His fidelity assumed the form of accuracy in all that he said or did. He spoke accurately, and he was especially accurate with his pen. Perhaps nobody was apter in the style or language of legislation. He was an expert draughtsman, although, without doubt, too professional for a taste not exclusively professional,—indulging in traditional phrases, and those favorite superfluities of the lawyer, “said” and “aforesaid.” The great Act of July 13, 1861,[9] which gave to the war for the suppression of the Rebellion its first Congressional sanction, and invested the President with new powers, was drawn by him. It was he that set in place the great ban, not yet lifted, by which the Rebel States were shut out from the communion of the Union. This is a landmark in our history, and it might properly be known by the name of its author, as “Collamer’s statute.”
All who ever sat with him in the committee-room will long remember the carefulness with which he gave his counsels, and the completeness with which he explained them. Perhaps his wisdom and facility in business were nowhere more manifest. I seize this occasion to confess most gratefully my own personal obligations to him in this interesting relation.
The same character which appeared in the committee-room showed itself in conversation, enlivened by constant humor. He, too, had his “little story” for illustration; but in this respect he differed from the late President as one of his own Vermont mountains differs from an outstretched laughing prairie of the West. In manner he was Socratic. The curious observer, fond of tracing resemblances, might fancy that in the form of his head, and even of his person, he was not unlike the received image of Socrates, while his colloquial powers might again recall Socrates, as pictured by the affectionate Xenophon, “handling all who conversed with him just as he pleased.” He had also the same antique simplicity, and I doubt not he would have followed the wise man of Athens barefoot in the waters of the Ilissus. I would not push the resemblance too far, and I use it only for illustration, not for parallel; and yet, as I bring to mind our departed friend, he seems to assume this classical figure. Call him, then, if you please, the Green Mountain Socrates.
Debate, except on the highest occasions, is only conversation in public. With him it was conversation always. He spoke as he conversed, with the same pith and humor, and with the same facility. But his facility did not tempt him. In this gilded amphitheatre,[10] where the speaker is sacrificed to the galleries, as of old the gladiator was offered up to make a Roman holiday, he declined all display, and simply conversed; and such was the desire to hear him, that we gathered near to catch his words. He was not a frequent speaker, and he never spoke except when he had something to say; nor did he speak for effect abroad, but only for effect in the debate. Of course, he was too honest and too considerate of the Senate to speak without the preparation of reflection and study. Though at times earnest, he was never bitter. He never dropped into the debate any poisoned ingredients.
Sometimes he spoke with much effect, especially on law, or finance, or business. On the great question which for a generation overshadowed all others, and finally wrapped the country in the “living cloud of war,” he was sincerely antislavery, but with certain shortcomings which in this impartial tribute ought not to be concealed. His lenity toward our monster enemy showed itself unconsciously when he spoke of malignant Rebels as “those Southern gentlemen who had seceded,” and then again, when, at an earlier date, he spoke of “two civilizations”; but he bore kindly the reply, that civilization was only on one side. And yet on two occasions in this Chamber he strove for the Right very bravely, so that his position became historic. One of these was many years ago, shortly after he came into the Senate; the other was only last year. The historian and the biographer will describe these scenes. One of them is the fit subject of Art.
The earliest of these occasions was when, under the influence of the President of that day, backed by Jefferson Davis in the Cabinet, an illegal government was set up in a distant Territory, which, in defiance of the people there, proceeded to institute an infamous Black Code borrowed from Slavery. The President countenanced the illegal government, and smiled upon the Black Code. The representatives of Slavery in both Houses of Congress, with their Northern allies, indifferent to human rights, and greedy only of political power, sustained the President in his disregard of a fundamental principle of the Declaration of Independence, that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed.” The contest was unequal. On one side was a struggling people, insulted and despoiled of their rights; on the other side was the President, with all the vast powers of the Republic, with patronage less than now, but very prevailing, and with a great political party yielding an unhesitating support. The contest reached this Chamber. Naturally it came before the Committee on Territories, where happily the good cause was represented by Jacob Collamer, of Vermont. The interest increased with each day; and when the Committee reported, a scene ensued without example among us.
