of the best things of the past, but with the power to fuse such
knowledge as he had and to recast it in his own mould, was a man of
culture. And all true Americans would agree with him.
Emerson, like the "sociable, accessible, republican sort of man" that he
was, was the foe of special privilege. The best things were, in his
judgment, the property of all. He would take religion from the custody
of the priests, and culture from the hands of schoolmasters, and restore
them to their proper place, among the inalienable rights of man. They
were simply forms of the pursuit of happiness of which the Declaration
of Independence speaks. It is a right of which no potentates can justly
deprive the citizen.
Above all, he would protest against everything which tends to deprive
anyone of the happiness of the forward look. There was a cheerful
confidence that the great forces are on our side. Now and then the
clouds gather and obscure the vision, but:
"There are open hours
When God's will sallies free
And the dull idiot may see
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years."
This is the American doctrine of "Manifest Destiny" spiritually
discerned.
V
But one need not go so far back as Emerson to see the higher reaches of
the American temperament. Perhaps in no one have they been revealed with
more distinctness than in William James. There are those who consider it
dispraise of a philosopher to suggest that his work has local color.
However that may be, William James thought as an American as certainly
as Plato thought as a Greek. His way of philosophizing was one that
belonged to the land of his birth.
He was as distinctly American as was Daniel Boone. Daniel Boone was no
renegade taking to the woods that he might relapse into savagery. He was
a civilized man who preferred to be the maker of civilization rather
than to be its victim. He preferred to blaze his own way through the
forest. When he saw the smoke of a neighbor's chimney it was time for
him to move on. So William James was led by instinct from the crowded
highways to the dim border-lands of human experience. He preferred to
dwell in the debatable lands. With a quizzical smile he listened to the
dignitaries of philosophy. He found their completed systems too stuffy.
He loved the wildernesses of thought where shy wild things hide--half
hopes, half realities. They are not quite true now,--but they may be by
and by.
As other men are interested in the actual, so he was interested in the
possible. The possibilities are not so highly finished as the facts that
have been proved, but there are a great many more of them, and they are
much more important. There are more things in the unexplored forest than
in the clearing at its edge. Truth to him was not a field with metes
and bounds. It was a continent awaiting settlement. First the bold
pathfinders must adventure into it. Its vast spaces were infinitely
inviting, its undeveloped resources were alluring. And not only did
the path-finder interest him but the path-loser as well. But for his
heedless audacity the work of exploration would languish. Was ever a
philosopher so humorously tender to the intellectual vagabonds, the
waifs and strays of the spiritual world!
Their reports of vague meanderings in the border-land were listened
to without scorn. They might be ever so absent-minded and yet have
stumbled upon something which wiser men had missed. No one was more
keen to criticize the hard-and-fast dogmas of the wise and prudent or
more willing to learn what might, by chance, have been revealed unto
babes. The one thing he demanded was space. His universe must not be
finished or inclosed. After a rational system had been formulated and
declared to be the Whole, his first instinct was to get away from it.
He was sure that there must be more outside than there was inside.
"The 'through-and-through' universe seems to suffocate me with its
infallible, impeccable all-pervasiveness. Its necessity with no
possibilities, its relations with no subjects, make me feel as if
I had entered into a contract with no reserved rights."
Formal philosophy seemed to him to be "too buttoned-up and
white-chokered and clean-shaven a thing to speak for the vast,
slow-breathing, unconscious Kosmos with its dread abysses and its
unknown tides. The freedom we want is not the freedom, with a string
tied to its leg and warranted not to fly away, of that philosophy. Let
it fly away, we say, from _us_. What then?"
To this American there must be a true democracy among the faculties of
the mind. The logical understanding must not be allowed to put on
priggish airs. The feelings have their rights also. "They may be as
prophetic and as anticipatory of truth as anything else we have." There
must be give and take; "what hope is there of squaring and settling
opinions unless Absolutism will hold parley on this common ground and
admit that all philosophies are hypotheses, to which all our faculties,
emotional as well as logical, help us, and the truest of which will in
the final integration of things be found in possession of the men whose
faculties on the whole had the best divining power?"
