proposes to fight the battle of Germany is the American ballot.
When the franchise was granted to him, or to his father, or to his
grandfather (whichever did this country the honour of first accepting
citizenship), a solemn oath was sworn. Allegiance to a foreign
government was forever disowned; fealty to the government of the United
States was vowed. He who uses his vote to further the interests of a
European state is a perjured man, and that he should dare to threaten
us with the power of his perjury is the height of arrogant ill-doing.
That such a question as “What is the proportion of votes which the
Germans of your section control?” should be asked by German agents, and
answered by German newspapers, affronts our nation’s honour, soils a
sacred trust by ill-usage, and tears our neutrality to rags.
When the Lusitania was sunk, and the horror of the deed shamed
all Christendom, save only those strange residents of Berlin who
received the news with “enthusiasm,” and “joyful pride,” the first
word tactfully whispered in our ear was that, while we might regret
the drowning of Americans, we were impotent to resent it. And this
impotence was to be a concession to the foreign vote. God only knows of
what material Germany thought we were made,--putty, or gutta-percha,
or sun-baked mud? Certainly not of flesh and blood. Certainly not with
hearts to bleed, or souls to burn. Every comment vouchsafed by the
German press placed us in the catalogue of worms warranted not to turn.
The contempt which the German “is not always nice in concealing” shines
with a chastened lustre in the words and deeds of other foreign-born
citizens. They accept the vote which we enthusiastically press upon
them, regarding it as an asset, sometimes of marketable value,
sometimes serving a stronger and more enduring purpose, always as an
esteemed protection against the military service exacted by their own
governments. They do not come to us “with gifts in their hands,”--to
quote Mr. Lowell. They are for the most part destitute, not only of
money, but of knowledge, of useful attainments, of any serviceable
mental equipment. Mr. Edward Alsworth Ross, who is not without
experience, confesses ruefully that the immigrant seldom brings in his
intellectual baggage anything of use to us; and that the admission into
our electorate of “backward men”--men whose mental, moral, and physical
standards are lower than our own--must inevitably retard our social
progress, and thrust us behind the more uniformly civilized nations of
the world.
Meditating on these disagreeable facts, we find ourselves confronted by
sentimentalists who say that if we would only be kind and brotherly,
the sloping foreheads would grow high, the narrow shoulders broad,
the Pole would become peaceable, the Greek honest, the Slav clean,
the Sicilian would give up murder as a pastime, the Jew would lose
his “monstrous love of gain.” Enthusiastic promoters of the “National
Americanization Committee”--a crusade full of promise for the
future--have talked to us so much and so sternly about our duty to the
immigrant, our neglect of the immigrant, our debt to the immigrant,
our need of the immigrant, that we have been no less humiliated than
bewildered by their eloquence. Mr. Roosevelt alone, of all their
orators, has had the hardihood to say bluntly that citizenship implies
service as well as protection; that the debt contracted by the citizen
to the state is as binding as that contracted by the state to the
citizen; that a voter who cannot speak English is an absurdity no less
than a peril; and that all who seek the franchise should be compelled
to accept without demur our laws, our language, our national policy,
our requisitions civil and military. This is what naturalization
implies.
That saving phrase, “It is the law,” which made possible the
civilization of Rome, and which has been the foundation of all great
civilizations before and since, has little weight or sanctity for our
immigrants. They resent legal interference, especially the punishment
of crime, in a very spirited fashion. When Mr. Samuel Gompers defended
the McNamaras and their “social war” murders before a subcommittee
of the United States Senate, he said with feeling that the mere fact
that these men should have come to look upon dynamite as the only
defence left them against the tyranny of capital, was a “terrible
charge against society.” It was an appeal very pleasantly suggestive
of the highwayman, who, having attacked and robbed Lord Derby and Mr.
Grenville, said reproachfully to his victims, “What scoundrels you must
be to fire at a gentleman who risks his life upon the road!”
