Part 9

The brilliant Frenchman, Montesquieu, in that remarkable work which occupied so much attention during the last century, “The Spirit of Laws,” pronounces _Honor_ the animating sentiment of Monarchy, but _Virtue_ the animating sentiment of a Republic.[103] It is for us to show that he was right; nor can we depart from this rule of Virtue without disturbing the order of the universe. Faith is nothing less than a part of that sublime harmony by which the planets wheel surely in their appointed orbits, and nations are summoned to justice. Nothing too lofty for its power, nothing too lowly for its protection. It is an essential principle in the divine Cosmos, without which confusion reigns supreme. All depends upon Faith. Why do you build? Because you have faith in those laws by which you are secured in person and property. Why do you plant? why do you sow? Because you have faith in the returning seasons, faith in the generous skies, faith in the sun. But faith in this Republic must be fixed as the sun, which illumines all. I cannot be content with less. Full well I see that every departure from this great law is only to our ruin, and from the height we have reached the tumble will be like that of the Grecian god from the battlements of Heaven:--

“From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer’s day, and with the setting sun Dropped from the zenith like a falling star.”[104]

It only remains, come what may, that we should at all hazards preserve this Public Faith,--never forgetting that honesty is not only the best policy, but the Golden Rule. For myself, I see nothing more practical, at this moment, than, first, at all points to oppose the Democracy, and, secondly, to insist that yet awhile longer ex-Rebels shall be excused from copartnership in government. Do not think me harsh; do not think me austere. I am not. I will not be outdone by anybody in clemency; nor at the proper time will I be behind any one in opening all doors of office and trust. But the proper time has not yet come. There must be security for the future, unquestionable and ample, before I am ready; and this I would require not only for the sake of the national freedman and the national creditor, but for the sake of the country containing the interests of all, and also of the ex-Rebel himself, whose truest welfare is in that peace where all controversy shall be extinguished forever. In this there is nothing but equity and prudence according to received precedents. The ancient historian declares that the ancestors of Rome, the most religious of men, took nothing from the vanquished but the license to do wrong: “_Nostri majores, religiosissimi mortales, … neque victis quicquam præter injuriæ licentiam eripiebant_.”[105] These are the words of Sallust. I know no better example for our present guidance. Who can object, if men recently arrayed against their country are told to stand aside yet a little longer, until all are secure in their rights? Here is no fixed exclusion,--nothing of which there can be any just complaint,--nothing, which is not practical, wise, humane,--nothing which is not born of justice rather than victory. In the establishment of Equal Rights conquest loses its character, and is no longer conquest;--

“For then both parties nobly are subdued, And neither party loser.”[106]

Even in the uncertainty of the future it is easy to see that the national freedman and the national creditor have a common fortune. In the terrible furnace of war they were joined together, nor can they be separated until the rights of both are fixed beyond change. Therefore, could my voice reach them, I would say, “Freedman, stand by the creditor! Creditor, stand by the freedman!” And to the people I would say, “Stand by both!”

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From affairs at home I turn to affairs abroad, and here I wish to speak cautiously. In speaking at all I break a vow with myself not to open my lips on these questions except in the Senate. I yield to friendly pressure. And yet I know no reason why I should not speak. It was Talleyrand who, to somebody apologizing for what might be an indiscreet question, replied, that an answer might be indiscreet, but not a question. My answer shall at least be frank.

In our foreign relations there are with me two cardinal principles, which I have no hesitation to avow at all times: first, peace with all the world; and, secondly, sympathy with all struggling for Human Rights. In neither of these would I fail; for each is essential. Peace is our all-conquering ally. Through peace the whole world will be ours. “Still in the right hand carry gentle peace,” and there is nothing we cannot do. Filled with the might of peace, the sympathy we extend will have a persuasive power. Following these plain principles, we should be open so that foreign nations shall know our sentiments, and in such way that even where there is a difference there shall be no just cause for offence.

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In this spirit I would now approach Spain. Who can forget that great historic monarchy, on whose empire, encircling the globe, the sun never set? Patron of that renowned navigator through whom she became the discoverer of this hemisphere, her original sway within it surpassed that of any other power. At last her extended possessions on the main, won by Cortés and Pizarro, loosed themselves from her grasp, to take their just place in the Family of Nations. Cuba and Porto Rico, rich islands of the Gulf, remained. And now Cuban insurgents demand independence also. For months they have engaged in deadly conflict with the Spanish power. Ravaged provinces and bloodshed are the witnesses. The beautiful island, where sleeps Christopher Columbus, with the epitaph that he gave to Castile and Leon a new world,[107] is fast becoming a desert, while the nation to which he gave the new world is contending for its last possession there. On this simple statement two questions occur: first, as to the duty of Spain; and, secondly, as to the duty of the United States.