Do not those words give us a glimpse of the American mind in its natural
working. Its genius is anticipatory. It is searching for a common ground
on which all may meet. It puts its trust not in the thinker who can put
his thoughts in the most neat form, but the man whose faculties have _on
the whole the best divining power_.
To listen to William James was to experience an illogical elation--and
to feel justified in it. He was an unsparing critic of things as they
are, but his criticism left us in no mood of depression. Our interest is
with things as they are going to be. The universe is growing. Let us
grow with it.
THE UNACCUSTOMED EARS OF EUROPE
I
When, as a child, I learned the Westminster Catechism by heart I found
the Ten Commandments easy to remember. There was something
straightforward in these prohibitions. Once started in the right
direction one could hardly stray from the path. But I stumbled over the
question, in regard to certain Commandments, "What are the reasons
annexed?"
That a commandment should be committed to memory seemed just. I was
prepared to submit to the severest tests of verbal accuracy. But that
there should be "reasons annexed," and that these also should be
remembered, seemed to my youthful understanding a grievance. It made the
path of the obedient hard. To this day there is a haziness about the
"reasons" that contrasts with the sharp outlines of the commandments.
I fancy that news-gatherers have the same experience. They are diligent
in collecting items of news and reporting them to the world, but it is a
real hardship to them to have to give any rational account of these bits
of fact. They tell what is done in different parts of the world, but
they forget to mention "the moving why they did it." The consequence is
that, in this age of instantaneous communication, we know what is going
on in other countries, but it seems very irrational. The rational
elements have been lost in the process of transmission.
There has, for example, been no lack of news cabled across the Atlantic
in regard to the nominations for President of the United States. The
European reader is made aware that a great deal of strong feeling has
been evoked, and strong language used. When a picturesque term of
reproach has been hurled by one candidate at another it is promptly
reported to a waiting world. But the "reasons annexed" are calmly
ignored. The consequence is that the reader is confirmed in his
exaggerated idea of the nervous irritability of the American people.
There seems to be a periodicity in their seizures. At intervals of four
years they indulge in an orgy of mutual recrimination, and then suddenly
return to their normal state of money-getting. It is all very
unaccountable. Doubtless the most charitable explanation is the climate.
It was after giving prominence to an unusually vivid bit of political
vituperation that a conservative London newspaper remarked, "All this is
characteristically American, but it shocks the unaccustomed ears of
Europe."
As I read the rebuke I felt positively ashamed of my country and its
untutored ways. I pictured Europe as a dignified lady of mature years
listening to the screams issuing from her neighbor's nursery. She had
not been used to hearing naughty words called out in such a loud tone of
voice. Instead of discussing their grievances calmly, they were actually
calling one another names.
It was therefore with a feeling of chastened humility that I turned to
the columns devoted to the more decorous doings of Europe. Here I should
find examples worthy of consideration. They are drawn from the homes of
ancient civility. Would that our rude politicians might be brought under
these refining influences and learn how to behave!
But alas! When we drop in upon our neighbors, unannounced, things are
sometimes not so tidy as they are on the days "at home." The hostess is
flustered and evidently has troubles of her own. So, as ill-luck would
have it, it is with Dame Europe's household. The visitor from across the
Atlantic is surprised at the obstreperousness of the more vigorous
members of the family. Evidently a great many interesting things are
going on, but the standard of deportment is not high.
While the unaccustomed ears of Europe were shocked at the shrill cries
from the rival conventions at Chicago and Baltimore, there was equal
turbulence in the Italian Parliament at Rome. There were shouts and
catcalls and every sign of uncontrollable violence. What are the
"reasons annexed" to all this uproar? I do not know. In Budapest such
unparliamentary expressions as "swine," "liar," "thief," and "assassin"
were freely used in debate. An honorable member who had been expelled
for the use of too strong language, returned to "shoot up" the House.
