Guarding the entrance to New York there stands, lofty and austere, the
statue of Liberty. It is this statue which immigrants, on their way to
Ellis Island, are wont to apostrophise. To contemplate it is, we are
told, to know the true meaning of life, to taste for the first time
the sweets of an untrammelled freedom. No sooner does M. Bartholdi's
beneficent matron smile upon you, than you cast off the chains of
an ancient slavery. You forget in a moment the years which you have
misspent under the intolerable burden of a monarch. Be you Pole or Russ,
Briton or Ruthenian, you rejoice at the mere sight of this marvel, in a
new hope, in a boundless ambition. Unconscious of what awaits you, you
surrender yourself so eagerly to the sway of sentiment that you are
unable to observe the perfections of your idol. You see only its vast
size. You are content to believe the official statement that 305 feet
separate the tip of the lady's torch from low water. You know that
you gaze on the largest statue upon earth. And surely it should be the
largest, for it symbolises a greater mass of Liberty than ever before
was gathered together upon one continent.
For Liberty is a thing which no one in America can escape. The old
inhabitant smiles with satisfaction as he murmurs the familiar word. At
every turn it is clubbed into the unsuspecting visitor. If an aspirant
to the citizenship of the Republic declined to be free, he would
doubtless be thrown into a dungeon, fettered and manacled, until he
consented to accept the precious boon. You cannot pick up a newspaper
without being reminded that Liberty is the exclusive possession of
the United States. The word, if not the quality, is the commonplace
of American history. It looks out upon you--the word again, not the
quality--from every hoarding. It is uttered in every discourse, and
though it irks you to listen to the boasting of "Liberty", as it irks you
when a man vaunts his honour, you cannot but inquire what is this fetish
which distinguishes America from the rest of the habitable globe, and
what does it achieve for those who worship it.
In what, then, does the Liberty of America consist? Is it in freedom
of opportunity? A career is open to all the talents everywhere.
The superstitions of Europe, the old-fashioned titles of effete
aristocracies, are walls more easily surmounted than the golden
barricades of omnipotent corporations. Does it consist in political
freedom? If we are to believe in the pedantry that Liberty is the child
of the ballot-box, then America has no monopoly of its blessings. The
privilege of voting is almost universal, and the freedom which this
poor privilege confers is within the reach of Englishman, German, or
Frenchman. Indeed, it is America which sets the worst stumbling-block in
the voter's path. The citizen, however high his aspiration after Liberty
may be, wages a vain warfare against the cunning of the machine. Where
repeaters and fraudulent ballots flourish, it is idle to boast the
blessings of the suffrage. Such institutions as Tammany are essentially
practical, but they do not help the sacred cause commemorated in M.
Bartholdi's statue; and if we would discover the Liberty of America, we
must surely look outside the ring of boodlers and politicians who have
held the franchise up to ridicule. Is, then, the boasted Liberty a
liberty of life? One comes and goes with ease as great in England as
in America. There are even certain restrictions imposed in the home of
Freedom, of which we know nothing on this side the Atlantic, where we
fear the curiosity of the Press as little as we dread the exactions of
hungry monopolies. Of many examples, two will suffice to illustrate
the hardships of a democratic tyranny. Not long since the most famous
actress of our generation was prevented by a trust of all-powerful
managers from playing in the theatres of America, and was compelled to
take refuge in booths and tents. Being a lady of courage and resource,
she filled her new _rôle_ with perfect success, and completely outwitted
her envious rivals. The victory was snatched, by the actress's own
energy, from the very jaws of Liberty. Far more unfortunate was the fate
of M. Gorki, who visited America to preach the gospel of Freedom, as he
thought, in willing ears. With the utmost propriety he did all that was
expected of him. He apostrophised the statue in a voice tremulous with
emotion. He addressed the great Continent, as it loves to be addressed.
"America! America!" he exclaimed, "how I have longed for this day, when
my foot should tread the soil where despotism cannot live!" Alas for his
lost enthusiasm!
A despot, grim and pitiless, was waiting for him round the corner. In
other words, the proprietor of his hotel discovered that Mme. Gorki
had no right to that name, and amid the cheers of the guests he and his
companion were driven shamefully into the street. Were it not for
the wanton inconvenience inflicted upon M. Gorki, the comedy of the
situation would be priceless. The Friends of Russian Freedom, piously
enamoured of assassination, and listening intently for the exquisite
reverberation of the deadly bomb, sternly demand of the Apostle his
marriage-lines. The Apostle of Revolution, unable to satisfy the demand,
is solemnly excommunicated, as if he had apostrophised no statue, as if
he had felt no expansion of his lungs, no tingling of his blood, when he
first breathed the air of Freedom. O Liberty! Liberty! many follies
have been committed in thy name! And now thy voice is hushed in
inextinguishable laughter!
