Marryat justified the charge by replying:—
"There was no occasion for you to make the admission that you are somewhat warm-tempered; your letter establishes that fact. Considering your age, you are a little volcano, and if the insurance were aware of your frequent visits at the Royal Exchange, they would demand double premium for the building. Indeed, I have my surmises now as to the last conflagration.
* * * * *
Your remark as to the money I have received may sound well, mentioned as an isolated fact; but how does it sound when it is put in juxtaposition with the sums you have received? I, who have found everything, receiving a pittance, while you, who have found nothing but the shop to sell in, receiving such a lion's share. I assert again that it is slavery. I am Sinbad the sailor, and you are the old man of the mountain, clinging on my back, and you must not be surprised at my wishing to throw you off the first convenient opportunity.
The fact is, you have the vice of old age very strong upon you, and you are blinded by it; but put the question to your sons, and ask them whether they consider the present agreement fair. Let them arrange with me, and do you go and read your Bible. We all have our ideas of Paradise, and if other authors think like me, the most pleasurable portion of anticipated bliss is that there will be no publishers there. That idea often supports me after an interview with one of your fraternity."
Marryat only returned to England a few months before hurrying off to America in April 1837. The reasons for this move it is impossible to conjecture, as we can scarcely accept the apparent significance of his comments on Switzerland in the Diary on the Continent:—
"Do the faults of these people arise from the peculiarity of their constitutions, or from the nature of their government? To ascertain this, one must compare them with those who live under similar institutions. I must go to America—that is decided."
He was received by the Americans with a curious mixture of suspicion and enthusiasm. English men and women of letters in late years had been visiting the Republic and criticising its institutions to the mother country—with a certain forgetfulness of hospitalities received that was not, to say the least of it, in good taste. Marryat was also an author, and it seemed only too probable that he had come to spy out the land. On the other hand, his books were immensely popular over the water and, but for dread of possible consequences, Jonathan was delighted to see him. His arrival at Saratoga Springs produced an outburst in the local papers of the most pronounced journalese:—
"This distinguished writer is at present a sojourner in our city. Before we knew the gallant Captain was respiring our balmy air, we really did wonder what laughing gas had imbued our atmosphere—every one we met in the streets appeared to be in such a state of jollification; but when we heard that the author of Peter Simple was actually puffing a cigar amongst us we no longer marvelled at the pleasant countenances of our citizens. He has often made them laugh when he was thousands of miles away. Surely now it is but natural that they ought to be tickled to death at the idea of having him present."
The Bostonians were proud to claim him as a compatriot through his mother, and a nautical drama from his pen—The Ocean Wolf, or the Channel Outlaw—was performed at New York with acclamation. He had some squabbles with American publishers concerning copyright, and was clever enough to secure two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars from Messrs Carey & Hart for his forthcoming Diary in America and The Phantom Ship, which latter first appeared in the New Monthly, 1837 and 1838. He evidently pleased the Americans on the whole, and was not unfavourably impressed by what he saw, but the six volumes which he produced on his return are only respectable specimens of bookmaking, and do not repay perusal. It was, indeed, his own opinion that he had already written enough. "If I were not rather in want of money," he says in a letter to his mother, "I certainly would not write any more, for I am rather tired of it. I should like to disengage myself from the fraternity of authors, and be known in future only in my profession as a good officer and seaman." He had hoped to see some service in Canada, but the opportunity never came.