Фредерик Марриет
Diary in America, Series Two
Volume Two—Chapter Three
Patriotism
This is a word of very doubtful meaning; and until we have the power to analyse the secret springs of action, it is impossible to say who is or who is not a patriot. The Chartist, the White Boy, may really be patriots in their hearts, although they are attempting revolution, and are looked upon as the enemies of good order. Joseph Hume may be a patriot, so may O’Connell, so may —; but never mind; I consider that if in most cases, in all countries the word egotism were substituted it would be more correct, and particularly so in America.
M. Tocqueville says, “The inhabitants of the United States talk a great deal of their attachment to their country; but I confess that I do not rely upon that calculating patriotism which is founded upon interest, and which a change in the interests at stake may obliterate.”
The fact is, that the American is aware that what affects the general prosperity must affect the individual, and he therefore is anxious for the general prosperity; he also considers that he assists to legislate for the country, and is therefore equally interested in such legislature being prosperous; if, therefore, you attack his country, you attack him personally—you wound his vanity and self-love.
In America it is not our rulers who have done wrong or right; it is we (or rather I) who have done wrong or right, and the consequence is, that the American is rather irritable on the subject, as every attack is taken as personal. It is quite ridiculous to observe how some of the very best of the Americans are tickled when you praise their country and institutions; how they will wince at any qualification in your praise, and actually writhe under any positive disparagement. They will put questions, even if they anticipate an unfavourable answer; they cannot help it. What is the reason of this? Simply their better sense wrestling with the errors of education and long-cherished fallacies. They feel that their institutions do not work as they would wish; that the theory is not borne out by the practice, and they want support against their own convictions. They cannot bear to eradicate deep-rooted prejudices, which have been from their earliest days a source of pride and vain-glory; and to acknowledge that what they have considered as most perfect, what they have boasted of as a lesson to other nations, what they have suffered so much to uphold, in surrendering their liberty of speech, of action, and of opinion, has after all proved to be a miserable failure, and instead of a lesson to other nations—a warning.
Yet such are the doubts, the misgivings which fluctuate in, and irritate the minds of a very large proportion of the Americans; and such is the decided conviction of a portion who retire into obscurity and are silent; and every year adds to the number of both these parties. They remind one of a husband who, having married for love, and supposed his wife to be perfection, gradually finds out that she is full of faults, and renders him anything but happy; but his pride will not allow him to acknowledge that he has committed an error in his choice, and he continues before the world to descant upon her virtues, and to conceal her errors, while he feels that his home is miserable.
It is because it is more egotistical that the patriotism of the American is more easily roused and more easily affronted. He has been educated to despise all other countries, and to look upon his own as the first in the world; he has been taught that all other nations are slaves to despots, and that the American citizen only is free, and this is never contradicted. For although thousands may in their own hearts feel the falsehood of their assertions, there is not one who will venture to express his opinion. The government sets the example, the press follows it, and the people receive the incense of flattery, which in other countries is offered to the court alone; and if it were not for the occasional compunctions and doubts, which his real good sense will sometimes visit him with, the more enlightened American would be as happy in his own delusions, as the majority most certainly may be said to be.
M. Tocqueville says, “For the last fifty years no pains have been spared to convince the inhabitants of the United States that they constitute the only religious, enlightened, and free people. They perceive that, for the present, their own democratic institutions succeed, while those of other countries fall; hence they conceive an overweening opinion of their superiority, and they are not very remote from believing themselves to belong to a distinct race of mankind.”
There are, however, other causes which assist this delusion on the part of the majority of the Americans; the principal of which is the want of comparison. The Americans are too far removed from the Old Continent, and are too much occupied even if they were not, to have time to visit it, and make the comparison between the settled countries and their own. America is so vast, that if they travel in it, their ideas of their own importance become magnified. The only comparisons they are able to make are only as to the quantity of square acres in each country, which, of course, is vastly in their favour.
