What I Saw in America — Chapter 04 Part 1 Irish and Other Interviewers

'From the earth we come and to the earth we return; when people get away from that they are lost.'

_Irish and other Interviewers_ It is often asked what should be the first thing that a man sees when he lands in a foreign country; but I think it should be the vision of his own country.

At least when I came into New York Harbour, a sort of grey and green cloud came between me and the towers with multitudinous windows, white in the winter sunlight; and I saw an old brown house standing back among the beech-trees at home, the house of only one among many friends and neighbours, but one somehow so sunken in the very heart of England as to be unconscious of her imperial or international position, and out of the sound of her perilous seas.

But what made most clear the vision that revisited me was something else.

Before we touched land the men of my own guild, the journalists and reporters, had already boarded the ship like pirates.

And one of them spoke to me in an accent that I knew; and thanked me for all I had done for Ireland.

And it was at that moment that I knew most vividly that what I wanted was to do something for England.

Then, as it chanced, I looked across at the statue of Liberty, and saw that the great bronze was gleaming green in the morning light.

I had made all the obvious jokes about the statue of Liberty.

I found it had a soothing effect on earnest Prohibitionists on the boat to urge, as a point of dignity and delicacy, that it ought to be given back to the French, a vicious race abandoned to the culture of the vine.

I proposed that the last liquors on board should be poured out in a pagan libation before it.

And then I suddenly remembered that this Liberty was still in some sense enlightening the world, or one part of the world; was a lamp for one sort of wanderer, a star of one sort of seafarer.

To one persecuted people at least this land had really been an asylum; even if recent legislation (as I have said) had made them think it a lunatic asylum.

They had made it so much their home that the very colour of the country seemed to change with the infusion; as the bronze of the great statue took on a semblance of the wearing of the green.

It is a commonplace that the Englishman has been stupid in his relations with the Irish; but he has been far more stupid in his relations with the Americans on the subject of the Irish.

His propaganda has been worse than his practice; and his defence more ill-considered than the most indefensible things that it was intended to defend.

There is in this matter a curious tangle of cross-purposes, which only a parallel example can make at all clear.

And I will note the point here, because it is some testimony to its vivid importance that it was really the first I had to discuss on American soil with an American citizen.

In a double sense I touched Ireland before I came to America.

I will take an imaginary instance from another controversy; in order to show how the apology can be worse than the action.

The best we can say for ourselves is worse than the worst that we can do.

There was a time when English poets and other publicists could always be inspired with instantaneous indignation about the persecuted Jews in Russia.

We have heard less about them since we heard more about the persecuting Jews in Russia.

I fear there are a great many middle-class Englishmen already who wish that Trotsky had been persecuted a little more.

But even in those days Englishmen divided their minds in a curious fashion; and unconsciously distinguished between the Jews whom they had never seen, in Warsaw, and the Jews whom they had often seen in Whitechapel.

It seemed to be assumed that, by a curious coincidence, Russia possessed not only the very worst Anti-Semites but the very best Semites.

A moneylender in London might be like Judas Iscariot; but a moneylender in Moscow must be like Judas Maccabaeus.

Nevertheless there remained in our common sense an unconscious but fundamental comprehension of the unity of Israel; a sense that some things could be said, and some could not be said, about the Jews as a whole.

Suppose that even in those days, to say nothing of these, an English protest against Russian Anti-Semitism had been answered by the Russian Anti-Semites, and suppose the answer had been somewhat as follows:-- 'It is all very well for foreigners to complain of our denying civic rights to our Jewish subjects; but we know the Jews better than they do.

They are a barbarous people, entirely primitive, and very like the simple savages who cannot count beyond five on their fingers.

It is quite impossible to make them understand ordinary numbers, to say nothing of simple economics.

They do not realise the meaning or the value of money.

No Jew anywhere in the world can get into his stupid head the notion of a bargain, or of exchanging one thing for another.

Their hopeless incapacity for commerce or finance would retard the progress of our people, would prevent the spread of any sort of economic education, would keep the whole country on a level lower than that of the most prehistoric methods of barter.

What Russia needs most is a mercantile middle class; and it is unjust to ask us to swamp its small beginnings in thousands of these rude tribesmen, who cannot do a sum of simple addition, or understand the symbolic character of a threepenny bit.

We might as well be asked to give civic rights to cows and pigs as to this unhappy, half-witted race who can no more count than the beasts of the field.

In every intellectual exercise they are hopelessly incompetent; no Jew can play chess; no Jew can learn languages; no Jew has ever appeared in the smallest part in any theatrical performance; no Jew can give or take any pleasure connected with any musical instrument.

These people are our subjects; and we understand them.

We accept full responsibility for treating such troglodytes on our own terms.'

It would not be entirely convincing.

It would sound a little far-fetched and unreal.

But it would sound exactly like our utterances about the Irish, as they sound to all Americans, and rather especially to Anti-Irish Americans.

That is exactly the impression we produce on the people of the United States when we say, as we do say in substance, something like this: 'We mean no harm to the poor dear Irish, so dreamy, so irresponsible, so incapable of order or organisation.

If we were to withdraw from their country they would only fight among themselves; they have no notion of how to rule themselves.

There is something charming about their unpracticability, about their very incapacity for the coarse business of politics.

But for their own sakes it is impossible to leave these emotional visionaries to ruin themselves in the attempt to rule themselves.

They are like children; but they are our own children, and we understand them.