Unwelcome as it may be to that famous Castilian pride which has played so lofty a part in modern Europe, Spain must not refuse to see the case in its true light; nor can she close her eyes to the lesson of history. She must recall how the Thirteen American Colonies achieved independence against all the power of England,--how all her own colonies on the American main achieved independence against her own most strenuous efforts,--how at this moment England is preparing to release her Northern colonies from their condition of dependence; and recalling these examples, it will be proper for her to consider if they do not illustrate a tendency of all colonies, which was remarked by an illustrious Frenchman, even before the independence of the United States. Never was anything more prophetic in politics than when Turgot, in 1750, speaking of the Phœnician colonies in Greece and Asia Minor, said: “Colonies are like fruits, which hold to the tree only until their maturity: when sufficient for themselves, they did that which Carthage afterwards did,--_that which some day America will do_.”[108] These most remarkable words of the philosopher-statesman will be found in his Discourse at the Sorbonne; and now for their application. Has not Cuba reached his condition of maturity? Is it not sufficient for itself? At all events, is victory over a colony contending for independence worth the blood and treasure it will cost? These are serious questions, which can be answered properly only by putting aside all passion and prejudice of empire, and calmly confronting the actual condition of things. Nor must the case of Cuba be confounded for a moment with our wicked Rebellion, having for its object the dismemberment of a Republic, to found a new power with Slavery as its vaunted corner-stone. For myself, I cannot doubt, that, in the interest of both parties, Cuba and Spain, and in the interest of humanity also, the contest should be closed. This is my judgment on the facts, so far as known to me. Cuba must be saved from its bloody delirium, or little will be left for the final conqueror. Nor can the enlightened mind fail to see that the Spanish power on this island is an anachronism. The day of European colonies has passed,--at least in this hemisphere, where the rights of man were first proclaimed and self-government first organized. A governor from Europe, nominated by a crown, is a constant witness against these fundamental principles.

As the true course of Spain is clear, so to my mind is the true course of the United States equally clear. It is to avoid involving ourselves in any way. Enough of war have we had, without heedlessly assuming another; enough has our commerce been driven from the ocean, without heedlessly arousing another enemy; enough of taxation are we compelled to bear, without adding another mountain. Two policies were open to us at the beginning of the insurrection. One was to unite our fortunes with the insurgents, assuming the responsibilities of such an alliance, with the hazard of letters-of-marque issued by Spain and of public war. I say nothing of the certain consequences in expenditure and in damages. A Spanish letter-of-marque would not be less destructive than the English Alabama. The other policy was to make Spain feel that we wish her nothing but good,--and that, especially since the expulsion of her royal dynasty, we cherish for her a cordial and kindly sympathy. It is said that republics are ungrateful; but I would not forget that at the beginning of our Revolutionary struggle our fathers were aided by her money, as afterwards by her arms, and that her great statesman, Florida Blanca, by his remarkable energies determined the organization of that Armed Neutrality in Northern Europe which turned the scale against England,[109]--so that John Adams declared, “We owe the blessings of peace to the Armed Neutrality.”[110] I say nothing of the motives by which Spain was then governed. It is something that in our day of need she lent us a helping hand.

It is evident, that, adopting the first policy, we should be powerless, except as an enemy. The second policy may enable us to exercise an important influence.

The more I reflect upon the actual condition of Spain, the more I am satisfied that the true rule for us is non-intervention, except in the way of good offices. This ancient kingdom is now engaged in comedy and tragedy. You have heard of _Hunting the Slipper_. The Spanish comedy is _Hunting a King_. The Spanish tragedy is sending armies against Cuba. I do not wish to take part in the comedy or the tragedy. If Spain is wise, she will give up both. Meanwhile we have a duty which is determined by International Law. To that venerable authority I repair. What that prescribes I follow.