Mr Sanderson, the American, in his clever Sketches of Paris, observes, “It is certainly of much value in the life of an American gentleman to visit these old countries, if it were only to form a just estimate of his own, which he is continually liable to mistake, and always to overrate without objects of comparison; ‘nimium se aestimet necesse est, qui se nemini comparat.’ He will always think himself wise who sees nobody wiser; and to know the customs and institutions of foreign countries, which one cannot know well without residing there, is certainly the complement of a good education.”
After all, is there not a happiness in this delusion on the part of the American majority, and is not the feeling of admiration of their own country borrowed from ourselves? The feeling may be more strong with the Americans, because it is more egotistical; but it certainly is the English feeling transplanted, and growing in a ranker soil. We may accuse the Americans of conceit, of wilful blindness, of obstinacy; but there is after all a great good in being contented with yourself and yours. The English shew it differently; but the English are not so good-tempered as the Americans. They grumble at everything; they know the faults of their institutions, but at the same time they will allow of no interference. Grumbling is a luxury so great, that an Englishman will permit it only to himself. The Englishman grumbles at his government, under which he enjoys more rational liberty than the individual of any other nation in the world. The American, ruled by the despotism of the majority, and without liberty of opinion or speech, praises his institutions to the skies. The Englishman grumbles at his climate, which, if we were to judge from the vigour and perfection of the inhabitants, is, notwithstanding its humidity, one of the best in the world. The American vaunts his above all others, and even thinks it necessary to apologise for a bad day, although the climate, from its sudden extremes, withers up beauty, and destroys the nervous system. In everything connected with, and relating to, America, the American has the same feeling. Calculating, wholly matter-of-fact and utilitarian in his ideas, without a poetic sense of his own, he is annoyed if a stranger does not express that rapture at their rivers, waterfalls, and woodland scenery, which he himself does not feel. As far as America is concerned, everything is for the best in this best of all possible countries. It is laughable, yet praiseworthy, to observe how the whole nation will stoop down to fan the slightest spark which is elicited of native genius—like the London citizen, who is enraptured with his own stunted cucumbers, which he has raised at ten times the expense which would have purchased fine ones in the market. It were almost a pity that the American should be awakened from his dream, if it were not that the arrogance and conceit arising from it may eventually plunge him into difficulty.
But let us be fair; America is the country of enthusiasm and hope, and we must not be too severe upon what from a virgin soil has, sprung up too luxuriantly. It is but the English amor patriae carried to too great an excess. The Americans are great boasters; but are we far behind them? One of our most popular songs runs as follows:—
“We ne’er see our foes, but we wish them to stay;
They never see us, but they wish us away.”
What can be more bragging, or more untrue, than the words of these lines? In the same way in England the common people hold it as a proverb, that, “one Englishman can beat three Frenchmen,” but there are not many Englishmen who would succeed in the attempt. Nor is it altogether wrong to encourage these feelings; although arrogance is a fault in an individual, in a national point of view, it often becomes the incentive to great actions, and, if not excessive, insures the success inspired by confidence. As by giving people credit for a virtue which they have not, you very often produce that virtue in them, I think it not unwise to implant this feeling in the hearts of the lower classes, who if they firmly believe that they can beat three Frenchmen, will at all events attempt to do it. That too great success is dangerous, and that the feeling of arrogance produced by it may lead us into the error of despising our enemy, we ourselves showed an example of in our first contest with America during the last war. In that point America and England have now changed positions, and from false education, want of comparison, and unexpected success in their struggle with us, they are now much more arrogant than we were when most flushed with victory. They are blind to their own faults and to the merits of others, and while they are so it is clear that they will offend strangers, and never improve themselves. I have often laughed at the false estimate held by the majority in America as to England. One told me, with a patronising air, that, “in a short time, England would only be known as having been the mother of America.”
“When you go into our interior, Captain,” said a New York gentleman to me, “you will see plants, such as rhododendrons, magnolias, and hundreds of others, such as they have no conception of in your own country.”
One of Jim Crow’s verses in America is a fair copy from us—
“Englishman he beat
Two French or Portugee;
Yankee-doodle come down,
Whip them all three.”
