Such acts—naturally though incorrectly supposed to represent the character of the Mexican, and linked with the apparent cowardice of Santa Anna and his army in the Texan war of independence—caused the nation in whose name they were perpetrated to be looked upon by not a few Americans as a nest of poisonous reptiles, fit only to be stamped upon. Referring to one of the Texan outrages, the Indiana State Sentinel exclaimed: “Should that blustering, cowardly nation ever have the temerity to declare war against the United States, think you not that the remembrance of such scenes will make every soldier feel himself ‘thrice armed’?” When people of our own became the victims, when they were robbed and deported without cause on the shores of the Pacific, when they were shot without trial at Tampico, when they were threatened with the death of pirates for joining the Texans, and especially when the newspapers told how Americans among the Santa Fe prisoners were insulted, abused and forced to work in chains on the road to Santa Anna’s palace, so that he might feast his cruel, cowardly eyes upon their sufferings, fury burned like a flame in many a heart. Time appeased the fire, but in 1846 the embers were still red.[1]
AMERICAN FEELING ABOUT MEXICAN OUTRAGES
With less poignant but no less real indignation the American public noted in a general way the entire long series of our grievances: our flag insulted, our minister traduced and threatened, our consuls maltreated, our government officially maligned, agreements broken, treaties ignored or violated, citizens persecuted and imprisoned, property confiscated, trade hampered and ruined, complaints more or less politely mocked, positive demands adroitly evaded, valid claims fraudulently defeated; and heard that such offences were not merely committed now and then, but repeated over and over again with apparent deliberation and malice. The highest Mexican authorities were found encouraging prejudice and ill-will against our citizens, exerting themselves to make foreign nations distrust and hate us, misrepresenting our efforts to conciliate them, and describing our honest wish to be on friendly terms as hypocrisy and craft. Our people saw the legitimate results of Mexican misgovernment charged against this country; proceedings of our authorities, fully warranted by the facts, protested against; threats of war freely made to influence our national conduct; and measures looking toward hostilities openly advocated and adopted in the most offensive manner. Just how fully the details were noted by the public, and how long the incidents were remembered, it would obviously be impossible to say; but in all probability they sank into the general consciousness, and produced a certain state of mind.
In February, 1847, the Virginia House of Delegates declared that the war had been “most unrighteously provoked ... by a long series of acts of injustice and outrage towards the United States,” and this is only one of almost countless equivalent expressions, which no doubt were fairly sincere.[2]
On the other hand certain factors tended to neutralize our indignation. There was a disposition, traceable to natural good-heartedness, political expediency and commercial interests, to maintain friendly relations with our neighbor. Much of what seemed like misconduct was attributed to circumstances. We had a rather conceited notion that Mexicans could not be expected to know very much or do very well. More or less faintly the idea glimmered, that perhaps it was easy for them to misunderstand the Texas affair, and natural for them to be angry about it. Many felt inclined on general principles to suspect that our aggrieved citizens were not entirely exempt from blame. Money was used by the agents of Mexico to influence our press. Domestic politics warped public opinion in her favor sometimes; and finally the anti-slavery people went great lengths in championing her government and accusing their own, for every suggestion of war upon Mexico was suspected of aiming at the acquisition of territory and the reinforcement of a hated institution.[3]
The northeastern states, on account of the strong anti-slavery sentiment existing there, were not a little disposed to heed these influences, but elsewhere they signified much less, and were quite unable to offset the prevalent feeling that Mexico had insulted, outraged and cheated us, and the growing conviction that, in dealing with her, forbearance had proved to be a mistake. As early as 1830 Count Lillers wrote from New Orleans: It would be “impossible” to speak of Mexico with “more bitterness and desire of vengeance than is done by certain persons whose words must not be neglected,” and by 1837 many agreed with Jackson that satisfaction ought to be required; yet nothing positive was done, and the impatience grew. The lenity of our authorities began to be denounced, and the New Orleans Picayune in particular attacked what it called “the known imbecility which has for years marked our government at home as regards its external relations with Mexico.”[4]
The proceedings of her claims commissioners had a signally bad effect. “The conduct of the Mexican government towards the American claimants under the treaty between the two countries,” declared the Picayune, “has been the most infamously perfidious ever practised by one country and submitted to by another.” “Many earnest remonstrances and complaints,” wrote Webster, our secretary of state, officially to the Mexican commissioners, have been made to me against your proceedings and those of your government in this affair; and though he refrained from expressing any opinion as to the justice of them, such a declaration was evidence of an indignation both deep and general. At the same time fresh grievances accumulated; and the Mexicans, instead of showing any appreciation of what our people regarded as kindness toward them, appeared even less willing to grant effectual redress than ten or fifteen years before. “Forbearance and lenity toward such creatures,” protested the Jeffersonian Republican of New Orleans in August, 1845, “are all lost and worse than lost,” for they are thought signs of weakness, and lead to greater atrocities.[5]
The decision of Herrera’s administration to reject Slidell, our minister of peace, was generally regarded—except by the partisan opponents of our government—as a crowning proof of the vanity of forbearance and a loud call for action. This nation, said the St. Louis Republican, “owes it to herself and her character, and the just appreciation of her ministers and her standing in all foreign countries not to suffer so open an insult to her representative to pass unnoticed.” “The indignity to our Minister requires atonement,” was the crisper utterance of the Picayune, which was widely recognized as the best informed authority on Mexican affairs among our newspapers. The revolution of Paredes appeared to be a further evidence of hostility. The government of Mexico, observed the Delta of New Orleans, has been overthrown with no pretext except the necessity of active war against the United States; so let war be waged. Finally, the definitive rejection of our peace overture, announced in Castillo’s defiant and offensive note, supplied a conclusive argument in the opinion of many against further hesitation. “We have borne and forborne long enough, and a resolute stand should be taken at once,” was the comment of the Missouri Reporter. “The United States,” declared the New Orleans Commercial Bulletin, “have borne more insult, abuse, insolence and injury, from Mexico, than one nation ever before endured from another ... they are now left no alternative but to extort by arms the respect and justice which Mexico refuses to any treatment less harsh.”[6]