“How far is it now completed?” demanded I. “I was told they did not go on with it from want of funds.”
“That monument,” replied he, “of which no one can tell when it will be finished, is a sad proof of the preference given by the Bostonians to realities, rather than to fictions of honour and glory. Our people are not fond of the poetry of history. They seem to have fought for liberty because it was a thing worth fighting for, without being fired with that enthusiasm for a great and noble cause with which we have seen millions of Europeans rush into battle as into a banquet-room.
“We Yankees are not like the heroes of antiquity; we are not ambitious, and do not even think it worth our while to leave traces of our virtues and achievements to posterity. We are not easily moved by historical recollections, and therefore think it a useless vanity to erect monuments for our children, in order to stimulate them to great and generous actions. This is a new illustration of our common sense. Being less exposed to invasions from a foreign enemy, and less dreading the aspirings of a powerful faction within, we do not see our institutions surrounded by those dangers, in the struggle against which love of liberty and of country become the absorbing passions of a people. Liberty, with us, constitutes a quiet possession, which we hope to retain rather by prudence and economy than by enthusiasm and courage.”
“I have heard a number of Bostonians,” observed I, “animadvert seriously against the celebration of the 4th of July, the anniversary of the declaration of independence; and especially against the reading of that instrument from the pulpit, because it contains expressions offensive to a power with which the Americans are now living in peace and amity.”
“We do not wish our children to imbibe that tender affection for liberty,” replied he, “which a lover cherishes for his mistress; we want them to be wedded to it in the good old Puritan fashion, without going through the tedium of a sentimental courtship. Our liberal institutions are, with us, a sort of household furniture intended for common use, well kept and guarded from injury, but no object of ardent attachment or devotion.”
The total absence of enthusiasm among the higher classes of Americans, I found, indeed, one of the most remarkable features of their character. They consider the democratic institutions of their country opposed to national grandeur; and feel, therefore, little inclined to commemorate events which could either flatter the vanity, or excite the emulation, of the lower classes. They seem to be of opinion that the people of the United States have full as much liberty as they can bear, and that a little more would unavoidably upset the whole. This will be considered as a gross slander on the patriotism of the aristocracy; but it is nevertheless a conclusion I have deliberately come to, after a long series of observation. Love of liberty and of country I found infinitely stronger among the labouring classes, who do not enjoy the advantage of finishing their education in Europe; absolute contempt, and sometimes hatred of the institutions of their country, among those who have had the means of spending several years abroad. What is the world to argue from it?
The monument at Bunker’s, or rather Breed’s Hill,—for the Americans mistook their position in the night, and fortified Breed’s Hill instead of Bunker’s Hill,—was intended, I believe, for a plain obelisk, which, if it were completed, would command a most superb view of the city and the harbour; as it now stands, it is nothing but a modern ruin,—a lasting reproach to the want of nationality of the Bostonians. Want of public spirit it cannot be; because the Bostonians have given a thousand proofs of their readiness to make large pecuniary sacrifices in order to further the establishment of institutions calculated to benefit the community. The establishment of the Athenæum, principally through the munificence of a merchant; the Asylum for the Blind, towards which Mr. Perkins contributed alone ten thousand pounds sterling; the great liberality of all classes whenever an appeal is made to their charity; and lastly, the large sums paid annually for the support of common schools and public lectures, do not allow me to entertain the least doubt on the subject.
But, in the case of the monument at Bunker’s Hill, “the English feeling,” for which the higher classes of Boston were always distinguished, seems to have acted as a counterpoise; and to have, if not absolutely prevented its completion, at least withheld those sums which would have been readily contributed for another object. The Boston ladies, who, it is said, have a good deal of public spirit, made an attempt to revive the national pride of the gentlemen, but without effect; the outward respect paid by the Americans “to the sex” being essentially different from that species of gallantry which makes men delight in anticipating the wishes of women without being regularly pressed into the service. The “appeal of the ladies,” therefore, remained without effect, and a few of the forward ones barely escaped being ridiculed in the public prints. “This is a sad state of society,” say the disciples of Miss Martineau; “but all this will be changed when the ladies will vote, and hold public meetings for the propagation of patriotism.”
“If the English feeling of our aristocracy,” observed my cicerone, “were to manifest itself only by the omission of expensive monuments, it would, perhaps, less expose us to the censure of our patriots, or the just ridicule of Europeans. But I have known gentlemen whose highest glory consisted in not being recognised as Americans while in England, and whose delight it was to pass on the Continent pour des Mylords Anglais. One of them, a youngster of not more than twenty-one years of age, was, on his stay in Paris, particularly afraid of being taken for an American savage. He spoke on all occasions of England as his native country—(our fashionable young men, you know, talk of going home to England,)—and commenced and finished his sentences with ‘Nous autres en Angleterre,’ ‘nous autres à Londres,’ &c. In the travellers’ books he signed himself Mr. ***; ‘Rentier de Londres;’ his clothes were made by a London tailor, his hat was English; and he even imitated the bad English accent when speaking French, though he could speak the language tolerably well when he wanted to shine before Americans.
“A year or two ago,” he continued, “I met, on the Rhine, with a still more extraordinary phenomenon. It was nearly in the middle of the month of August, when I went in a steamer from Mayence to Coblentz. There were a number of Englishmen on board, who, according to their custom, avoided as much as possible every kind of contact with the rest of the company. They were seated on one side of the boat, gazing on the moving panorama of the river; occasionally ejaculating ‘fine!’ ‘pretty!’ ‘very fine!’ ‘too much at once!’ At a little distance from them, towards the stern of the vessel, sat, ‘solitary and alone,’ as a celebrated senator has it, a gentleman in a macintosh, buttoned up to the chin, supporting his body, which was bent forward, by a huge cane, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground in the deepest meditation.