But an excellent specimen of the effect of American education was given the other day in this country, by an American lad of fourteen or fifteen years old. He was at a dinner party, and after dinner the conversation turned upon the merits of the Duke of Wellington. After hearing the just encomiums for some time with fidgetty impatience, the lad rose from his chair, “You talk about your Duke of Wellington, what do you say to Washington; do you pretend to compare Wellington to Washington? Now, I’ll just tell you, if Washington could be standing here now, and the Duke of Wellington was only to look him in the face, why, Sir, Wellington would drop down dead in an instant.” This I was told by the gentleman at whose table it occurred.
Even when they can use their eyes, they will not. I overheard a conversation on the deck of a steam-boat between a man who had just arrived from England and another. “Have they much trade at Liverpool?” inquired the latter. “Yes, they’ve some.” “And at London?” “Not much there, I reckon. New York, Sir, is the emporium of the whole world.”
This national vanity is fed in every possible way. At one of the museums, I asked the subject of a picture representing a naval engagement; the man (supposing I was an American, I presume) replied, “That ship there,” pointing to one twice as big as the other, “is the Macedonian English frigate, and that other frigate,” pointing to the small one, “is the Constitution American frigate, which captured her in less than five minutes.” Indeed, so great has this feeling become from indulgence, that they will not allow anything to stand in its way, and will sacrifice anybody or anything to support it. It was not until I arrived in the United States that I was informed by several people that Captain Lawrence, who commanded the Chesapeake, was drunk when he went into action. Speaking of the action, one man shook his head, and said, “Pity poor Lawrence had his failing; he was otherwise a good officer.” I was often told the same thing, and a greater libel was never uttered; but thus was a gallant officer’s character sacrificed to sooth the national vanity. I hardly need observe, that the American naval officers are as much disgusted with the assertion as I was myself. That Lawrence fought under disadvantages—that many of his ship’s company, hastily collected together from leave, were not sober, and that there was a want of organisation from just coming out of harbour,—is true, and quite sufficient to account for his defeat; but I have the evidence of those who walked with him down to his boat, that he was perfectly sober, cool, and collected, as he always had proved himself to be. But there is no gratitude in a democracy, and to be unfortunate is to be guilty.
There is a great deal of patriotism of one sort or the other in the American women. I recollect once, when conversing with a highly cultivated and beautiful American woman, I inquired if she knew a lady who had been some time in England, and who was a great favourite of mine. She replied, “Yes.” “Don’t you like her?” “To confess the truth, I do not,” replied she; “she is too English for me.” “That is to say, she likes England and the English.” “That is what I mean.” I replied, that, “had she been in England, she would probably have become too English also; for, with her cultivated and elegant ideas, she must naturally have been pleased with the refinement, luxury, and established grades in society, which it had taken eight hundred years to produce.” “If that is to be the case, I hope I may never go to England.”
Now, this was true patriotism, and there is much true patriotism among the higher classes of the American women; with them there is no alloy of egotism.
Indeed, all the women in America are very patriotic; but I do not give them all the same credit. In the first place, they are controlled by public opinion as much as the men are; and without assumed patriotism they would have no chance of getting husbands. As you descend in the scale, so are they the more noisy; and, I imagine, for that very reason the less sincere.
Among what may be termed the middling classes, I have been very much amused with the compound of vanity and ignorance which I have met with. Among this class they can read and write; but almost all their knowledge is confined to their own country, especially in geography, which I soon discovered. It was hard to beat them on American ground, but as soon as you got them off that they were defeated. I wish the reader to understand particularly, that I am not speaking now of the well-bred Americans, but of that portion which would with us be considered as on a par with the middle class of shop-keepers; for I had a very extensive acquaintance. My amusement was, to make some comparison between the two countries, which I knew would immediately bring on the conflict I desired; and not without danger, for I sometimes expected, in the ardour of their patriotism, to meet with the fate of Orpheus.
