Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

PEACE AND PATRIOTISM:

A LETTER TO IRENEUS.

MY DEAR IRENEUS,-I congratulate you. So they have really made you churchwarden, committing the interests of the church militant to a man who so lately was a professor of peace. Has all this change really taken place in consequence of our little adventure at Boulogne? Why, they will be making you a father of the church next, like your great namesake, and I perhaps shall live to see it. Marte, virtute esto." But what have you done with the broad-leaved hat and straight-cut coat? Having made shipwreck of your principles, you have probably offered up, as the ancients used to do, the weeds you were shipwrecked in

66

"Uvida vestimenta maris Deo ;" and I should translate "uvida vestimenta," the garments of a wet Quaker. Perhaps the broad-leaved hat might hang beside the helmet and pennon of Admiral Penn, which, if my memory uses me well, are hung in the beautiful Church of St Mary Redcliffe at Bristol, a perpetual reproach to those descendants who forsook his knightly principles. Such a penitential offering would be at least graceful. As for the drab, there is no doubt about it; it will soon become the military wear, as it has been found that conspicuous regimentals attract rifle bullets. The Russian officers, it seems, from notions of selfpreservation, have adopted a garb nearly approaching to that of their Friends of the Peace Society; and I expect that ere long the English and French will have to do the same,under compulsion no doubt, for it has been proved that they consult nothing but their romantic courage, and seem to think, like the Decii of Rome, that the shedding of their brave lives on the field is necessary to the triumph of their country's cause. Should such a change take place, and the Society of Friends still determine to distinguish themselves from their fellowcitizens, it seems to me that nothing will be left them but to don the

VOL. LXXVII.-NO. CCCCLXXI,

scarlet, with gold epaulettes to finish it. We are not prepared to say that this would be a very startling change. It is said that once upon a time one of the brotherhood caught another attired in a red hunting-coat, and the culprit defended his vanity by saying," Friend, it is only a high drab."

So it appears that the people of Manchester have actually adopted my advice, and burnt John Bright in effigy for his Russian sympathies; this is certainly a little variation on the time-honoured custom of chairing a member, and will no doubt be generally imitated.

Irenæus, I am very glad to see your name as a subscriber to the Patriotic Fund; not that I should have been surprised at this, even had your principles remained unchanged; for several of your late co-religionists, to their eternal honour, have proved their hearts better than their principles (for the credit of humanity, a thing not uncommon), and refused to turn away from the soldier's widow and orphans, though in his lifetime they turned the cold shoulder to him. But I expect that you have subscribed to the Patriotic Fund, not simply because your heart pulled stronger than your dogma, but from a hearty sympathy with patriotism. The other night I took my coffee too strong, and lay awake in consequence for some hours, with my head in a whirl of thoughts and fancies not entirely unpleasant. First, I thought, as people who lie awake commonly do, of my own private little budget, my incomings and outgoings, whether I should make both ends meet this year,whether or not we could afford a run to Paris, whether it would not be more prudent to wait for the Exhibition,-then of my subscriptions, and other people's subscriptions, and how handsomely John Bull had behaved in the matter of the Patriotic Fund, and the other war - subscriptions. Then I fell a-musing on the word Patriotic; whether it had not changed

G

its meaning lately somewhat, and whether that change was not for the better, and whether the commencement of that change for the better was not to date from the commencement of the present war with Russia. Patriotism had doubtless fallen into disrepute during the thirtyeight years' peace. It had certainly come to mean the same thing as revolution-mongering. Dr Johnson was the first to take its character away, by defining it as "the last refuge of a Scoundrel;" and not long ago, when a clerical friend of mine made a sudden appearance at another friend's house after a walking-tour in Wales in rather mufti costume, the first exclamation his friend made was, "My dear fellow, you look more like a patriot than a parson,"—especially alluding to a very open neck and shadowy hat which he wore. Apropos of the hat as a symbol of pseudo-patriotism, another friend of mine, an Oxford Fellow, was arrested at Heidelberg in 1849, during the state of siege, and detained for a short time till he could prove his identity to the military authorities, on the ground that he had on "a Heckerish hat," the hat appearing to these Teutonic wiseacres a political combustible far more dangerous than the head it covered. I suppose the same military authorities would have been more afraid of an empty mortar than of a bomb-shell with a lighted fuse, such as I take a patriot's head to be, the fuse being his eternal pipe. The abuse of the word Patriotism is not new. It has been the custom to call certain characters in history patriots by way of distinction, while it has been also the custom to call certain other characters who showed their love of their country most conspicuously, even by dying in her cause, not perhaps unpatriotic, but still not by the distinguished name of patriots. For instance, why should we call Hampden, Pym, &c., patriots, more than Montrose or Admiral Blake? Admiral Blake was a republican, it is true; but his distinction was not gained in battle with his fellow-citizens, but against a foreign enemy. Milton, again, was as much of a republican or more than Hampden, yet he is never quoted as a great patriot, though he did immortal honour to his

