Part 7 (1/2)
One may fairly say that the decade in which American democracy revealed its most ugly and quarrelsome aspect was the decade of the eighteen-thirties. That was the decade when Was.h.i.+ngton Irving and Fenimore Cooper came home from long sojourns in Europe. They found themselves confronted at once by sensitive, suspicious neighbors who hated England and Europe and had a lurking or open hostility towards anything that savored of Old World culture. Yet in that very epoch when English visitors were pa.s.sing their most harsh and censorious verdict upon American culture, Emerson was writing in his _Journal_ (June 18, 1834) a singular prophecy to the effect that the evils of our democracy, so far as literature was concerned, were to be cured by the remedy of more democracy. Is it not striking that he turns away from the universities and the traditional culture of New England and looks towards the Jacksonism of the new West to create a new and native American literature? Here is the pa.s.sage:--
”We all lean on England; scarce a verse, a page, a newspaper, but is writ in imitation of English forms; our very manners and conversation are traditional, and sometimes the life seems dying out of all literature, and this enormous paper currency of Words is accepted instead. I suppose the evil may be cured by this rank rabble party, the Jacksonism of the country, heedless of English and of all literature--a stone cut out of the ground without hands;--they may root out the hollow dilettantism of our cultivation in the coa.r.s.est way, and the new-born may begin again to frame their own world with greater advantage.”
From that raw epoch of the eighteen-thirties on to the Civil War, one may constantly detect in American writing the accents of democratic radicalism. Partly, no doubt, it was a heritage of the sentiment of the French Revolution. ”My father,” said John Greenleaf Whittier, ”really believed in the Preamble of the Bill of Rights, which re-affirmed the Declaration of Independence.” So did the son! Equally clear in the writings of those thirty years are echoes of the English radicalism which had so much in common with the democratic movement across the English Channel. The part which English thinkers and English agitators played in securing for America the fruits of her own democratic principles has never been adequately acknowledged.
That the outcome of the Civil War meant a triumph of democratic ideas as against aristocratic privilege, no one can doubt. There were no stancher adherents of the democratic idea than our intellectual aristocrats. The best Union editorials at the time of the Civil War, says James Ford Rhodes, were written by scholars like Charles Eliot Norton and James Russell Lowell. I think it was Lowell who once said, in combatting the old aristocratic notion of white man supremacy, that no gentleman is willing to accept privileges that are inaccessible to other men. This is precisely like the famous sentence of Walt Whitman which first arrested the attention of ”Golden Rule Jones,” the mayor of Toledo, and which made him not only a Whitmaniac for the rest of his life but one of the most useful of American citizens. The line was, ”I will accept nothing which all may not have their counterpart of on the same terms.”
This instinct of fellows.h.i.+p cannot be separated, of course, from the older instincts of righteousness and justice. It involves, however, more than giving the other man his due. It means feeling towards him as towards another ”fellow.” It involves the sentiment of partners.h.i.+p.
Historians of early mining life in California have noted the new phase of social feeling in the mining-camps which followed upon the change from the pan--held and shaken by the solitary miner--to the cradle, which required the cooperation of at least two men. It was when the cradle came in that the miners first began to say ”partner.” As the cradle gave way to placer mining, larger and larger schemes of cooperation came into use. In fact, Professor Royce has pointed out in his _History of California_ that the whole lesson of California history is precisely the lesson most necessary to be learned by the country as a whole, namely, that the phase of individual gain-getting and individualistic power always leads to anarchy and reaction, and that it becomes necessary, even in the interests of effective individualism itself, to recognize the compelling and ultimate authority of society.
What went on in California between 1849 and 1852 is precisely typical of what is going on everywhere to-day. American men and women are learning, as we say, ”to get together.” It is the distinctly twentieth-century programme. We must all learn the art of getting together, not merely to conserve the interests of literature and art and society, but to preserve the individual himself in his just rights.
Any one who misunderstands the depth and the scope of the present political restlessness which is manifested in every section of the country, misunderstands the American instinct for fellows.h.i.+p. It is a law of that fellows.h.i.+p that what is right and legitimate for me is right and legitimate for the other fellow also. The American mind and the American conscience are becoming socialized before our very eyes.
American art and literature must keep pace with this socialization of the intelligence and the conscience, or they will be no longer representative of the true America.
Literary ill.u.s.trations of this spirit of fraternalism lie close at hand. They are to be found here and there even in the rebellious, well-nigh anarchic, individualism of the Concord men. They are to be found throughout the prose and verse of Whittier. No one has preached a truer or more effective gospel of fellows.h.i.+p than Longfellow, whose poetry has been one of the pervasive influences in American democracy, although Longfellow had but little to say about politics and never posed in a slouch hat and with his trousers tucked into his boots.