I soon found that the more I granted, the more they demanded; and that the best way was never to grant any thing. I was once in a room full of the softer sex, chiefly girls, of all ages; when the mamma of a portion of them, who was sitting on the sofa, as we mentioned steam, said, “Well now, Captain, you will allow that we are a-head of you there.”
“No,” replied I, “quite the contrary. Our steam-boats go all over the world—your’s are afraid to leave the rivers.”
“Well now, Captain, I suppose you’ll allow America is a bit bigger country than England?”
“It’s rather broader—but, if I recollect right, it’s not quite so long.”
“Why, Captain!”
“Well, only look at the map.”
“Why, isn’t the Mississippi a bigger river than you have in England?”
“Bigger? Pooh! haven’t we got the Thames?”
“The Thames? why that’s no river at all.”
“Isn’t it? Just look at the map, and measure them.”
“Well, now, Captain, I tell you what, you call your Britain, the Mistress of the seas, yet we whipped you well, and you know that.”
“Oh! yes—you refer to the Shannon and Chesapeake, don’t you?”
“No! not that time, because Lawrence was drunk, they say; but didn’t we whip you well at New Orleans?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No? oh, Captain!”
“I say you did not.—If your people had come out from behind their cotton bales and sugar casks, we’d have knocked you all into a cocked hat; but they wouldn’t come out, so we walked away in disgust.”
“Now, Captain, that’s romancing—that won’t do.” Here the little ones joined in the cry, “We did beat you, and you know it.” And, hauling me into the centre of the room, they joined hands in a circle, and danced round me, singing:
“Yankee doodle is a tune,
Which is nation handy.
All the British ran away
At Yankee doodle dandy.”
I shall conclude by stating that this feeling, call it patriotism, or what you please, is so strongly implanted in the bosom of the American by education and association, that wherever, or whenever, the national honour or character is called into question, there is no sacrifice which they will not make to keep up appearances. It is this which induces them to acquit murderers, to hush up suicides, or any other offence which may reflect upon their asserted morality. I would put no confidence even in an official document from the government, for I have already ascertained how they will invariably be twisted, so as to give no offence to the majority; and the base adulation of the government to the people is such, that it dare not tell them the truth, or publish any thing which might wound its self-esteem.
I shall conclude with two extracts from a work of Mr Cooper, the American:—
“We are almost entirely wanting in national pride, though abundantly supplied with an irritable vanity, which might rise to pride had we greater confidence in our facts.”
“We have the sensitiveness of provincials, increased by the consciousness of having our spurs to earn on all matters of glory and renown, and our jealousy extends even to the reputations of the cats and dogs.”
Volume Two—Chapter Four
England and the United States
Captain Hamilton has, in his work, expressed his opinion that the Americans have no feeling of ill-will against this country. If Captain Hamilton had stated that the gentlemen and more respectable portion of the Americans, such as the New York merchants, etcetera, had no feeling against this country, and were most anxious to keep on good terms with us, he would have been much more correct. You will find all the respectable portion of the daily press using their best endeavours to reconcile any animosities, and there is nothing which an American gentleman is more eloquent upon, when he falls in with an Englishman, than in trying to convince him that there is no hostile feeling against this country.23 I had not been a week at New York before I had this assurance given me at least twenty times, and I felt inclined at first to believe it: but I soon discovered that this feeling was only confined to a small minority, and that the feelings towards England of the majority, or democratic party, were of deep irreconcilable hatred. I am sorry to assert this; but it is better be known, that we may not be misled by any pretended good-will on the part of the government, or the partial good-will of a few enlightened individuals. Even those who have a feeling of regard and admiration for our country do not venture to make it known, and it would place them in so very unpleasant a situation, that they can scarcely be blamed for keeping their opinions to themselves. With the English they express it warmly, and I believe them to be sincere; but not being openly avowed by a few, it is not communicated or spread by kindling similar warmth in the hearts of others. Indeed it is not surprising, when we consider the national character, that there should be an ill feeling towards England; it would be much more strange if the feeling did not exist. That the Americans should, after their struggle for independence, have felt irritated against the mother country, is natural; they had been oppressed—they had successfully resented the oppression, and emancipated themselves. But still the feeling at that time was different from the one which at present exists. Then it might be compared to the feeling in the heart of a younger son of an ancient house, who had been compelled by harsh treatment to disunite from the head of the family, and provide for himself—still proud of his origin, yet resentful at the remembrance of injury—at times vindictive, at others full of tenderness and respect. The aristocratical and the democratical impulses by turns gaining the ascendant it was then a manly, fine feeling. The war of 1814, the most fatal event in the short American history, would not have been attended with any increase of ill-will, as the Americans were satisfied with their successful repulse of our attempts to invade the country, and their unexpected good fortune in their naval conflicts. They felt that they had consideration and respect in the eyes of other nations, and, what was to them still gratifying, the respect of England herself. In every point they were fortunate, for a peace was concluded upon honourable terms just as they were beginning to feel the bitter consequences of the war. But the effect of this war was to imbue the people with a strong idea of their military prowess, and the national glory became their favourite theme. Their hero, General was raised to the presidency by the democratical party, and ever since the Americans have been ready to bully or quarrel with anybody and about everything.