The chairman, after dodging three shots, declared that he must
positively insist on better order.
In the German Reichstag a member threatens the Kaiser with the fate of
Charles the First, if he does not speedily mend his ways. He suggests as
a fit Imperial residence the castle where the Mad King of Bavaria was
allowed to exercise his erratic energies without injury to the
commonweal. At the mention of Charles the First the chamber was in an
uproar, and amid a tumult of angry voices the session was brought to a
close.
In Russia, unseemly clamor is kept from the carefully guarded ears of
the Czar. There art conspires with nature to produce peace. We read of
the Czar's recent visit to his ancient capital: "The police during the
previous night made three thousand arrests. The Czar and Czarina drove
through the city amid the ringing of bells, and with banners flying."
On reading this item the American reader plucks up heart. If, during the
Chicago convention, the police had made three thousand arrests the
sessions might have been as quiet as those of the Duma.
Even the proceedings of the British House of Commons are disappointing
to the pilgrim in search of decorum. The Mother of Parliaments has
trouble with her unruly brood.
We enter the sacred precincts as a Member rises to a point of order.
"I desire to ask your ruling, Mr. Speaker, as to whether the honorable
gentleman is entitled to allude to Members of the House as miscreants."
The Speaker: "I do not think the term 'miscreant' is a proper
Parliamentary expression."
This is very elementary teaching, but it appears that Mr. Speaker is not
infrequently compelled to repeat his lesson. It is "line upon line and
precept upon precept."
The records of the doings of the House contain episodes which would be
considered exciting in Arizona. We read: "For five minutes the Honorable
George Lansbury defied the Speaker, insulted the Prime Minister, and
scorned the House of Commons. He raved in an ecstasy of passion;
challenging, taunting, and defying." The trouble began with a statement
of Mr. Asquith's. "Then up jumped Mr. Lansbury, his face contorted with
passion, and his powerful rasping voice dominating the whole House.
Shouting and waving his arms, he approached the Government Front Bench
with a curious crouching gait, like a boxer leaving his corner in the
ring. One or two Liberals on the bench behind Mr. Asquith half rose, but
the Prime Minister sat stolidly gazing above the heads of the
opposition, his arms folded, and his lips pursed. Mr. Lansbury had
worked himself up into a state of frenzy and, facing the Prime Minister,
he shouted, 'You are beneath my contempt! Call yourself a gentleman! You
ought to be driven from public life.'"
I cannot remember any scene like this in Disraeli's novels. The House of
Commons used to be called the best club in Europe. But that, says the
Conservative critic, was before the members were paid.
II
But certain changes, like the increased cost of living, are going on
everywhere. The fact seems to be that all over the civilized world there
is a noticeable falling-off in good manners in public discussion. It is
useless for one country to point the finger of scorn at another, or to
assume an air of injured politeness. It is more conducive to good
understanding to join in a general confession of sin. We are all
miserable offenders, and there is little to choose between us. The
conventionalities which bind society together are like the patent glue
we see advertised on the streets. A plate has been broken and then
joined together. The strength of the adhesive substance is shown by the
way it holds up a stone of considerable weight attached to it. The plate
thus mended holds together admirably till it is put in hot water.
I have no doubt but that a conservative Chinese gentleman would tell you
that since the Republic came in there has been a sad falling-off in the
observance of the rules of propriety as laid down by Confucius. The
Conservative newspapers of England bewail the fact that there has been a
lamentable change since the present Government came in. The arch
offender is "that political Mahdi, Lloyd George, whose false prophecies
have made deluded dervishes of hosts of British workmen, and who has
corrupted the manners of Parliament itself."
This wicked Mahdi, by his appeals to the passions of the populace, has
destroyed the old English reverence for Law.