The truth is, American Liberty is the mere creature of rhetoric. It is a
survival from the time when the natural rights of man inspired a simple
faith, when eager citizens declared that kings were the eternal enemies
of Freedom. Its only begetter was Thomas Jefferson, and its gospel is
preached in the famous Declaration of Independence. The dogmatism and
pedantry upon which it is based are easily confuted. Something else
than a form of government is necessary to ensure political and personal
liberty. Otherwise the Black Republic would be a model to England. But
Jefferson, not being a philosopher, and knowing not the rudiments of
history, was unable to look beyond the few moral maxims which he had
committed to memory. He was sure that the worst republic was better
than the noblest tyranny the world had ever seen. He appealed not to
experience but to sentiment, and he travelled up and down Europe with
his eyes closed and his mind responsive only to the echoes of a vain
theory. "If all the evils which can arise among us," said he, "from the
republican form of our government, from this day to the Day of
Judgment, could be put into a scale against what France suffers from
its monarchical form in a week, or England in a month, the latter
would preponderate." Thus he said, in sublime ignorance of the past, in
perfect misunderstanding of the future. And his empty words echo to-day
in the wigwams of Tammany.
All forms of government have their strength and their weakness. They are
not equally suitable to all races and to all circumstances. It was
this obvious truth that Jefferson tore to shreds before the eyes of his
compatriots. He persuaded them to accept his vague generalities as
a sober statement of philosophic truth, and he aroused a hatred of
kingship in America which was comic in expression and disastrous in
result. It was due to his influence that plain citizens hymned the
glories of "Guillotina, the Tenth Muse," and fell down in worship before
a Phrygian cap. It was due to his influence that in 1793 the death
of Louis XVI. was celebrated throughout the American continent with
grotesque symbolism and farcical solemnity. A single instance is enough
to prove the malign effect of Jefferson's teaching. At Philadelphia the
head of a pig was severed from its body, and saluted as an emblem of the
murdered king.
"Each one," says the historian, "placing the cap of liberty upon his
head, pronounced the word 'tyrant'! and proceeded to mangle with his
knife the head of the luckless creature doomed to be served for so
unworthy a company." And the voice of Jefferson still speaks in the
land. Obedient to his dictate, Americans still take a sentimental
view of Liberty. For them Liberty is still an emotion to feel, not a
privilege to enjoy. They are willing to believe that a monarch means
slavery. America is the greatest republic on earth, they argue, and
therefore it is the chosen and solitary home of Freedom.
So, ignoring the peculiar enslavements of democracy, forgetting the
temptations to which the noblest republic is exposed, they proclaim a
monopoly of the sovereign virtue, and cast a cold eye of disdain upon
the tradition of older countries. The author of 'Triumphant Democracy,'
for instance, asserts that he "was denied political equality by his
native land." We do not know for what offence he was thus heavily
punished, and it is consoling to reflect that the beloved Republic has
made him "the peer of any man." It has not made any other man his peer.
He is separated far more widely by his wealth from the workmen, whom he
patronises, than the meanest day-labourer in England from the dukes to
whom he is supposed to bend the knee; and if Mr Carnegie's be the
fine flower of American Liberty, we need hardly regret that ours is of
another kind.
In Jefferson's despite, men are not made free and equal by the frequent
repetition of catchwords, and it is by a fine irony that America, which
prides itself upon a modern spirit, should still be swayed by a foolish
superstition, more than a century old, that the cant of Liberty and
Equality, uttered by a slave-owner in 1776, should still warp its
intelligence. "I don't know what liberty means," said Lord Byron, "never
having seen it;" and it was in candour rather than in experience that
Byron differed from his fellows. Nor has any one else seen what eluded
Byron. A perfectly free man must be either uncivilised or decivilised--a
savage stronger than his fellows or an undetected anarch armed with a
bomb, A free society is a plain contradiction, for a society must be
controlled by law, and law is an instant curtailment of Liberty. And,
if you would pursue this chimera, it is not in a democracy that you are
likely to surprise it. Liberty is a prize which will always escape you
in a mob. The supremacy of the people means the absolute rule of the
majority, in deference to which the mere citizen must lay aside all hope
of independence. In life, as in politics, a democratic minority has no
rights. It cannot set its own pace; it cannot choose its own route;
it must follow the will of others, not its own desire; and it is small
comfort to the slave, whose chains gall him, that the slave-driver bears
the name of a free man.
Liberty, in brief, is a private, not a public, virtue. It has naught
to do with extended franchises or forms of government. The free man
may thrive as easily under a tyranny as in a republic. Is it not true
Liberty to live in accord with one's temperament or talent? And as the
best laws cannot help this enterprise, so the worst cannot hinder it.
