In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe rings from side to side."
The same spirit of justice and humanity animating him in defence of liberty inspired his exertions for the abolition of the barbarous custom or institution of War. When I call war an institution, I mean international war, sanctioned, explained, and defined by the Law of Nations, as a mode of determining questions of right. I mean war, the arbiter and umpire, the Ordeal by Battle, deliberately continued in an age of civilization, as the means of justice between nations. Slavery is an institution sustained by municipal law. War is an institution sustained by the Law of Nations. Both are relics of the early ages, and are rooted in violence and wrong.
The principle, already considered, that nations and individuals are bound by one and the same rule, applies here with unmistakable force. The Trial by Battle, to which individuals once appealed for justice, is branded by our civilization as monstrous and impious; nor can we recognize honor in the successful combatant. Christianity turns from these scenes, as abhorrent to her best injunctions. And is it right in nations to prolong a usage, monstrous and impious in individuals? There can be but one answer.
This definition leaves undisturbed that question of Christian ethics, whether the right of self-defence is consistent with the example and teaching of Christ. Channing thought it was. It is sufficient that war, when regarded as a judicial combat, sanctioned by the Law of Nations as an institution to determine justice, raises no such question, involves no such right. When, in our age, two nations, parties to existing international law, after mutual preparations, continued perhaps through years, appeal to war and invoke the God of Battles, they voluntarily adopt this unchristian umpirage; nor can either side plead that overruling necessity on which alone the right of self-defence is founded. They are governed at every step by the Laws of War. But self-defence is independent of law; it knows no law, but springs from sudden tempestuous urgency, which brooks neither circumscription nor delay. Define it, give it laws, circumscribe it by a code, invest it with form, refine it by punctilio, and it becomes the Duel. And modern war, with its definitions, laws, limitations, forms, and refinements, is the Duel of Nations.
These nations are communities of Christian brothers. War is, therefore, a duel between brothers; and here its impiety finds apt illustration in the past. Far away in the early period of time, where uncertain hues of Poetry blend with the clearer light of History, our eyes discern the fatal contest between those two brothers, Eteocles and Polynices. No scene stirs deeper aversion; we do not inquire which was right. The soul cries out, in bitterness and sorrow, Both were wrong, and refuses to discriminate between them. A just and enlightened opinion, contemplating the feuds and wars of mankind, will condemn both sides as wrong, pronouncing all war fratricidal, and every battle-field a scene from which to avert the countenance, as from that dismal duel beneath the walls of Grecian Thebes.
To hasten this judgment our Philanthropist labored. "Follow my white plume," said the chivalrous monarch of France. "Follow the Right," more resplendent than plume or oriflamme, was the watchword of Channing. With a soul kindling intensely at every story of magnanimous virtue, at every deed of self-sacrifice in a righteous cause, his clear Christian judgment saw the mockery of what is called military glory, whether in ancient thunderbolts of war or in the career of modern conquest. He saw that the fairest flowers cannot bloom in soil moistened by human blood,—that to overcome evil by bullets and bayonets is less great and glorious than to overcome it by good,—that the courage of the camp is inferior to this Christian fortitude found in patience, resignation, and forgiveness of evil, as the spirit which scourged and crucified the Saviour was less divine than that which murmured, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
With fearless pen he arraigned that giant criminal, Napoleon Bonaparte. Witnesses flocked from all his scenes of blood; and the pyramids of Egypt, the coast of Palestine, the plains of Italy, the snows of Russia, the fields of Austria, Prussia, Spain, all Europe, sent forth uncoffined hosts to bear testimony against the glory of their chief. Never before, in the name of humanity and freedom, was grand offender arraigned by such a voice. The sentence of degradation which Channing has passed, confirmed by coming generations, will darken the name of the warrior more than any defeat of his arms or compelled abdication of his power.
These causes Channing upheld and commended with admirable eloquence, both of tongue and pen. Though abounding in beauty of thought and expression, he will be judged less by single passages, sentences, or phrases, than by the continuous and harmonious treatment of his subject. And yet everywhere the same spirit is discerned. What he said was an effluence rather than a composition. His style was not formal or architectural in shape or proportion, but natural and flowing. Others seem to construct, to build; he bears us forward on an unbroken stream. If we seek a parallel for him as writer, we must turn our backs upon England, and repair to France. Meditating on the glowing thought of Pascal, the persuasive sweetness of Fénelon, the constant and comprehensive benevolence of the Abbé Saint Pierre, we may be reminded of Channing.
With few of the physical attributes belonging to the orator, he was an orator of surpassing grace. His soul tabernacled in a body that was little more than a filament of clay. He was small in stature; but when he spoke, his person seemed to dilate with the majesty of his thoughts,—as the Hercules of Lysippus, a marvel of ancient art, though not more than a foot in height, revived in the mind the superhuman strength which overcame the Nemean lion:—