The Oppressed English Part 1

The Oppressed English.

by Ian Hay.

CHAPTER ONE

As a Scotsman, the English people have my profound sympathy.

In the comic papers of all countries the Englishman is depicted--or was in the days of peace--as stupid, purseproud, thick-skinned, arrogant, and tyrannical. In practice, what is he? The whipping-boy of the British Empire.

In the War of to-day, for instance, whenever anything particularly unpleasant or unpopular has to be done--such as holding up neutral mails, or establis.h.i.+ng a blacklist of neutral firms trading with the enemy--upon whom does the odium fall? Upon "England"; never upon France, and only occasionally upon Great Britain. The people and press interested thunder against "England's Arrogance." Again, in the neutral days, when an American newspaper published a pro-British article, Potsdam complained peevishly that the entire American Press was being bribed with "English" gold. A German school teacher is greeted by her infant cla.s.s with the amiable formula: "Good morning, teacher. _Gott strafe England!_" (Never "Britain," as a Scotsman once very rightly complained to me.) On the other hand, when there is any credit going round--say, for the capture of a hitherto impregnable ridge on the Western Front--to whom is that credit a.s.signed? Well, it depends. If the Canadians took the ridge, Canada gets the credit; and the world's press (including the press of London and England generally) pays due tribute to the invincible valour of the men from the Dominions. Or, if a Scottish or Irish regiment took the ridge, the official report from General Headquarters makes appreciative reference to the fact. But how often do we see the phrase: "The ridge was stormed, under heavy fire, by an English regiment?" Practically never. A victory gained by English boys from Devon or Yorks.h.i.+re appears as a British victory, pure and simple.

Now why? Why should the credit for the good deeds of the British Empire be ascribed to those respectively responsible--except the English--while the odium for the so-called bad deeds is lumped on to England alone? To a certain extent, England herself is to blame. When a Scotsman speaks of Scotland he means Scotland. An Irishman, when he speaks of Ireland, means Ireland and nowhere else. But when an Englishman speaks of "England," he may mean Scotland, or Ireland, or even Canada! This playful habit of a.s.suming that England is the Empire, and that the Empire is England, does not always make for imperial fraternity, even though in the vast majority of cases not the slightest offence is intended. To the average Englishman it seems simpler to say "England."

But there are other and deeper reasons. England is a big nation, while the others are small. There are more people in London than in the whole of Scotland, or Ireland, or, until recent years, Canada. And a small nation is always intensely sensitive, and a.s.sertive, of its own nationality. The English, too, are an exceedingly placid nation. Their enemies call them self-satisfied, but this is hardly just. Scotsmen and Irishmen celebrate the mysteries of St. Andrew's Day and St. Patrick's Day with a fervour only equalled by that of the average American citizen on the Fourth of July. But if you were to ask the average Englishman the date of St. George's Day, he probably would not be able to tell you: and under no circ.u.mstances would he dream of celebrating the occasion.

"Of course I am proud of being an Englishman," he says in effect; "but everybody realizes that. So why advertise the fact unnecessarily? Why make a cantata about it?"

It is this same att.i.tude of mind which causes an Englishman to care little, provided a piece of work is _well_ done for the cause in which he is interested, who gathers the credit. Instinct and tradition have taught him to set the cause above the prize. It is this characteristic which makes him such an amazingly successful subordinate official, whether in the Services or in commerce. He is not vitally interested to climb to the top. His job, for its own sake, suffices him. He is content to work below the waterline, and if the s.h.i.+p goes forward he is satisfied. So he smiles paternally on these aggressively patriotic little brethren of his; allows them to absorb all possible credit for their respective achievements; and philosophically shoulders the responsibility for the shortcomings of the British Empire. It saves trouble; it saves explanation; and an average Englishman would rather be scalped than explain.

This stoical att.i.tude is all very well, but it can undoubtedly be carried too far. Patience is a virtue, but an overthick skin is not. The courage of one's convictions can sometimes merge into blind indifference to the opinions of other people. From here it is a mere step to "You be d.a.m.ned!"

Let us consider the Englishman as he appears to the other inhabitants of the globe, be they relatives, friends, or foes.

CHAPTER TWO

An Englishman and an American, in the earlier stages of their acquaintance, are a complete mystery to one another. It seems incredible that two such different persons should speak the same tongue.

The points of difference are not fundamental, but superficial. However, things on the surface are always more conspicuous than things underneath. For instance, the Englishman and the American are both naturally warm-hearted. But when an American is glad to see you, he shakes your hand for quite a while, and possibly will continue to hold it until he has concluded his address of welcome. The Englishman shakes your hand vigorously, drops it like a hot potato, and murmurs some stereotyped greeting to his boots. He feels somehow that it would be indecent to go farther.

In the subsequent conversation the American speaks as he thinks, clearly and with cohesion, articulating every syllable in a well-rounded sentence. To an Englishman, a well-rounded sentence savours of pedantry; so he clothes what is sometimes a most interesting remark in a few staccato phrases and a "Don't you know?"

The chief thing that an Englishman dreads at the outset of an acquaintances.h.i.+p is expansiveness. The more the stranger expands, the more the Englishman contracts. The only way to win his confidence is to show yourself as reticent and as perfunctory in conversation as himself.

He will then recognize in you that rare and precious object, a kindred spirit, thaw rapidly, and unbosom himself to a surprising extent.