If Cicero lowered his voice when he spoke of the Jews, fearing the
enmity of this strong and clannish people, the American, who is far
from enjoying Cicero’s prestige, must be doubly cautious lest he give
offence. Yet surely, if there is an immigrant who owes us everything,
it is the Jew. Even our spasmodic and utterly futile efforts to
restrict immigration always leave him a loophole of escape, because he
controls the National Liberal Immigration League.
It is our custom to assume that the Russian Jew is invariably a
fugitive from religious persecution, and we liken him in this regard
to the best and noblest of our early settlers. But the Puritan, the
Quaker, and the Huguenot sacrificed temporal well-being for liberty
of conscience. They left conditions of comfort, and the benefits of
a high civilization, to develop the resources of a virgin land, and
build for themselves homes in the wilderness. They practised the stern
virtues of courage, fortitude, and a most splendid industry. Had the
Pilgrim Fathers been met on Plymouth Rock by immigration officials; had
their children been placed immediately in good free schools, and given
the care of doctors, dentists, and nurses; had they found themselves
in infinitely better circumstances than they had ever enjoyed in
England, indulging in undreamed-of luxuries, and taught by kind-hearted
philanthropists,--what pioneer virtues would they have developed, what
sons would they have bred, what honours would history have accorded
them? If our early settlers were masterful, they earned the right
to mastery, and the price they paid for it was endurance. To the
sacrifices which they made, to their high courage and heroic labours,
we owe law, liberty, and well-being.
It is because the Jew has received from us so much, and given us so
little, that his masterfulness affronts our sense of decency. When the
Jewish Anti-Defamation League boasts--perhaps without warranty--that it
has taken “the first and most important step in excluding the ‘Merchant
of Venice’ from the curriculum of the grammar and high schools of this
country, by having the play removed from the list of requirements laid
down by the Collegiate Entrance Requirement Board,” we feel that a joke
has been carried too far. Nobody can seriously associate the “Merchant
of Venice” with a defamation of the Jewish character. Heaven knows, the
part played by Christians in that immortal drama has never left us
puffed up with pride. Nevertheless, being less thin-skinned, or perhaps
more sure of ourselves, we have grown attached to the play, and should
not relish its banishment by the decree of aliens.
And what if our Italian immigrants should take exception to the
character of Iago, and demand that “Othello” should be excluded from
the schools? What if the Sicilians should find themselves wounded in
spirit by the behaviour of Leontes (compared with whom Shylock and Iago
are gentlemen), and deny us the “Winter’s Tale”? What if the Bohemians
(a fast-increasing body of voters) should complain that their peddlers
are honest men, shamefully slandered by the rogueries of Autolycus? If
all our foreign citizens become in turn as sensitive as Hebrews, we may
find ourselves reduced to the fairy scenes from the “Tempest” and the
“Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Another victory claimed by the “Jewish Tribune” is that the Associated
Press has been made to feel that the words “Jew” and “Hebrew” should be
avoided in connection with criminals. “The religious denomination of
malefactors should not be referred to. It is now generally understood
by newspapers that it is just as improper to describe a malefactor by
stating that he is a Jew, as it would be to describe such a person as a
Catholic or a Methodist.”
Does this mean that the Jew no longer claims any racial distinction,
that he has no genealogy, no pedigree, no place in history, nothing
by which he may be classified but church membership? Is the simple
dictionary definition, “Jew. An Israelite; a person of the Hebrew
race,” without any significance? We may call a Greek pickpocket a
Greek, or a Polish rioter a Pole, or an Italian murderer an Italian;
but we may not call a Jewish procurer a Jew, because that word refers
only to his attendance at the synagogue. May we then speak of a
scholar, a musician, a scientist, a philanthropist, as a Jew? Only--by
this ruling--as we might speak of one as a Catholic or a Methodist,
only in reference to his “religious denomination.” If he chances to be
unsectarian, then, as he is also raceless, he cannot be called anything
at all. If the word “Jew” be out of place in the police courts, it is
equally out of place in colleges, learned societies, and encyclopædias.