country. But I have a dim recollection of learning some catechism of English history when a boy, in which it was asked who was Algernon Sidney? The answer was-A great patriot. So I suppose by that, that Algernon Sidney is considered a model patriot. I certainly did read about Algernon Sidney in Macaulay's History lately, and I think I am right in saying that he opposed certain arbitrary acts of the court of Charles the Second, and that he lost his head in consequence; but as Cæsar's murderers, whatever they did, remained "honourable men," so I suppose must Algernon Sidney be considered he does not appear to have done much-the model patriot. There are certainly greater names in English history-few people will deny that. Wellington and Nelson are greater names; but they were men of action: it cannot be supposed that either of them had any great objection to their country, seeing that they did her work so well. Still the first idea that strikes us with regard to them is not that they were patriots ; but not so with regard to Algernon Sidney-he was the patriot. Fox, and Burke, again, were much greater politicians, no doubt about it. Pitt, whatever the Whigs thought of him, did love his country, for he delicately hinted to a foreign lady, who made overtures to him in leap-year, that he was wedded to his country; and Fox, it is now generally allowed, was not French in his heart, although he was not very anxious to go to war with France; and Burke, both as Whig and as Tory, was British to the backbone, and his eloquence burns with love of country. neither of these three may occupy the pedestal of Algernon Sidney; he remains to the end the model popular patriot, and none may dispossess him. From all this we may pretty well gather what has been the common notion of patriots and patriotism during the thirty-eight years' peace, and why some people may wish for some other adjective to be applied to a fund for the widows and orphans of soldiers. The first requisite, according to this view, to form the character of a patriot, is that his politics should be democratic;

Pitt,

Yet

the second, that he should be a talker rather than a doer,-for we have seen from our trifling induction that even democratic doers are excluded. Yet no one will deny that there is a true as well as a false patriotism, and in this sense the Fund I have spoken of may well be called the most patriotic thing of our day. The love of country, or patriotism, truly so called, is an emotion second and subordinate only to the love of God; it is, in fact, the link between the love of God and the love of man-between Jeremy Taylor's religion and Howard's philanthropy. It is just as unfair to limit its exclusive possession to any set of political views, as it is to limit piety to any set of religious opinions. Yet, as religious sectarians anathematise those who differ from themselves, and deny them the possession of religion, so do political sectarians deny their opponents the possession of patriotism. We begin to see the unfairness of the former view, in those trying circumstances which evoke the spirit of love that they possess in common in religious antagonists; of the latter view, when one puts our manhood to the test, and we see our soldiers, Tory, Whig, and Radical, vying in affectionate obedience to their common country, and shedding their blood with equal readiness at their common country's bidding. Now, at length we plainly see the truth of those noble words of Arnold, that "political opinions are not the ultimate distinction between man and man," there being occasions which sound the depths of human nature, and cause men to group themselves, whatever their imaginary or artificial discrepancies, under one or the other of the great natural classes of true men or false men, good men or bad. A great spirit-stirring war is an occasion of this kind. As the truth and goodness of individual nature is tested by affliction, so is the reality or nonreality of patriotism tested by war. And even as we require suffering to bring our characters to perfection, and show what our hearts are made of, so does a nation sometimes, we may even say, require the hopes and fears of war to bring out its character, and find the way to its better feelings.