I do not know what may be the cause, but the American visitor does
notice that the English attitude towards the laws of the realm is not so
devout as he had been led to expect. We have from our earliest youth
been taught to believe that the law-abidingness of the Englishman was
innate and impeccable. It was not that, like the good man of whom the
Psalmist speaks, he meditated on the law day and night. He didn't need
to. Decent respect for the law was in his blood. He simply could not
help conforming to it.
And this impression is confirmed by the things which the tourist goes to
see. The stately mansions embowered in green and guarded by immemorial
oaks are accepted as symbolic of an ordered life. The multitudinous
rooks suggest security which comes from triumphant legality. No
irresponsible person shoots them. When one enters a cathedral close he
feels that he is in a land that frowns on the crudity of change. Here
everything is a "thousand years the same." And how decent is the
demeanor of a verger!
When the pilgrim from Kansas arrives at an ancient English inn he feels
that he must be on his good behavior. Boots in his green apron is a
lesson to him. He is not like a Western hotel bell-boy on the way to
becoming something else. He knows his place. Everybody, he imagines, in
this country knows his place, and there is no unseemly crowding and
pushing. And what stronger proof can there be that this is a land where
law is reverenced than the demeanor of a London policeman. There is no
truculence about him, no show of physical force. He is so mild-eyed and
soft of speech that one feels that he has been shielded from rude
contact with the world. He represents the Law in a land where law is
sacred. He is instinctively obeyed. He has but to wave his hand and
traffic stops.
When the traveler is told that in the vicinity of the House of Commons
traffic is stopped to allow a Member to cross the street, his admiration
increases. Fancy a Congressman being treated with such respect! But the
argument which, on the whole, makes the deepest impression is the
deferential manners of the tradesmen with their habit of saying, "Thank
you," apropos of nothing at all. It seems an indication of perpetual
gratitude over the fact that things are as they are.
But when one comes to listen to the talk of the day one is surprised to
find a surprising lack of docility. I doubt whether the Englishman has
the veneration for the abstract idea of Law which is common among
Americans. Indeed, he is accustomed to treat most abstractions with
scant courtesy. There is nothing quite corresponding to the average
American's feeling about a decision of the Supreme Court. The Law has
spoken, let all the land keep silent. It seems like treason to criticize
it, like anarchy to defy it.
Tennyson's words about "reverence for the laws ourselves have made"
needs to be interpreted by English history. It is a peculiar kind of
reverence and has many limitations. A good deal depends on what is meant
by "ourselves." An act of Parliament does not at once become an object
of reverence by the members of the opposition party. It was not, they
feel, made by _them_, it was made by a Government which was violently
opposed to them and which was bent on ruining the country.
It is only after a sufficient time has elapsed to allow for the partisan
origin to be forgotten, and for it to become assimilated to the habits
of thought and manner of life of the people that it is deeply respected.
The English reverence is not for statute law, but for the common law
which is the slow accretion of ages. A new enactment is treated like the
new boy at school. He must submit to a period of severe hazing before he
is given a place of any honor.
To the American when an act of Congress has been declared
constitutional, a decent respect for the opinion of mankind seems to
suggest that verbal criticism should cease. The council of perfection is
that the law should be obeyed till such time as it can be repealed or
explained away. If it should become a dead letter, propriety would
demand that no evil should be spoken of it. Since the days of Andrew
Jackson the word "nullification" has had an ugly and dangerous sound.
But to the Englishman this attitude seems somewhat superstitious. The
period of opposition to a measure is not ended when it has passed
Parliament and received the royal assent. The question is whether it
will receive the assent of the people. Can it get itself obeyed? If it
can, then its future is assured for many generations. But it must pass
through an exciting period of probation.
If it is a matter that arouses much feeling the British way is for some
one to disobey and take the consequences. Passive resistance--with such
active measures as may make the life of the enforcers of the law a
burden to them--is a recognized method of political and religious
propagandism.
In periods when the national life has run most swiftly this kind of
resistance to what has been considered the tyranny of lawmakers has
always been notable. Emerson's "the chambers of the great are jails" was
literally true of the England of the seventeenth century. Every one who
made any pretension to moral leadership was intent on going to jail in
behalf of some principle or another.