It will be remembered that, after the publication of “Oliver Twist,”
a bitter protest was raised by English Jews against the character
of Fagin, or rather against the fact that the merry old gentleman
is alluded to frequently as a Jew. The complainants said--what the
“Jewish Tribune” now says--that the use of the word as an indicatory
substantive was an insult to their creed. Dickens, who had never
thought of Fagin as having any creed, who had never associated him
with religious observances of any kind, was puzzled and pained at
having unwittingly given offence; and strove to make clear that, when
he said “Jew,” he meant an Israelite, and not a frequenter of the
synagogue. Years afterward he made a peace-offering in the person of
Riah, who plays the part of a good Samaritan in “Our Mutual Friend,”
and who is to Fagin as skimmed milk to brandy.
It is worthy of note that whenever any strong and noble emotion grips
our Jewish citizens, they speedily forget their antipathy to the word
“Jew.” For years past they have objected to the use of the word by
charitable associations, even when there was no hint of criminality
to shame it. They have asked that visiting nurses should not report
service to Jewish homes, or Jewish patients. Homes and patients should
be placed upon record as Russian or Polish,--whichever the case might
be. The race was specifically denied. The Semite was sunk in the
Slav. But when there came a cry for help from the war-stricken Jews
of Europe, the Jews of America responded with exalted enthusiasm. Jew
called to Jew, and the great tie of kindred asserted itself supremely.
It was not as co-religionists, but as brothers-in-blood, that New
York millionaires, who had never entered a synagogue, stretched out
their hands in aid. Women stripped off their jewels, and offered this
glittering tribute, as they might have done in the fighting days of
Israel. Young and old, rich and poor, gave with unstinted compassion.
Gentiles contributed generously to the fund, and Christian churches
asked the coöperation of Christian congregations. To some Jews the
thought must have occurred that America had not dealt harshly by her
immigrants, when they could command millions for their impoverished
brethren in Europe.
Therefore it behooves the men and women who have been well received,
and who have responded ably to the opportunities offered them by
our country’s superb liberality, to be a little more lenient to our
shortcomings. We confess them readily enough; but we feel that those
whom we have befriended should not be the ones to dwell upon them with
too much gusto. There are situations in the world which imperiously
dictate urbanity. “Steadily as I worked to win America,” writes Mary
Antin, “America advanced to lie at my feet,”--a poodle-like attitude
which ought to disarm criticism. When this clever young woman tells
us that she “took possession of Beacon Street” (a goodly heritage),
and there “drank afternoon tea with gentle ladies whose hands were
as delicate as their porcelain cups,” we feel well content at this
swift recognition of energy and ability. It is not the first time
such pleasant things have happened, and it will not be the last. But
why should the recipient of so much attention be the one to scold us
harshly, to rail at conditions she imperfectly understands, to reproach
us for our ill-mannered children (whom we fear she must have met in
Beacon Street), our slackness in duty, our failure to observe the
precepts and fulfil the intentions of those pioneers whom she kindly,
but confusedly, calls “_our_ forefathers.”
It is the hopeless old story of opposing races, of people unable to
understand one another because they have no mutual standards, no common
denominator. Mary Antin is perfectly sincere, and, from her point of
view, justified, in bidding us remember that among the Harrison Avenue
tenants, “who pitch rubbish through their windows,” was the grocer
whose kindness helped to keep her at school. And she adds with sublime
because unconscious egotism, “Let the City Fathers strike the balance.”
But Elizabeth Robins Pennell is also sincere, and, from _her_ point
of view, justified, when she says with exceeding bitterness that, if
Philadelphia blossomed like the rose with Mary Antins, the city would
be but ill repaid for the degradation of her noble old streets, now
transformed into foul and filthy slums. Dirt is a valuable asset in
the immigrant’s hands. With its help he drives away decent neighbours,
and brings property down to his level and his purse. The ill-fated
Philadelphian is literally pushed out of his home--the only place,
sighs Mrs. Pennell, where he wants to live--by conditions which he is
unable to avert, and unwilling, as well as unfitted, to endure.