We accept full responsibility for acting as their parents and guardians.'

Now the point is not only that this view of the Irish is false, but that it is the particular view that the Americans know to be false.

While we are saying that the Irish could not organise, the Americans are complaining, often very bitterly, of the power of Irish organisation.

While we say that the Irishman could not rule himself, the Americans are saying, more or less humorously, that the Irishman rules them.

A highly intelligent professor said to me in Boston, 'We have solved the Irish problem here; we have an entirely independent Irish Government.'

While we are complaining, in an almost passionate manner, of the impotence of mere cliques of idealists and dreamers, they are complaining, often in a very indignant manner, of the power of great gangs of bosses and bullies.

There are a great many Americans who pity the Irish, very naturally and very rightly, for the historic martyrdom which their patriotism has endured.

But there are a great many Americans who do not pity the Irish in the least.

They would be much more likely to pity the English; only this particular way of talking tends rather to make them despise the English.

Thus both the friends of Ireland and the foes of Ireland tend to be the foes of England.

We make one set of enemies by our action, and another by our apology.

It is a thing that can from time to time be found in history; a misunderstanding that really has a moral.

The English excuse would carry much more weight if it had more sincerity and more humility.

There are a considerable number of people in the United States who could sympathise with us, if we would say frankly that we fear the Irish.

Those who thus despise our pity might possibly even respect our fear.

The argument I have often used in other places comes back with prodigious and redoubled force, after hearing anything of American opinion; the argument that the only reasonable or reputable excuse for the English is the excuse of a patriotic sense of peril; and that the Unionist, if he must be a Unionist, should use that and no other.

When the Unionist has said that he dare not let loose against himself a captive he has so cruelly wronged, he has said all that he has to say;

all that he has ever had to say; all that he will ever have to say.

He is like a man who has sent a virile and rather vindictive rival unjustly to penal servitude; and who connives at the continuance of the sentence, not because he himself is particularly vindictive, but because he is afraid of what the convict will do when he comes out of prison.

This is not exactly a moral strength, but it is a very human weakness; and that is the most that can be said for it.

All other talk, about Celtic frenzy or Catholic superstition, is cant invented to deceive himself or to deceive the world.

But the vital point to realise is that it is cant that cannot possibly deceive the American world.

In the matter of the Irishman the American is not to be deceived.

It is not merely true to say that he knows better.

It is equally true to say that he knows worse.

He knows vices and evils in the Irishman that are entirely hidden in the hazy vision of the Englishman.

He knows that our unreal slanders are inconsistent even with the real sins.

To us Ireland is a shadowy Isle of Sunset, like Atlantis, about which we can make up legends.

To him it is a positive ward or parish in the heart of his huge cities, like Whitechapel; about which even we cannot make legends but only lies.

And, as I have said, there are some lies we do not tell even about Whitechapel.

We do not say it is inhabited by Jews too stupid to count or know the value of a coin.

The first thing for any honest Englishman to send across the sea is this; that the English have not the shadow of a notion of what they are up against in America.

They have never even heard of the batteries of almost brutal energy, of which I had thus touched a live wire even before I landed.

People talk about the hypocrisy of England in dealing with a small nationality.

What strikes me is the stupidity of England in supposing that she is dealing with a small nationality; when she is really dealing with a very large nationality.

She is dealing with a nationality that often threatens, even numerically, to dominate all the other nationalities of the United States.

The Irish are not decaying;

they are not unpractical; they are scarcely even scattered; they are not even poor.

They are the most powerful and practical world-combination with whom we can decide to be friends or foes; and that is why I thought first of that still and solid brown house in Buckinghamshire, standing back in the shadow of the trees.

Among my impressions of America I have deliberately put first the figure of the Irish-American interviewer, standing on the shore more symbolic than the statue of Liberty.

The Irish interviewer's importance for the English lay in the fact of his being an Irishman, but there was also considerable interest in the circumstance of his being an interviewer.

And as certain wild birds sometimes wing their way far out to sea and are the first signal of the shore, so the first Americans the traveller meets are often American interviewers; and they are generally birds of a feather, and they certainly flock together.

In this respect, there is a slight difference in the etiquette of the craft in the two countries, which I was delighted to discuss with my fellow craftsmen.

If I could at that moment have flown back to Fleet Street I am happy to reflect that nobody in the world would in the least wish to interview me.

I should attract no more attention than the stone griffin opposite the Law Courts; both monsters being grotesque but also familiar.

But supposing for the sake of argument that anybody did want to interview me, it is fairly certain that the fact of one paper publishing such an interview would rather prevent the other papers from doing so.

The repetition of the same views of the same individual in two places would be considered rather bad journalism; it would have an air of stolen thunder, not to say stage thunder.

But in America the fact of my landing and lecturing was evidently regarded in the same light as a murder or a great fire, or any other terrible but incurable catastrophe, a matter of interest to all pressmen concerned with practical events.

One of the first questions I was asked was how I should be disposed to explain the wave of crime in New York.

Naturally I replied that it might possibly be due to the number of English lecturers who had recently landed.

In the mood of the moment it seemed possible that, if they had all been interviewed, regrettable incidents might possibly have taken place.

But this was only the mood of the moment, and even as a mood did not last more than a moment.

And since it has reference to a rather common and a rather unjust conception of American journalism, I think it well to take it first as a fallacy to be refuted, though the refutation may require a rather longer approach.