Fellows.h.i.+p is taught in the _Biglow Papers_ of Lowell and the stories of Mrs. Stowe. It is wholly absent from the prose and verse of Poe, and it imparts but a feeble warmth to the delicately written pages of Hawthorne. But in the books written for the great common audience of American men and women, like the novels of Winston Churchill; and in the plays which have scored the greatest popular successes, like those of Denman Thompson, Bronson Howard, Gillette, Augustus Thomas, the doctrine of fellows.h.i.+p is everywhere to be traced. It is in the poems of James Whitcomb Riley and of Sam Walter Foss; in the work of hundreds of lesser known writers of verse and prose who have echoed Foss's sentiment about living in a ”house by the side of the road” and being a ”friend of man.”
To many readers the supreme literary example of the gospel of American fellows.h.i.+p is to be found in Walt Whitman. One will look long before one finds a more consistent or a n.o.bler doctrine of fellows.h.i.+p than is chanted in _Leaves of Gra.s.s_. It is based upon individualism; the strong body and the possessed soul, sure of itself amid the whirling of the ”quicksand years”; but it sets these strong persons upon the ”open road” in comrades.h.i.+p; it is the sentiment of comrades.h.i.+p which creates the indissoluble union of ”these States”; and the States, in turn, in spite of every ”alarmist,” ”partialist,” or ”infidel,” are to stretch out unsuspicious and friendly hands of fellows.h.i.+p to the whole world.
Anybody has the right to call _Leaves of Gra.s.s_ poor poetry, if he pleases; but n.o.body has the right to deny its magnificent Americanism.
It is not merely in literature that this message of fellows.h.i.+p is brought to our generation. Let me quote a few sentences from the recent address of George Gray Barnard, the sculptor, in explaining the meaning of his marble groups now placed at the entrance to the Capitol of Pennsylvania. ”I resolved,” says Barnard, ”that I would build such groups as should stand at the entrance to the People's temple ... the home of those visions of the ever-widening and broadening brotherhood that gives to life its dignity and its meaning. Life is told in terms of labor. It is fitting that labor, its triumphs, its message, should be told to those who gaze upon a temple of the people. The worker is the hope of all the future. The needs of the worker, his problems, his hopes, his untold longings, his sacrifices, his triumphs, all of these are the field of the art of the future. Slowly we are groping our way towards the new brotherhood, and when that day dawns, men will enter a world made a paradise by labor. Labor makes us kin. It is for this reason that there has been placed at the entrance of this great building the message of the Adam and Eve of the future, the message of labor and of fraternity.”
That there are defects in this gospel and programme of American fellows.h.i.+p, every one is aware. If the obstacle to effective individualism is lack of discipline, the obstacles to effective fellows.h.i.+p are vagueness, crankiness, inefficiency, and the relics of primal selfishness. n.o.body in our day has preached the tidings of universal fellows.h.i.+p more fervidly and powerfully than Tolsto. Yet when one asks the great Russian, ”What am I to do as a member of this fellows.h.i.+p?” Tolsto gives but a confused and impractical answer. He applies to the complex and contradictory facts of our contemporary civilization the highest test and standard known to him: namely, the principles of the New Testament. But if you ask him precisely how these principles are to be made the working programme of to-morrow, the Russian mysticism and fanaticism settle over him like a fog. We pa.s.s Tolstoans on the streets of our American cities every day; they have the eyes of dreamers, of those who would build, if they could, a new Heaven and a new Earth. But they do not know exactly how to go about it. Our practical Western minds seize upon some actual plan for constructive labor. Miss Jane Addams organizes her settlements in the slums; Booker Was.h.i.+ngton gives his race models of industrial education; President Eliot has a theory of university reform and then struggles successfully for forty years to put that theory into practice. Compared with the concrete performance of such social workers as these, the gospel according to Whitman and Tolsto is bound to seem vague in its outlines, and ineffective in its concrete results. That such a gospel attracts cranks and eccentrics of all sorts is not to be wondered at.
They come and go, but the deeper conceptions of fraternalism remain.
A further obstacle to the progress of fellows.h.i.+p lies in selfishness.
But let us see how even the coa.r.s.er and rawer and cruder traits of the American character may be related to the spirit of common endeavor which is slowly transforming our society, and modifying, before our eyes, our contemporary art and literature.
”The West,” says James Bryce, ”is the most American part of America, that is to say the part where those features which distinguish America from Europe come out in the strongest relief.” We have already noted in our study of American romance how the call of the West represented for a while the escape from reality. The individual, following that retreating horizon which we name the West, found an escape from convention and from social law. Beyond the Mississippi or beyond the Rockies meant to him that ”somewheres east of Suez” where the Ten Commandments are no longer to be found, where the individual has free rein. But by and by comes the inevitable reaction, the return to reality. The pioneer sobers down; he finds that ”the Ten Commandments will not budge”; he sees the need of law and order; he organizes a vigilance committee; he impanels a jury, even though the old Spanish law does not recognize a jury. The new land settles to its rest. The output of the gold mines shrinks into insignificance when compared with the cash value of crops of hay and potatoes. The old picturesque individualism yields to a new social order, to the conception of the rights of the state. The story of the West is thus an epitome of the individual human life as well as the history of the United States.