Before this war with Russia broke out, we had been gradually getting less and less national, less and less patriotic. Our cultivated classes were beginning to plume themselves on being citizens of the world, and feeling equally at home in any part of the two hemispheres. Nor do we blame them for this, for it was a natural consequence of a smooth course of prosperity and peace. It is not in abusing the customs of foreign countries or sneering at foreign manners that patriotism is shown, or even in an assumption of superiority over other nations; those who assume the superiority being, by the way, by no means superior specimens themselves. Indeed, it is the essence of patriotism that it is not shown at all until the occasion for its exercise arrives. It is like true religion, true love, true friendship, emphatically undemonstrative. I have spoken of that pseudopatriotism which is at bottom mere Jacobinism; I have also alluded to another kind which is mere vulgarity, and which has caused gentlemen in time of peace to seem unpatriotic because they shrank from obtruding their love of country on foreigners. This kind is the patriotism of Brown, Jones, and Robinson, or the Englishman who goes up the Rhine, does Switzerland, and returns by Paris, or vice versa,-not for the pleasure of the thing, but to say he has been there. This class of patriots had begun to make us very unpopular on the Continent before this war broke out; and it will take all the heroism that our soldiers are displaying in this war to do away with the unpleasant impression they have made. It is scarcely too much to say that the airs this class gave themselves were making England a byword in French, German, and Italian society; for into Spain and Scandinavia, being uncomfortable countries, they have scarcely yet penetrated. These people, so far from doing at Rome as the Romans do, if they do not

"Beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall,"

they insult the Pope in his own Vatican, walk noisily up the aisles of Roman churches to assert Protestant

to get experience and information: he knows he is ignorant of the world, and is affable to every one who is willing to increase his knowledge; but he finds himself puzzled by the languages, and the varieties of coinage he accumulates, and cannot pass; and at last he flies home, down the Rhine, without stopping, like a dog who is disgusted with a bad shot. When at home he does not abuse foreigners, he only wishes he knew more of them; he thinks they make excellent coffee; he likes omelettes for breakfast, and puts Mrs Bull out of all patience, and her cook out of all temper, in trying to get French dishes out of them. He likes the Continental railway systemregular, punctual, and safe, not racing for life, or rather for death; relieving one of all worry about luggage; giving plenty of time to bait (that is what he likes), and good real refreshments, not the miserable messes of some of our refreshment-rooms. He thinks passports a nuisance, but, as he is not ashamed of his name, does not much mind it, especially as he knows it must be a greater nuisance to the natives-owns, in fact, that he has been generally pleased, though he is glad to get home again, because he feels it more natural. Mr John Bull is a diamond in the rough, a thorough gentleman at heart; for who so gentle as he, where gentleness of heart is needed? and we must be cautious of confounding him with the pseudopatriot I have been describing. As for him, he is the caricature and degradation of John Bull, as the ape is of the man, the ass of the horse, the pig of the elephant, the cat of the lion, and the gent of the gentleman. I would make a diminutive of the timehonoured name, and call him John Bully. John Bully is nothing more or less than a fattened Yankee; and what is a Yankee? I do not mean

ascendancy, put their hats over their brows when the Host is passing, forgetting, and forgetting only, it is to be hoped, that the deepest injury to a people is a slight to their religious feelings, which is sooner or later resented; talk big about the freedom of the press and liberal institutions in passport-offices and custom-houses on the Austrian frontier; walk with their hats on into public rooms in Germany and elsewhere, and forbear to make the customary salutation, which is a graceful acknowledgment of the presence of others; insist on dining late when all the world dines early; put the waiters to all possible inconvenience, and then make them extortioners by overpaying the inconvenience, to show their command of money-in fact, take every possible opportunity of impressing every public with the usefulness of John Bull, imagining themselves invested with all the past and present greatness of Great Britain. Such are the patriots who, I do not hesitate to say, have made England unpopular in all those parts of the Continent where the people do not cringe to her for her money, and even with detestation in their hearts. In France, perhaps, this feeling was, even before the present war, less strong than in Germany, because the French were more used to us and our ways, and could see beneath the surface, and distinguish one class of Englishmen from others; but I have been told more than once in Germany, that the French, notwithstanding the remembrance of Napoleon's invasion, are better liked in society; and I should not wonder whether this feeling towards England, through the travelling English, has not been one cause why the German people seem cold as to the issue of our struggle with Russia, in which their own interests are so deeply at stake. Now, I do not wish to confound this pseudo-an American gentleman like Washingpatriot with that respectable agriculturist Mr John Bull, the model gentleman-farmer. Mr John Bull is no traveller; but, when he does travel, he is full of bonhomie. He pays through his nose to be sure, but then he does not avenge himself by giving himself airs; and every one who cheats him must have a twinge of mscience in doing so. He travels