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By that law, as I understand it, nations are not left to any mere caprice. There is a rule of conduct which they must follow, subject always to just accountability where they depart from it. On ordinary occasions there is no question; for it is with nations as with individuals. It is only where the rule is obscure or precedents are uncertain that doubt arises, as with some persons now. Here I wish to be explicit. Belligerence is a “fact,” attested by evidence. If the “fact” does not exist, there is nothing to recognize. The fact cannot be invented or imagined; it must be proved. No matter what our sympathy, what the extent of our desires, we must look at the fact. There may be insurrection without reaching this condition, which is at least the half-way house to independence. The Hungarians, when they rose against Austria, obtained no such recognition, although they had large armies in the field, and Kossuth was their governor; the Poles, in repeated insurrections against Russia, obtained no such recognition, although the conflict made Europe vibrate; the Sepoys and Rajahs of India failed also, although for a time the English empire hung trembling; nor, in my opinion, were our slave-mad Rebels ever entitled to such recognition,--for, whatever the strength of the Rebellion on land, it remained, as in the case of Hungary, of Poland, of India, without those Prize Courts which are absolutely essential to recognition by foreign powers. _A cruiser without accountability to Prize Courts is a lawless monster which civilized nations cannot sanction._ Therefore the Prize Court is the condition-precedent; nor is this all. If the Cuban insurgents have come within any of the familiar requirements, I have never seen the evidence. They are in arms, I know. But where are their cities, towns, provinces? where their government? where their ports? where their tribunals of justice? and where their Prize Courts? To put these questions is to answer them. How, then, is the “fact” of belligerence?

There is another point in the case, which is with me final. Even if they come within the prerequisites of International Law, I am unwilling to make any recognition of them so long as they continue to hold human beings as slaves, which I understand they now do. I am told that there was a decree in May last, purporting to be signed by Cespedes, abolishing slavery; then I am told of another decree in July, maintaining slavery. There is also the story of a pro-slavery constitution to be read at home, and an anti-slavery constitution to be read abroad. Nor is there any evidence that any decree or constitution has had any practical effect. In this uncertainty I shall wait, even if all other things are propitious. In any event there must be Emancipation.

On the recognition of belligerence there is much latitude of opinion,--some asserting that a nation may take this step whenever it pleases; but this pretension excludes the idea that belligerence is always a question of fact on the evidence. Undoubtedly an independent nation may do anything in its power, whenever it pleases,--but subject always to just accountability, if another suffers from what it does. This may be illustrated in the three different cases of war, independence, and belligerence. In each case the declaration is an exercise of high prerogative, inherent in every nation, and kindred to that of eminent domain; but a nation declaring war without just cause becomes a wrong-doer; a nation recognizing independence where it does not exist in fact becomes a wrong-doer; and so a nation recognizing belligerence where it does not exist in fact becomes a wrong-doer also. Any present uncertainty on this last point I attribute to the failure of precedents sufficiently clear and authoritative; but with me there is one rule in such a case which I cannot disobey. In the absence of any precise injunction, I do not hesitate to adopt that interpretation of International Law which most restricts war and all that makes for war,--believing that in this way I shall best promote civilization and obtain new security for international peace.

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From the case of Spain I pass to the case of England, contenting myself with a brief explanation. On this subject I have never spoken except with pain, as I have been obliged to expose a great transgression. I hope to say nothing now which shall augment difficulties,--although, when I consider how British anger was aroused by an effort in another place,[111] judged by all who heard it most pacific in character, I do not know that even these few words may not be misinterpreted.

There can be no doubt that we received from England incalculable wrong,--greater, I have often said, than was ever before received by one civilized power from another, short of unjust war. I do not say this in bitterness, but in sadness. There can be no doubt, that, through English complicity, our carrying-trade was transferred to English bottoms,--our foreign commerce sacrificed, while our loss was England’s gain,--our blockade rendered more expensive,--and generally, that our war, with all its fearful cost of blood and treasure, was prolonged indefinitely. This terrible complicity began with the wrongful recognition of Rebel belligerence, under whose shelter pirate ships were built and supplies sent forth. All this was at the very moment of our mortal agony, in the midst of a struggle for national life; and it was done in support of Rebels whose single declared object of separate existence as a nation was Slavery, being in this respect clearly distinguishable from an established power where slavery is tolerated without being made the vaunted corner-stone. Such is the case. Who shall fix the measure of this great accountability? For the present it is enough to expose it. I make no demand,--not a dollar of money, not a word of apology. I show simply what England has done to us. It will be for her, on a careful review of the case, to determine what reparation to offer; it will be for the American people, on a careful review of the case, to determine what reparation to require. On this head I content myself with the aspiration that out of this surpassing wrong, and the controversy it has engendered, may come some enduring safeguard for the future, some landmark of Humanity. Then will our losses end in gain for all, while the Law of Nations is elevated. But I have little hope of any adequate settlement, until our case, in its full extent, is heard. In all controversies the first stage of justice is to understand the case; and sooner or later England must understand ours.