It is part of the unreality of modern sentimentalism that we should
have a strong sense of duty toward all the nations of the world except
our own. We see plainly what we owe to the Magyar and the Levantine,
but we have no concern for the Virginian or the Pennsylvanian. The
capitalist and the sentimentalist play into each other’s hands,
and neither takes thought of our country’s irrational present and
imperilled future. We go on keeping a “civic kindergarten” for
backward aliens, and we go on mutely suffering reproach for not
advancing our pupils more rapidly. In the industrial town of New
Britain, Connecticut, the foreign population is nine times greater
than the native population, which is a hideous thing to contemplate.
Twenty nationalities are represented, eighteen languages are spoken.
The handful of Americans, who are supposed to leaven this heavy
and heterogeneous mass, take their duties very seriously. Schools,
playgrounds, clubs, night-classes, vacation classes, gymnasiums,
visiting nurses, milk-stations, charitable organizations, a city
mission with numerous interpreters, a free library with books and
newspapers in divers tongues, all the leavening machinery is kept in
active service for the hard task of civic betterment. Yet it was in
New Britain that an immigrant was found who, after sixteen years’
residence in the United States, was not aware that he might, if he
chose, become a citizen; and this incident, Mary Antin considers
a heavy indictment against the community. “It makes a sensitive
American,” she writes passionately, “choke with indignation.”
It makes an exasperated American choke with angry laughter to have
the case put that way. The ballot is not necessary to safe, decent,
and prosperous living. A good many millions of women have made shift
to live safely, decently, and prosperously without it. If it is to be
regarded as an asset to the immigrant, then his own friends, his own
people, the voters of his own race, might (in the welcome absence of
political bosses) be the ones to press it upon his acceptance. If it
be considered as a safeguard for the Republic, we cannot but feel that
this highly intelligent alien might be spared permanently from the
electorate.
For the first nine months of the war, when Italy’s neutrality swayed
in the conflicting currents of national pride and national precaution,
and no one could foretell what the end would be, a young Italian
gardener, employed near Philadelphia, suffered dismal doubts concerning
the expediency of naturalization. He was a frugal person, devoid of
high political instincts. He did not covet a vote to sell, and he did
not want to pay the modest cost of becoming an American citizen. He
preferred keeping his money and staying what he was, provided always
that Italy remained at peace. But the prospect of Italy’s going to
war disposed him to look favourably upon the safeguard of a foreign
allegiance. Being unable to decipher the newspapers, he made anxious
inquiries every morning. If the headlines read, “Italy unlikely to
abandon attitude of neutrality,” he settled down contentedly to his
day’s work. If the headlines read, “Austria refuses guarantee. Italy
sending troops to northern frontier,” he became once more a prey to
indecision. Then came the May days when doubt was turned to certainty.
Italy, long straining at the leash, plunged into the conflict.
Thousands of Italians in the United States stood ready to fight for
their country, to give back to her, if need be, the lives which
they might have held safe. But one peace-loving gardener hurried to
Philadelphia, applied for his naturalization papers, failed utterly to
pass the casual tests which would have secured them, grew frightened
and demoralized by failure, appealed desperately to his employer, and,
with a little timely aid, was pitched shivering into citizenship.
If ever there comes a cloud between the United States and Italy, this
doughty “Italian-American” will, I am sure, be found fighting with
“weapons of the spirit” for the welfare of his adored and endangered
“Fatherland.”
Waiting
In the most esteemed of his advisory poems, Mr. Longfellow recommends
his readers to be “up and doing,” and at the same time learn “to
labour and to wait.” Having, all of us, imbibed these sentiments in
their harmonious setting when we were at school, we have, all of us,
endeavoured for many months to put such conflicting precepts into
practice. Mr. Longfellow, it will be remembered, gave precedence to
his “up and doing” line; but this may have been due to the exigencies
of verse. We began by waiting, and we waited long. Our deliberation
has seemed to border on paralysis. But back of this superhuman
patience--rewarded by repeated insult and repeated injury--was a
toughening resolution which snatched from insult and injury the bitter
fruit of knowledge. We are emerging from this period of suspense a
sadder and a wiser people, keenly aware of dangers which, a year ago,
seemed negligible, fully determined to front such dangers with courage
and with understanding.