[graphic]

ton Irving, but an American mobman, like those who refused to drink our Queen's health at Richmond, on the anniversary of their Independence. For there is the deteriorated, the underbred American as Englishman-such a degenerate Yankee is an Anglo-Saxon run to seed, and left to the natural law of deterioration common to all unmixed races.

As the Spanish hidalgos have become stunted by breeding in-and-in, 30 has the surly Anglo-Saxondom of the Pilgrim Fathers become more rank by being left to vegetate by itself. Besides, in leaving their own country they in a degree threw off some of the better feelings generated in long time in their native blood. It was with them as with that firstrate race of horses, the hunter, that, transported and put to other uses, fell back to the original cart-breed, to which it owed rather its strength than its generosity of temper. The Saxon sturdiness in us in Old England, lacking nothing of its robust vigour, is spiritualised and refined by its mixture with the virtues of other races. The Briton, at home, adopts, and, as it were, engrafts upon himself, without casting off his own native worth, the good of many races. Mixed in England with the Norman and the Dane, in Scotland with these and with the Gael, in Ireland with these and with the original Celt, he becomes the aristocrat of the world, and his offspring consists of as fine men and as fair women as ever existed upon earth. But, as far as he is Saxon only, if left to his own devices, he remains for ever a hewer of wood and a drawer of water, altered by civilisation into a spinner of cotton, or a digger of dollars, according as his habitat is a British manufacturing town, or some Eden of the Western wilderness. Now, English patriotism does not reside in the Saxon, as Saxon only, for he is by nature a serf, and the son of a serf: he cares little or nothing about freedom, and does not understand its meaning, though he is well up in the slang of revolutionary agitation, and lends a ready ear to political incendiaries. The truth is, he does not want freedom, but he craves for equality, because it is the forbidden fruit-just as he feels a craving for ardent spirits when fatigued. None but the noble and the good, and those who are brought up in a natural way, really care for freedom, or know what it means; but for all that, it is a passion in finely-constituted natures, like the love of fresh air or mountain scenery; and the noble and the good would rather die than have it taken from

them, whether by a one-headed or a many-headed despot. The love of freedom is no new love with us, as it is with some other nations-it is an ancestral tradition, as Burke says, with its monumental inscriptions and bearings armorial; but it does not come so much from those ancestors who lost it at Hastings, as it does from those Norman patriarchs whose lance, poised by a hand like a lady's, but directed by an arm like a crowbar, carried victory on its point from the North Cape to the Holy Sepulchre; or those terrible Vikinger, who had as good a seat on the wildest waves as their Norman cousins had on their fiercest horses, and who have left the glorious heritage of a sea-empire, which, God willing, we will hold fast, in spite of John Bright, for ever. It is the existence of these two kinds of pseudopatriotism, Irenæus, and the extreme talkativeness of the men who represent them, that has brought Patriotism into such bad odour with sensible people during the peace, so that they were tempted to abjure the name and even the thought altogether. When an educated Englishman went about abroad, he felt certain sympathies for foreign customs and ways, and certain disgusts at home customs and ways. Sometimes, in despair at getting them altered, he took to living abroad altogether; and he fancied, from the perfect acquiescence of his nature in such arrangements, that the love of his country was dead in his heart; at least he did not trouble himself to know whether it was dead, or only sleeping to recruit its strength. We will suppose him, for instance, located in France. While he was there, his tastes were gratified by the national love of beauty, and he felt that, although it was wrong for all classes of that nation to spend too much of their time in profitless pleasure, he felt, too, that it was equally wrong for most classes of his own nation to spend too much of their time in equally frivolous business, and that the former was of the two certainly the more graceful and the more intellectual error. In England, people seemed to live their lives away in a vain effort to enjoy themselves on a perpetually increasing scale, till old age found them not having enjoyed themselves at all;

« VorigeDoorgaan »