has a heart above enmity, and a soul that would honor a gallant soldier." (p. 256)

While Sitgreaves conceives of Birch solely in terms of physiology and the advance of science, Lawton (despite uncertainties about the peddler’s loyalties) exhibits acumen and human sympathy in voicing a judgment of Birch that the novel itself confirms.

The studied contrasts between Lawton and Sitgreaves, which anticipate subsequent conflicts in Cooper’s novels between heroes and intellectuals, finally amount to a simultaneous indictment of formal learning and an apotheosis of natural gentility, thus pointing toward an unresolved contradiction in Cooper’s notion of the educated gentleman. As Edwin H. Cady has asserted, the author insisted that advanced learning formed an essential part of the gentlemanly paradigm:

The gentleman must be soundly educated; the best college training was none too good. Cooper lamented any diminution of intellectual stature in American colleges. With the birth, the character, the habits, and "the general notions of the caste," Andries Coejemans, the Chainbearer, was not quite a gentleman. In the last analysis, his being "but indifferently educated" qualified him; for "we must all admit how necessary a certain amount of education has become . . . to make a gentleman."¹¹

But despite his apparent reverence for learning, Cooper consistently portrayed men with considerable schooling as clowns and endowed them with qualities inimical to manly gentility. Quite correctly, Professor

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Cady notes that "Cooper did not accept the tradition that the holder of a college degree was automatically a gentleman. Pedantry he thought as vulgar as ignorance."¹² However, this evaluation seems finally misleading, for it disregards the active hostility toward learning personified by Cooper’s beloved Leatherstocking, and it overlooks the chronic deficiencies—impracticality, naivete, and cowardice—assigned to his fictional savants. Moreover, Cooper’s concern for the "intellectual stature of American colleges" seems questionable in view of his comment in Notions of the Americans explaining the scarcity of "profound scholars" in the United States: "This country possesses neither the population nor the endowments to maintain a large class of learned idlers, in order that one man in a hundred may contribute a mite to the growing stock of general knowledge."¹³ Such a remark indicates more than a dislike for pedantry; it implies a suspicion of the academic life and the man of learning.

During Cooper’s career as a man of letters, the rise of democratic populism established this very prejudice, which ended the dominance of the educated gentleman in American politics. Ironically, even as he combatted the decline described by Hofstadter, Cooper contributed to the spread of anti-intellectualism by ridiculing the man of learning and idealizing the untutored sagacity of the man of action. Though he sought to reverse the leveling effect of egalitarianism in such works as Notions of the Americans, The American Democrat, and Home as Found, Cooper inadvertently betrayed his own cause by satirizing the intellectual; while advocating the need for educated gentlemen, he elsewhere dramatized a conflict between education and gentility. One returns to his remark (in The Chainbearer) about the need for "a certain amount of learning . . . to make a gentleman" with the sense that Cooper had in mind just enough education to instill genteel taste, speech, and opinions; more learning than that posed a threat to manliness itself. Dismissed from Yale at the age of fifteen, the author found it impossible to appreciate the value of an education more extensive than his own. His implied hostility toward men of learning bears out the truth of his remark in The American Democrat: "We can all perceive the difference between ourselves and our inferiors, but when it comes to a question of the difference between ourselves and our superiors, we fail to appreciate merits of which we have no proper conceptions."’⁴ As we see in his portrayal of the comic savant, Cooper never truly

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understood the life of the mind, though he mistrusted it enough to reduce it to caricature.

LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY

NOTES

    ¹(New York: Vintage Books, 1963), Pp. 145-71. Hofstadter also traces the earlier influence of evangelicalism, which produced a similar antagonism toward learning in American religion and led to the revival movements of the early nineteenth century. See pp. 55-116.   
   ²lbid., pp. 146-51.
   ³A History of New York (1809; rpt. New Haven: College and University Press, 1964), p. 169.
   ⁴Hofstadter, p. 160
   ⁵lbid., pp. 155-56.
   ⁶Beginning with Notions of the Americans (1828), Cooper wrote with increasing frequency about contemporary social and political questions. Such works as The Bravo (183 l),A Letter to His Countrymen (1834), The Manikins (1835), Home as Found (1838), and The American Democrat (1838) presented different facets of Cooper’s criticism, the harshness of which intensified in the later works.
   ⁷The American Democrat (1838; rpt. n. p.: Minerva Press, 1969), p. 85.
   ⁸Although Cooper nowhere specifies the academic training of David Gamut, he does observe that the psalmodist was "deeply tinctured" with the "subtle distinctions" of Calvinism. Identifying Gamut as a representative of learning and civilization, Natty Bumppo scoffs at his lack of woodcraft and says, "So much for schooling and passing a boyhood in the settlements." The intellectual pretensions of Dr. Bat are too apparent to require comment.
   ⁹The Spy (1821; rpt. New Haven: College and University Press, 1971), p. 118. All further references to the novel will pertain to this text.
   ¹⁰See The American Democrat, pp. 70-87.
   ¹¹The Gentleman in America: A Literary Study in American Culture (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1949), p. 117.
   ¹²lbid.
   ¹³Notions of the Americans Picked Up by a Traveling Bachelor (1828; rpt. New York: Frederick Ungar, 1963), II, 95.
   ¹⁵The American Democrat, p. 89.

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