The reports of committees are usually handed in and ordered to be printed; but now, at the impassioned call of a Senator from South Carolina,[11] the report of the Committee, whitewashing incredible outrages, was read by the Chairman at the desk of the Secretary of the Senate. The Chairman left his seat for this purpose, and stood face to face with the Senate.[12] For two hours the apology for that usurpation which had fastened a Black Code upon an inoffensive people sounded in this Chamber, while the partisans of Slavery gloated over the seeming triumph. There was a hush of silence, and there was sadness also with some, who saw clearly the unpardonable turpitude of the sacrifice. Mr. Collamer followed with a minority report, signed by himself alone, which he read at the desk of the Secretary, standing face to face with the Senate. Jesse D. Bright was at the time our President, but he had installed in the chair on that momentous occasion none other than that most determined artificer of treason and drill-sergeant of the Rebellion, John Slidell, who sat behind, like Mephistopheles looking over the shoulder of Truth,[13] while the patriot Senator, standing before, gravely unfolded the enormities that had been perpetrated. Few then present now remain; but none then present can fail to recall the scene. The report which Mr. Collamer read belongs to the history of the country. But the scene comes clearly within the domain of Art. In the long life of our departed friend it was his brightest and most glorious moment,—beyond anything of honor or power, whether in the cabinet or on the bench. For what is office, compared to the priceless opportunity, nobly employed, of standing as a buttress for human rights?
The other signal occasion, when he showed much of the same character, and was surely inspired by the same sentiment, was during the last year, when the illustrious President, who now reposes in immortality, undertook, in disregard of Congress, and solely by executive power, to institute civil governments throughout that region of the Union where civil governments had been overthrown,—imitating, in the agencies he employed, the Cromwellian system of ruling by “major-generals.” The case of distant and oppressed Kansas was revived. Who can forget the awakened leonine energy of the aged Senator, when, contrary to his custom, he interrupted another in debate to declare his judgment against the power of the President to institute permanent civil governments “to last beyond the war”?[14] The dividing line was clear. The President might exercise a temporary military power, but Congress must lay the foundations of permanent peace. This simple principle was, of course, only the corollary of that rule of Jefferson, which has become one of the commonplaces of our political system, asserting “the supremacy of the civil over the military authority.”[15] The eggs of crocodiles can produce only crocodiles; and it is not easy to see how eggs laid by military power can be hatched into an American State.
This interjected judgment was afterward developed in a speech, which for sententious wisdom and solid sense is, perhaps, the best he ever delivered. It is not long, but, like the Roman sword, it is effective from its very shortness. He spoke with the authority of years, but he spoke also with another peculiar authority; for it was he who drew the Act of Congress which placed the Rebel States under the ban.[16] Positively, earnestly, and most persuasively, he insisted that Congress should not abdicate its control of this question. His conclusion was repeated again and again. It was for Congress, he said, to say when that state of things existed which would entitle the Rebel States to perform their functions as integral parts of the Union. It was for Congress to decide this question, and not for the President, except so far as the President unites in an Act of Congress by his signature. And he asked, “When will and when ought Congress to admit these States as being in their normal condition?” To which he answers: “It is not enough that they stop their hostility and are repentant. They should present fruits meet for repentance. They should furnish to us, by their actions, some evidence that the condition of loyalty and obedience is their true condition again, and Congress must pass upon it; otherwise we have no securities.… And I insist that the President, making peace with them, if you please, by surceasing military operations, does not alter their status, until Congress passes upon it.” Then, again, filled with the thought, he exclaims, “The great and essential thing now to insist upon is, that Congress shall do nothing which can in any way create a doubt about our power over the subject.” And still pleading against executive interference, he says: “I believe, that, when reëstablishing the condition of peace with that people, Congress, representing the United States, has power, in ending this war, as any other war, to get some security for the future. It would be a strange thing, if it were not true that this nation, in ending a civil as well as a foreign war, could close it and make peace by obtaining, if not indemnity for the past, at least some security for future peace.”[17] This was among the last utterances of our patriot Senator. It is his dying legacy to his country. Let all, from President to citizen, heed its words. The aspiration so often expressed to-day, that he were now alive to take part in the restoration of the Rebel States, is fulfilled. He lives in his declared opinions, echoed from the tomb.
Say not that I err, because here at his funeral, seeking to do him honor, I exhibit him bravely standing front to front with executive power wielded by a President instigated by Jefferson Davis, and then again bravely standing front to front with executive power wielded by the gentle hand of Abraham Lincoln. In the first case it was to save an outraged people; in the other it was to vindicate the powers of the people of the United States in Congress assembled to provide guaranties and safeguards against the wickedness and perjury which had deluged his beloved country with blood. Say not that I err, because now, at his funeral, anxious that his best actions should not be forgotten, I commemorate this championship. He is dead, but the good he has done cannot die. And hereafter faithful Senators, struggling with executive power, will catch a new inspiration from his example. A bishop of the Church tells us that “all is not over, while there is a man left to reprove error and bear testimony to the truth; and a man who does it with becoming spirit may stop a prince or senate when in full career, and recover the day.”[18] Where this spirit has been shown, where an honored associate has earned this title to fame, I insist that it shall be made known.