When Germany struck her first blow at Belgium, the neutral nations
silently acquiesced in this breach of good faith. The burning of
Louvain, the destruction of the Cathedral of Rheims, were but the first
fruits of this sinister silence. The sinking of the Lusitania followed
in the orderly sequence of events. It was a deliberate expression of
defiance and contempt, a gauntlet thrown to the world. The lives it
cost, the innocence and helplessness of the drowned passengers, their
number and their nationalities, all combined to make this novelty in
warfare exactly what Germany meant it to be. We Americans had tried
(and it had been hard work) to bear tranquilly the misfortunes of
others. Now let us apply our philosophy to ourselves. Herr Erich von
Salzmann voiced the sentiment of his countrymen when he said in the
Berlin “Lokal Anzeiger”:--
“The Lusitania is no more. Only those who have travelled by sea can
appreciate the extraordinary impression which this news will make all
over the world.... The fact that it was we Germans who destroyed this
ship must make us proud of ourselves. The Lusitania case will obtain
for us more respect than a hundred battles won on land.”
The severing of fear from respect is a subtlety which has not
penetrated the mind of the Prussian. He recognizes no such distinction,
because his doctrine of efficiency embraces the doctrine of
frightfulness. His Kultur is free from any ethical bias. The fact that
we may greatly fear lust, cruelty, and other forms of violence, without
in the least respecting these qualities, has no significance for him.
He frankly does not care. If he can teach the French, the English, or
the Americans to fear him in 1916, as he taught the Chinese to fear him
in 1900, and by the same methods, he will be well content.
But was it fear which paralyzed us when we heard that American women
and children had been sacrificed as ruthlessly as were the Chinese
women and children sixteen years ago? The fashion in which American
gentlemen died on the Lusitania, as on the Titanic, may well acquit
us of any charge of cowardice. Whatever “respect” ensued from that
pitiless massacre was won by the victims, not by the perpetrators
thereof. Why, then, when the news was brought, did we feverishly urge
one another to “keep calm”? Why did we chatter day after day about
“rocking the boat,” as though unaware that the blow which sent us
reeling and quivering was struck by a foreign hand? Why did we let
pass the supreme moment of action, and settle down to months of
controversy? And what have we gained by delay?
All these questions have been answered many times to the satisfaction
and dissatisfaction of the querists. If we had severed diplomatic and
commercial relations with Germany, she might have declared war, and
we did not want to fight; not, at least, on such provocation as she
had given us, and with such ships and munitions as we could command.
There was a well-founded conviction that no step involving the safety
of the nation should be taken impetuously, or under the influence of
resentment, or without discreet calculation of ways and means. There
was also a rational hope that Germany might be induced to disavow the
savage slaughter of noncombatants, and promise redress. And always in
the background of our consciousness was a lurking hope that the pen
would prove mightier than the sword. The copy-books say that it is
mightier, and where shall we look for wisdom, if not to the counsels
of the copy-book!
The correspondence which ensued between the Administration in
Washington and the Imperial Government in Berlin was so remarkable
that it may well serve as a model for generations yet unborn. If the
Polite Letter-Writer ever broadens its sphere to embrace diplomatic
relations, it could not do better than reprint these admirable
specimens of what was thought to be a lost art. The urbanity and
firmness of each American note filled us with justifiable pride. Also
with a less justifiable elation, which was always dissipated by the
arrival of a German note, equally urbane and equally firm. Germany was
more than willing to state at length and at leisure her reasons for
sinking merchant ships, provided she could safely and uninterruptedly
continue the practice. Such warfare she defined in her note of July 9
as a “sacred duty.” “If the Imperial Government were derelict in these
duties, it would be guilty before God and history of the violation of
those principles of highest humanity which are the foundation of every
national existence.”
The German is certainly at home in Zion. If his god be a trifle
exacting in the matter of human sacrifice, he is otherwise the
most pliant and accommodating of deities. It is one of our many
disadvantages that we have no American god. Only the Divinity,
whose awful name is, by comment consent, omitted from diplomatic
correspondence.