The characteristic of the Englishman which puzzles the American most is his apparent lack of interest in serious matters, and the carelessness or frivolity with which he refers to his own particular subject or specialty. The American, like the Athenian of old, is forever seeking for some new thing. And when he encounters that new thing, nothing can prevent him getting to the roots of it. Consequently, when an American finds himself in the company of a man who possesses certain special skill or knowledge, it seems right and natural for him to draw that man out upon his own subject. But when dealing with an Englishman he usually draws a blank. He is met either by a cold stare or a smiling evasion.

The man may be a distinguished statesman, or soldier, or writer; but to judge from his responses--half awkward, half humorous--to your shrewdest and most searching queries, on the subject of politics, or war, or letters, you will be left with the impression that you have been conversing with a flippant and rather superficial amateur. To an American, who is accustomed to say his prayers to the G.o.ds of Knowledge and Efficiency, and who, to do him justice, is always willing to share knowledge with others, such conduct savours of childishness--nay, imbecility.

What the American does not realize--and one can hardly blame him--is this, that the average Englishman is reared up from schoolboyhood in the fear of two most awful and potent deities: "Side" and "Shop." It is "side" to talk about yourself, or your work, or your achievements, or your ambitions, or your wife, or anything that is yours. This is perhaps no bad thing, but it certainly handicaps you as a conversationalist, because naturally a man never talks so well as upon his own subject. The twin deity, "Shop," is an even more ruthless tyrant. Never, under any circ.u.mstances, may you discuss professional matters out of official hours. To talk "shop" is perhaps the most accursed crime in the English Secular Decalogue (set down hereafter). For instance, in an English military Mess, a junior officer who referred at table to matters connected with the life of the regiment would render himself liable to stern rebuke. At Oxford or Cambridge, an undergraduate who ventured, during dinner, upon a quotation from the Cla.s.sics, would be fined pots of ale all around.

In short, the more highly you are qualified to speak on a subject, the more slightingly you refer to it; and the more pa.s.sionately you are interested in a matter, the less you say about it.

However, perhaps it would be simpler to set down the Englishman's Secular Decalogue at length, appending thereto the appropriate comments of the proverbial Man from Missouri. Here it is.

_The Englishman's Secular Decalogue_

(1) Thou shalt own allegiance to no man, save The King. Thou shalt be deferential to those above thee in station, and considerate of those below thee. To those of thine own rank thou mayest behave as seemeth good to thee.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "I own allegiance to nothing on earth but the American flag. As a democrat, I recognize no man as being either above or below me in station."]

(2) Thou shalt wors.h.i.+p thine ancestors and family connections.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "You got nothing on me there. We wors.h.i.+p our Ancestors, too. Did you ever know an American who hadn't got his pedigree worked out to three places of decimals? Besides, that is why many of us have got such a soft spot for that funny old island of yours."]

(3) Thou shalt not talk "shop."

[_The Man from Missouri_: "That strikes me as punk. As a business man, without any mildewed delusions about ancestral acres, or the vulgarity of trade, my aim in life is to _do_ business, and do it all the time, and never worry about hurting the feelings of the family ghost."]

(4) Thou shalt not put on side.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "But you _do_!"

_The Englishman_: "No, we _don't_! That stiffness of manner is due to shyness."

_The Man from Missouri_: "Very well, then. Let it go at that."]

(5) Thou shalt not speak aught but flippantly of matters that concern thee deeply.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "There you puzzle me to death. When I feel glad about anything, or bad about anything, or mad about anything--well, it seems only common sense to say so. Can't you _see that_?"

_The Englishman_: "No. It isn't done."]

(6) Thou shalt never make public thy domestic affairs. Above all, thou shalt never make open reference to thy women, in places where men gather together, such as the Club.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "Yes, that is sound. Still, I consider that as a nation you rather overdo the Secrets of the Harem proposition."]

(7) Thou shalt make War as a Sportsman. Thou shalt play the game. That is to say, thou shalt not study the science too laboriously beforehand, for that would savour of professionalism. And when thou dost fight thou shalt have strict regard for the rules, even if it be to thine own hurt.

Moreover, thou shalt play for thy side and not for thyself. Thou shalt visit no personal affront upon thine enemy when thou dost capture him, for that is not the game.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "Yes, I'm with you there all the time. Perhaps a little more seriousness and a little less pipeclay might help your Army, but no one denies their clean fighting."]

(8) Thou shalt never be in a hurry. Thou shalt employ deliberation in thought.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "Yes, sir, I know all about that! It used to make me hot under the collar to sit and listen to an Englishman's mind working--on its first speed _all_ the time. Now that I know you better, I am getting used to it; but I confess, right now, that there was a time when I regarded your entire nation as solid ivory from the ears up."]

(9) Thou shalt not enter into friendly relations with a stranger, least of all a foreigner, until thou shalt have made enquiry concerning him.

When thou hast discovered a common bond, however slight, thou shalt take him to thy bosom.

[_The Man from Missouri_: "Yes, that's right. I once shared a s.h.i.+p-cabin with an Englishman on a seven-day trip. For three days we never got beyond 'Good morning,' although I could see by the look in his eye that he was kindly disposed, and was only held back by want of a reference.

However, the fourth day out he asked me if I had ever been in Shrops.h.i.+re. I said no, but my sister had once visited there, with some people whose name I have now forgotten. But that was enough. It appeared that he knew the people; he was their va.s.sal, or overlord, or mortgagee, or something. After that he wanted to adopt me."]

(10) Thou shalt render thyself inconspicuous. Thou shalt not wear unusual apparel, or thou shalt be committed to a special h.e.l.l reserved for those who, knowing better, wear made-up ties, or who compa.s.s unlawful combinations of frock-coats, derby hats, and tan boots.