This feeling becomes stronger every day. They want to whip the whole world. The wise and prudent perceive the folly of this, and try all they can to produce a better feeling; but the majority are now irresistible, and their fiat will decide upon war or peace. The government is powerless in opposition to it; all it can do is to give a legal appearance to any act of violence.
This idea of their own prowess will be one cause of danger to their institutions, for war must ever be fatal to democracy. In this country, during peace, we became more and more democratic; but whenever we are again forced into war, the reins will be again tightened from necessity, and thus war must ever interfere with free institutions. A convincing proof of the idea the Americans have of their own prowess was when General Jackson made the claim for compensation from the French. Through the intermediation of England the claim was adjusted, and peace preserved; and the Americans are little aware what a debt of gratitude they owe to this country for its interference. They were totally ignorant of the power and resources of France. They had an idea, and I was told so fifty times, that France paid the money from fear, and that if she had not, they would have “whipped her into the little end of nothing.”
I do not doubt that the Americans would have tried their best; but I am of opinion, (not withstanding the Americans would have been partially, from their acknowledged bravery, successful) that in two years France, with her means, which are well known to, and appreciated by, the English, would (to use their own terms again,) have made “an everlasting smash” of the United States, and the Americans would have had to conclude an ignominious peace. I am aware that this idea will be scouted in America as absurd; but still I am well persuaded that any protracted war would not only be their ruin in a pecuniary point of view, but fatal to their institutions. But to return.
There are many reasons why the Americans have an inveterate dislike to this country. In the first place, they are educated to dislike us and our monarchical institutions; their short history points out to them that we have been their only oppressor in the first instance, and their opponent ever since. Their annual celebration of the independence is an opportunity for vituperation of this country which is never lost sight of. Their national vanity is hurt by feeling what they would fain believe, that they are not the “greatest nation on earth;” that they are indebted to us, and the credit we give them, for their prosperity and rapid advance; that they must still look to us for their literature and the fine arts, and that, in short, they are still dependent upon England. I have before observed, that this hostile spirit against us is fanned by discontented emigrants, and by those authors who, to become popular with the majority, laud their own country and defame England; but the great cause of this increase of hostility against us is the democratical party having come into power, and who consider it necessary to excite animosity against this country. When ever it is requisite to throw a tub to the whale, the press is immediately full of abuse; everything is attributed to England, and the machinations of England; she is, by their accounts, here, there, and everywhere, plotting mischief and injury, from the Gulf of Florida to the Rocky Mountains. If we are to believe the democratic press, England is the cause of everything offensive to the majority—if money is scarce, it is England that has occasioned it—if credit is bad, it is England—if eggs are not fresh or beef is tough, it is, it must be, England. They remind you of the parody upon Fitzgerald in Smith’s humorous and witty ‘Rejected Addresses,’ when he is supposed to write against Buonaparte:
Who made the quartern loaf and Luddites rise,
Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies
With a foul earthquake ravaged the Carraccas,
And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?