John Bunyan goes to jail rather than attend the parish church, George
Fox goes to jail rather than take off his hat in the presence of the
magistrate. Why should he do so when there was no Scripture for it? When
it was said that the Scripture had nothing to say about hats, he was
ready with his triumphant reference to Daniel III, 21, where it is said
that the three Hebrew children wore "their coats, their hosen, their
hats and their other garments" in the fiery furnace. If Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed-nego wore their hats before Nebuchadnezzar and kept
them on even in the fiery furnace, why should a free-born Englishman
take his hat off in the presence of a petty Justice of the Peace?
Fervent Fifth Monarchy men were willing to die rather than acknowledge
any king but King Jesus who was about to come to reign. Non-juring
bishops were willing to go to jail rather than submit to the judgment of
Parliament as to who should be king in England. Puritans and Covenanters
of the more logical sort refused to accept toleration unless it were
offered on their own terms. They had been a "persecuted remnant" and
they proposed to remain such or know the reason why.
Beneath his crust of conformity the Briton has an admiration for these
recalcitrant individuals who will neither bow the knee to Baal nor to
his betters. He likes a man who is a law unto himself. Though he has
little enthusiasm for the abstract "rights of man," he is a great
believer in "the liberty of prophesying." The prophet is not without
honor, even while he is being stoned.
Just at this time things are moving almost as rapidly as they did in the
seventeenth century. There is the same clash of opinion and violence of
party spirit. All sorts of non-conformities struggle for a hearing. One
is reminded of that most stirring period, which is so delightful to read
about, and which must have been so trying for quiet people to live
through.
A host of earnest and wide-awake persons are engaged in the task of
doing what they are told not to do. Their enthusiasm takes the form of
resistance to some statute made or proposed.
The conscientious women who throw stones through shop windows, and lay
violent hands on cabinet ministers, do so, avowedly, to bring certain
laws into disrepute. They go on hunger-strikes, not in order to be
released from prison, but in order to be treated as political prisoners.
They insist that their methods should be recognized as acts of
legitimate warfare. They may be extreme in their actions, but they are
not alone in their theory.
The Insurance Law, by which all workers whose wages are below a certain
sum are compulsorily insured against sickness and the losses that follow
it, is just going into effect. Its provisions are necessarily
complicated, and its administration must at first be difficult. The
Insurance-Law Resisters are organized to nullify the act. Its enormities
are held up before all eyes, and it is flouted in every possible way.
According to this law, a lady is compelled to pay three-pence a week
toward the insurance fund for each servant in her employ. Will she pay
that three-pence? No! Though twenty acts of Parliament should declare
that it must be done, she will resist. As for keeping accounts, and
putting stamps in a book, she will do nothing of the kind. What is it
about a stamp act that arouses such fierceness of resistance?
High-born ladies declare that they would rather go to jail than obey
such a law. At a meeting at Albert Hall the Resisters were addressed by
a duchess who was "supported by a man-servant." What can a mere Act of
Parliament do when confronted by such a combination as that? Passive
resistance takes on heroic proportions when a duchess and a man-servant
confront the Law with haughty immobility.
In the mean time, Mr. Tom Mann goes to jail, amid the applause of
organized labor, for advising the British soldier not to obey orders
when he is commanded to fire on British working-men.
Mr. Tom Mann is a labor agitator, while Mr. Bonar Law is the leader of
the Conservative party; but when it comes to legislation which he does
not like, Mr. Bonar Law's language is fully as incendiary. He is not
content with opposing the Irish Home Rule Bill: he gives notice that
when it has become a law the opposition will be continued in a more
serious form. The passage of the bill, he declares, will be the signal
for civil war. Ulster will fight. Parliament may pass the Home Rule
Bill, but when it does so its troubles will have just begun. Where will
it find the troops to coerce the province?