You will discover Liberty in Russia as in America, in England as
in France,--everywhere, indeed, where men refuse to accept the
superstitions and doctrines of the mob. But the Americans are not
content to possess the Liberty which satisfies the rest of the world.
With characteristic optimism they boast the possession of a rare and
curious quality. In Europe we strive after Freedom in all humility
of spirit, as after a happy state of mind. In America they advertise
it--like a patent medicine.
America's view of Patriotism is distinguished by the same ingenious
exaggeration as her view of Liberty. She has as little doubt of her
Grandeur as of her Freedom. She is, in brief, "God's own country,"
and in her esteem Columbus was no mere earthly explorer; he was
the authentic discoverer of the Promised Land. Neither argument nor
experience will ever shake the American's confidence in his noble
destiny. On all other questions uncertainty is possible. It is not
possible to discuss America's supremacy. In arms as in arts, the United
States are unrivalled. They alone enjoy the blessings of civilisation.
They alone have been permitted to combine material with moral progress.
They alone have solved the intricate problems of life and politics. They
have the biggest houses, the best government, and the purest law
that the world has ever known. Their universities surpass Oxford and
Cambridge, Paris and Leipzig, in learning, as their Churches surpass the
Churches of the old world in the proper understanding of theology. In
brief, to use their own phrase, America is "It," the sole home of the
good and great.
Patriotism such as this, quick in enthusiasm, simple in faith, may
prove, if properly handled, a national asset of immeasurable value. And
in public the Americans admit no doubt. Though they do not hesitate to
condemn the boodlers who prey upon their cities, though they deplore the
corrupt practices of their elections, they count all these abuses as
but spots upon a brilliant sun. A knowledge of his country's political
dishonesty does not depress the true patriot. He is content to think
that his ideals are as lofty as their realisation is remote, and that
the triumph of graft is as nothing compared with a noble sentiment. The
result is that the Americans refuse to weaken their national prestige by
the advertised cannibalism which is so popular in England. They are for
their country, right or wrong. They do not understand the anti-patriot
argument, which was born of the false philosophy of the eighteenth
century, and which has left so evil a mark upon our political life.
To them the phenomenon which we call Pro-Boerism is not easily
intelligible. They take an open pride in their country and their flag,
and it seems certain that, when they stand in the presence of an enemy,
they will not weaken their national cause by dissension.
This exultant Patriotism is the more remarkable when we reflect upon
what it is based. The love of country, as understood in Europe, depends
upon identity of race, upon community of history and tradition. It
should not be difficult for those whose fathers have lived under the
same sky, and breathed the same air, to sacrifice their prosperity or
their lives to the profit of the State. In making such a sacrifice they
are but repaying the debt of nurture. To the vast majority of Americans
this sentiment, grafted on the past, can make no appeal. The only link
which binds them to America is their sudden arrival on alien soil. They
are akin to the Anglo-Saxons, who first peopled the continent, neither
in blood nor in sympathy. They carry with them their national habits and
their national tastes. They remain Irish, or German, or Italian, with a
difference, though they bear the burden of another State, and assume the
privileges of another citizenship. But there is no mistake about their
Patriotism. Perhaps those shout loudest who see the Star-spangled Banner
unfurled for the first time, and we are confronted in America with the
outspoken expression of a sentiment which cannot be paralleled elsewhere
on the face of the globe.
They tread the same ground, these vast hordes of patriots, they obey the
same laws,--that is all. Are they, then, moved by a spirit of gratitude,
or do they feel the same loyalty which animates a hastily gathered
football team, which plays not for its honour but for the profit of its
manager? Who shall say? One thing only is certain: the Patriotism of the
cosmopolites, if it be doubtful in origin, is by no means doubtful in
expression. On every Fourth of July the Americans are free to display
the love of their Country, and they use this freedom without restraint.
From the Atlantic to the Pacific Coast, from Vermont to Mexico, the
Eagle screams aloud. She screams from early morn to dewy eve. And there
is nothing to silence her screaming save the explosion of innumerable
crackers, the firing of countless pistols.
For this day the youth of America is given full licence to shoot his
inoffensive neighbours, and, if he will, to commit the happy despatch
upon him-self. The next morning the newspapers chronicle the injuries
which have been inflicted on and by the boys of New York, for the most
part distinguished by foreign names, with the cold accuracy bred of long
habit. And while the boys prove their patriotism by the explosion of
crackers, their fathers, with equal enthusiasm, devote themselves to
the waving of flags. They hold flags in their hands, they carry them in
their buttonholes, they stick them in their hats, they wear them behind
their ears. Wherever your eye is cast, there are flags to dazzle it,
flags large and flags small, an unbroken orgie of stars and stripes.
