Diary in America, Series Two

by Frederick Marryat

The American republic was commenced very differently from any other, and with what were real advantages, if she had not been too ambitious and too precipitate in seizing upon them. A republic has generally been considered the most primitive form of rule; it is, on the contrary, the very last pitch of refinement in government, and the cause of its failure up to the present has been, that no people have as yet been sufficiently enlightened to govern themselves. Republics, generally speaking, have at their commencement been confined to small portions of territory having been formed by the extension of townships after the inhabitants had become wealthy and ambitious. In America, on the contrary, the republic commenced with unbounded territory—a vast field for ambition and enterprise, that has acted as a safety-valve to carry off the excess of disappointed ambition, which, like steam, is continually generating under such a form of government. And, certainly, if ever a people were in a situation, as far as education, knowledge, precepts and lessons for guidance and purity of manners could enable them, to govern themselves, those were so who first established the American independence.

Fifty years have passed away, and the present state of America I have already shown. From purity of manners, her moral code has sunk below that of most other nations. She has attempted to govern herself—she is dictated to by the worst of tyrannies. She has planted the tree of liberty; instead of its flourishing, she has neither freedom of speech nor of action. She has railed against the vices of monarchical forms of government, and every vice against which she has raised up her voice, is still more prevalent under her own. She has cried out against corruption—she is still more corrupt: against bribery—her people are to be bought and sold: against tyranny—she is in fetters. She has proved to the world that, with every advantage on her side, the attempt at a republic has been a miserable failure, and that the time is not yet come when mankind can govern themselves. Will it ever come? In my opinion, never!

Although the horizon may be clear at present, yet I consider that the prospect of the United States is anything but cheering. It is true that for a time the States may hold together, that they may each year rapidly increase in prosperity and power, but each year will also add to their demoralisation and to their danger. It is impossible to say from what quarter of the compass the clouds may first rise, or which of the several dangers that threaten them they will have first to meet and to oppose by their energies. At present, the people, or majority, have an undue power, which will yearly increase, and their despotism will be more severe in proportion. If they sell their birthright (which they will not do until the population is much increased, and the higher classes are sufficiently wealthy to purchase, although their freedom will be lost) they will have a better chance of happiness and social order. But a protracted war would be the most fatal to their institutions, as it would, in all probability, end in the dismemberment of the Union, and the wresting of their power from the people by the bayonets of a dictator.

The removal of the power and population to the West, the rapid increase of the coloured population, are other causes of alarm and dread; but, allowing that all these dangers are steered clear of, there is one (a more remote one indeed, but more certain), from which it has no escape—that is, the period when, from the increase of population, the division shall take place between the poor and the rich, which no law against entail will ever prevent, and which must be fatal to a democracy.

Mr Sanderson, in his “Sketches of Paris,” observes—“If we can retain our democracy when our back woodlands are filled up; when New York and Philadelphia have become a London and Paris; when the land shall be covered with its multitudes, struggling for a scanty living, or with passions excited by luxurious habits and appetites. If we can then maintain our universal suffrage and our liberty, it will be fair and reasonable enough in us to set ourselves up for the imitation of others. Liberty, as far as we yet know her, is not fitted to the condition of these populous and luxurious countries. Her household gods are of clay, and her dwelling where the icy gales of Alleghany sing through the crevices of her hut.”

I have observed, in my introduction to the first three volumes of this work, that our virtues and our vices are mainly to be traced to the form of government, climate, and circumstances, and I think I can show that the vices of the Americans are chiefly to be attributed to their present form of government.

The example of the Executive is most injurious. It is insatiable in its ambition, regardless of its faith, corrupt in the highest degree; never legislating for morality, but always for expediency. This is the first cause of the low standard of morals; the second is the want of an aristocracy, to set an example and give the tone to society. These are followed by the errors incident to the voluntary system of religion, and a democratical education. To these must be superadded the want of moral courage, arising from the dread of public opinion, and the natural tendency of a democratic form of government to excite the spirit of gain, as the main-spring of action, and the summum bonum of existence.

Dr Channing observes—“Our present civilisation is characterised and tainted by a devouring greediness of wealth; and a cause which asserts right against wealth, must stir up bitter opposition, especially in cities where this divinity is most adored.” “The passion for gain is every where sapping pure and generous feeling, and every where raises up bitter foes against any reform which may threaten to turn aside a stream of wealth. I sometimes feel as if a great social revolution were necessary to break up our present mercenary civilisation, in order that Christianity, now repelled by the almost universal worldliness, may come into new contact with the soul, and may reconstruct society after its own pure and disinterested principles.” Channing’s Letter to Birney, 1837.

All the above evils may be traced to the nature of their institutions; and I hold it as an axiom, that the chief end of government is the happiness, social order, and morality of the people; that no government, however perfect in theory, can be good which in practice demoralises those who are subjected to it. Never was there a nation which commenced with brighter prospects; the experiment has been made and it has failed; this is not their fault. They still retain all the qualities to constitute a great nation, and a great nation, or assemblage of nations, they will eventually become. At present, all is hidden in a futurity much too deep for any human eye to penetrate; they progress fast in wealth and power, and as their weight increases, so will their speed be accelerated, until their own rapid motion will occasion them to split into fragments, each fragment sufficiently large to compose a nation of itself. What may be the eventual result of this convulsion, what may be the destruction, the loss of life, the chaotic scenes of strife and contention, before the portions may again be restored to order under new institutions, it is as impossible to foresee as it is to decide upon the period at which it may take place; but one thing is certain, that come it will, and that every hour of increase of greatness and prosperity only adds to the more rapid approach of the danger, and to the important lesson which the world will receive.

I have not written this book for the Americans; they have hardly entered my thoughts during the whole time that I have been employed upon it, and I am perfectly indifferent either to their censure or their praise. I went over to America well-inclined towards the people, and anxious to ascertain the truth among so many conflicting opinions. I did expect to find them a people more virtuous and moral than our own, but I confess on other points I had formed no opinions; the results of my observations I have now laid before the English public, for whom only they have been written down. Within these last few years, that is, since the passing of the Reform Bill, we have made rapid strides towards democracy, and the cry of the multitude is still for more power, which our present rulers appear but too willing to give them. I consider that the people of England have already as much power as is consistent with their happiness and with true liberty, and that any increase of privilege would be detrimental to both. My object in writing these pages is, to point out the effects of a democracy upon the morals, the happiness, and the due apportionment of liberty to all classes; to shew that if, in the balance of rights and privileges, the scale should turn on one side or the other, as it invariably must in this world, how much safer it is, how much more equitable I may add, it is that it should preponderate in favour of the intelligent and enlightened portion of the nation. I wish that the contents of these pages may render those who are led away by generous feelings and abstract ideas of right, to pause before they consent to grant to those below them what may appear to be a boon, but will in reality prove a source of misery and danger to all parties—that they may confirm the opinions of those who are wavering, and support those who have true ideas as to the nature of government. If I have succeeded in the most trifling degree in effecting these ends, which I consider vitally important to the future welfare of this country—if I have any way assisted the cause of Conservatism—I am content, and shall consider that my time and labour have not been thrown away.