Why, England. And all this the majority do steadfastly believe, because they wish to believe it.
How, then, is it possible that the lower classes in the United States, (and the lower and unenlightened principally compose the majority,) can have other than feelings of ill-will towards this country? and of what avail is it to us that the high-minded and sensible portion think otherwise, when they are in such a trifling minority, and afraid to express their sentiments? When we talk about a nation, we look to the mass, and that the mass are hostile, and inveterately hostile to this country, is a most undeniable fact.
There is another cause of hostility which I have not adverted to, the remarks upon them by travellers in their country, such as I am now making; but as the Americans never hear the truth from their own countrymen, it is only from foreigners24 that they can. Of course, after having been accustomed to flattery from their earliest days, the truth, when it does come, falls more heavily, and the injury and insult which they consider they have received is never forgotten.
Among the American authors who have increased the ill-will of his countrymen towards this country, Mr Cooper stands pre-eminent. Mr Bulwer has observed that the character and opinions of an author may be pretty fairly estimated by his writings. This is true, but they may be much better estimated by one species of writing than by another. In works of invention or imagination, it is but now and then, by an incidental remark, that we can obtain a clue to the author’s feelings. Carried away by the interest of the story, and the vivid scene presented to the imagination, we are apt to form a better opinion of the author than he deserves, because we feel kindly and grateful towards him for the amusement which he has afforded us; but when a writer puts off the holiday dress of fiction, and appears before us in his every day costume, giving us his thoughts and feelings upon matters of fact, then it is that we can appreciate the real character of the author. Mr Cooper’s character is not to be gained by reading his ‘Pilot,’ but it may be fairly estimated by reading his ‘Travels in Switzerland,’ and his remarks upon England. If, then, we are to judge of Mr Cooper by the above works, I have no hesitation in asserting that he appears to be a disappointed democrat, with a determined hostility to England and the English. This hostility on the part of Mr Cooper cannot proceed from any want of attention shewn him in this country, or want of acknowledgment of his merits as an author. It must be sought for elsewhere. The attacks upon the English in a work professed to be written upon Switzerland, prove how rancorous this feeling is on his part; and not all the works published by English travellers upon America have added so much to the hostile feeling against us, as Mr Cooper has done by his writings alone. Mr Cooper would appear to wish to detach his countrymen, not only from us, but from the whole European Continent. He tells them in his work on Switzerland, that they are not liked or esteemed any where, and that to acknowledge yourself an American is quite sufficient to make those recoil who were intending to advance. Mr Cooper is, in my opinion, very much mistaken in this point;—the people of the Continent do not as yet know enough of the Americans to decide upon their national character. He observes very truly, that no one appears to think any thing about the twelve millions; why so? because in Switzerland, Germany, and other nations in the heart of the Continent, they have no interest about a nation so widely separated from them, and from intercourse with which they receive neither profit nor loss. Neither do they think about the millions in South America, and not caring or hearing about them they can have formed no ideas of their character as a nation. If, then, the Americans are shunned (which I do not believe they are, for they are generally supposed to be a variety of Englishmen), it must be from the conduct of those individuals of the American nation who have travelled there, and not because, as Mr Cooper would imply, they have a democratic form of government. Have not the Swiss something similar, and are they shunned? Who cares what may be the form of government of a country divided from them by three or four thousand miles of water, and of whom they have only read? Every nation, as well as every individual, makes its own character; but Mr Cooper would prove that the dislike shewn to the Americans abroad is owing to the slander of them by the English, and he points out that in the books containing the names of travellers, he no less than twenty-five times observed offensive remarks written beneath the names of those who acknowledged themselves Americans. These books were at different places, places to which all tourists in Switzerland naturally repair. Did it never occur to Mr Cooper that one young fool of an Englishman, during his tour, might have been the author of all these obnoxious remarks, and is the folly of one insignificant individual to be gravely commented upon in a widely disseminated work, so as to occasion or increase the national ill-will? Surely there is little wisdom and much captiousness in this feeling.