It is, in fact, the Guy Fawkes Day of America. And who is the Guy? None
other than George III. of blessed memory. For the Fourth of July has
its duties as well as its pleasures, and the chief of its duties is the
public reading of the Declaration of Independence. In every town
and hamlet Jefferson's burning words are proclaimed in the ears of
enthusiastic citizens. It is pointed out to a motley crowd of newly
arrived immigrants that George, our king, of whom they had not heard
yesterday, was unfit to be the ruler of a free people. And lest the
inestimable benefit of Jefferson's eloquence should be lost to one
single suddenly imported American, his declaration is translated into
Yiddish for the benefit of those to whom English is still an unknown
tongue. In a voice trembling with emotion, the orator assures the
starving ill-clad Pole and the emaciated Bohemian that all men are
free and equal; and so fine is the air of the Great Republic that this
proposition, which refutes itself, is firmly believed for the moment by
the penniless and hungry. And when the sun sets, and darkness enwraps
the happy land, fireworks put a proper finish upon the national joy, and
the favourite set-piece represents, as it should, a noble-hearted Yankee
boy putting to flight a dozen stout red-jackets of King George.
Humour might suggest that the expression of Patriotism is a trifle
overdone. Perhaps also a truce might be made with King George, who,
if he be permitted to look from the shades upon a country which his
Ministers lost, must surely smile at this immortality of resentment. But
to the stranger, who witnesses this amazing carnival for the first time,
two reflections occur. In the first place, the stranger cannot but
be struck by the perfect adaptation of Jefferson's rodomontade to an
expected purpose. Although that eminent Virginian, at the highest point
of his exaltation, did not look forward to the inrush of foreigners
which is overwhelming his country, there is a peculiar quality in his
words, even when translated into Yiddish, which inspires an inexplicable
enthusiasm. In the second place, the stranger is astounded at the
ingenuity which inspires a crowd, separated by wide differences of race,
speech, and education, with a sudden sympathy for a country which is not
its own.
And when the last crackers are exploded, and the last flag is waved,
what is left? An unreasoning conviction, cherished, as I have said, by a
foreign population, that America is the greatest country on earth. What
the conviction lacks in sincerity it gains in warmth of expression,
and if America be ever confronted by an enemy, the celebrations of the
Fourth of July will be found not to have been held in vain. Where there
is no just bond of union, a bond must be invented, and Patriotism is the
most notable invention of the great Republic. To have knit up all the
nations of the earth in a common superstition is no mean achievement,
and it is impossible to withhold a fervent admiration from the rhetoric
which has thus attained what seemed, before its hour, the unattainable.
But in this cosmopolitan orgie of political excitement the true-born
American plays but a small part. He has put the drama on the stage,
and is content to watch the result. If a leader be needed in a time of
stress, the man of Anglo-Saxon blood will be ready to serve the country,
which belongs more intimately to him than to those who sing its praises
with a noisy clatter. Meanwhile he lets the politicians do their worst,
and watches the game with a careless indifference. Even if he loves
his country, his love does not persuade him to self-sacrifice. You
may measure his patriotism by the fact that, if he does venture upon a
political career, his friends know not which they should do--praise him
or condole with him. "Isn't it good of So-and-so?" we constantly hear;
"he has gone into politics." And with the approval is mixed a kindly,
if contemptuous, sorrow. The truth is, that the young American of gentle
birth and leisured ease hates to soil his hands with public affairs.
His ambition does not drive him, as it drives his English cousin, into
Parliament. He prefers to pursue culture in the capitals of Europe,
or to urge an automobile at a furious pace across the sands. And the
inaction of the real American is America's heaviest misfortune. So long
as politics are left to the amateurs of graft, so long will Freedom be
a fiction and Patriotism a piece of mere lip-service. Wealth is not
wanting; brains are not wanting; energy is not wanting. Nothing is
wanting save the inclination to snatch the control of the country
from the hands of professional politicians. And until this control be
snatched, it is idle to speak of reform. The Constitution of the United
States is, we are told, a perfect Constitution. Its perfection is
immaterial so long as Tammany on the one hand and the Trusts on the
other conspire to keep it of no effect--a mere paper thing in a museum.
The one thing needful is for men with clean hands and wise heads to
govern their States, to stand for Congress, to enter the Senate, to
defend the municipalities against corruption. And when this is done,
the Declaration of Independence may safely be forgotten, in the
calm assurance that it is better to spend one day in the service of
patriotism than to fire off a thousand crackers and to dazzle the air
with stars and stripes innumerable.