The English arguments, so far as argument can be found in the recent heats, have not in any respect impaired the justice of our complaint. Loudly it is said that there can be no sentimental damages, or damages for wounded feelings; and then our case is dismissed, as having nothing but this foundation. Now, without undertaking to say that there is no remedy in the case supposed, I wish it understood that our complaint is for damages traced directly to England. If the amount is unprecedented, so also is the wrong. The scale of damages is naturally in proportion to the scale of operations. Who among us doubts that these damages were received? Call them what you please, to this extent the nation lost. The records show how our commerce suffered, and witnesses without number testify how the blockade was broken and the war prolonged. Ask any of our great generals,--ask Sherman, Sheridan, Thomas, Meade, Burnside,--ask Grant. In view of this transcendent wrong, it is a disparagement of International Law to say that there is no remedy. An eminent English judge once pronounced from the bench that “the law is astute to find a remedy”; but no astuteness is required in this case,--nothing but simple justice, which is always the object of a true diplomacy. How did the nation suffer? To what extent? These are the practical questions. No technicality can be set up on either side. _Damages_ are _damages_, no matter by what artificial term they may be characterized. Opposing them as _consequential_ shows the disposition to escape by technicality, even while confessing an equitable liability,--since England is bound for _all the consequences_ of her conduct, bound under International Law, which is a Law of Equity always, and bound, no matter how the damages occurred, _always provided they proceeded from her_. Because the damages are national, because all suffered instead of one, this is no reason for immunity on her part.

Then it is said, “Why not consider our good friends in England, and especially those noble working-men who stood by us so bravely?” We do consider them always, and give them gratitude for their generous alliance. They belong to what our own poet has called “the nobility of labor.” But they are not England. We trace no damages to them, nor to any class, high or low, but to England, corporate England, through whose Government we suffered.

Then, again, it is said, “Why not exhibit an account against France?” For the good reason, that, while France erred with England in recognition of Rebel belligerence, no pirate ships or blockade-runners were built under shelter of this recognition to prey upon our commerce. The two cases are wide asunder, and they are distinguished by two different phrases of the Common Law. The recognition of Rebel belligerence in France was wrong without injury; but that same recognition in England was wrong with injury, and it is of this unquestionable injury that we complain.

Fellow-citizens, it cannot be doubted that this great question, so long as it continues pending, will be a cloud always upon the relations of two friendly powers, when there should be sunshine. Good men on both sides should desire its settlement, and in such way as most to promote good-will, and make the best precedent for civilization. But there can be no good-will without justice, nor can any “snap judgment” establish any rule for the future. Nothing will do now but a full inquiry, without limitation or technicality, and a candid acceptance of the result. There must be equity, which is justice without technicality.

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Sometimes there are whispers of territorial compensation, and Canada is named as the consideration. But he knows England little, and little also of that great English liberty from Magna Charta to the Somerset case, who supposes that this nation could undertake any such transfer. And he knows our country little, and little also of that great liberty which is ours, who supposes that we could receive such a transfer. On each side there is impossibility. Territory may be conveyed, but not a people. I allude to this suggestion only because, appearing in the public press, it has been answered from England.

But the United States can never be indifferent to Canada, nor to the other British provinces, near neighbors and kindred. It is well known historically, that, even before the Declaration of Independence, our fathers hoped that Canada would take part with them. Washington was strong in this hope; so was Franklin. The Continental Congress, by solemn resolution, invited Canada, and then appointed a Commission, with Benjamin Franklin at its head, “to form an Union between the United Colonies and the people of Canada.” In the careful instructions of the Congress, signed in their behalf by John Hancock, President, the Commissioners are, among other things, enjoined “in the strongest terms to assure the people of Canada that it is our earnest desire to adopt them into our Union as a sister Colony, and to secure the same general system of mild and equal laws for them and for ourselves, with only such local differences as may be agreeable to each Colony respectively”; and further, that in the judgment of the Congress “their interest and ours are inseparably united.”[112]

Long ago the Continental Congress passed away, living only in its deeds. Long ago the great Commissioner rested from his labors, to become a star in our firmament. But the invitation survives, not only in the archives of our history, but in all American hearts, constant and continuing as when first issued, believing, as we do, that such a union, in the fulness of time, with the good-will of the mother country and the accord of both parties, must be the harbinger of infinite good. Nor do I doubt that this will be accomplished. Such a union was clearly foreseen by the late Richard Cobden, who, in a letter to myself, bearing date, London, 7th November, 1849, wrote:--