While the Congress of the United States did not approach that of Mexico in badness, there was too much resemblance. One should always remember that among the people who really make up the world and keep it going perfection is, and is likely to be, somewhat rare; but for an elect body our Congress fell below all reasonable expectations. The comedy of its political manoeuvres was only surpassed by the tragedy of them. Amos Kendall said, after the hostilities began, “There can be no peace with that people [the Mexicans] but through victory or with dishonor,” and any person of judgment could see this; yet prejudices, passions and interests prevented many from honestly supporting a national war, and turned not a few into virtual enemies of their country. Markoe wrote from Vera Cruz with reference to Clay, Webster, Gallatin and others of their school, “These great men have by their speeches done more to prevent peace than though they had each of them severally arrayed 10,000 Mexicans against Scott”; and when one recalls the expense and bloodshed that would almost certainly have been spared this country and Mexico had our government felt at liberty to spend with decent liberality in meeting Scott’s requisitions promptly, patience itself takes fire.[7]

To think of giving him so small an army that the Mexicans felt positively ashamed to yield! And then to reflect how politics went into the army itself, endangering the lives of men and the fortunes of the country through unfit appointments. “How we have been gulled and led about,” exclaimed a soldier, “by a set of political demagogues, who, regardless of the fearful responsibility, have forced themselves into positions they possess no qualifications to fill, with a hope thereby to promote their future political aggrandizement!” We recall, even though we do not endorse, the Frenchman who observed, “The more I see of the representatives of the people, the more I love my dogs”; and we also recall the opinion of a British king: “Politics are a trade for a rascal, not for a gentleman.”[8]

The President showed himself a small man, but the saying of La Rochefoucauld comes to mind: “We may appear great in an employment beneath our merit, but we often appear little in ones too great for us.” The situation in which Polk, essentially a local politician from Tennessee, found himself—called upon to re-make the fiscal system of the country, to dispose of long-standing and now critical issues with Great Britain and Mexico, to cope with a factious and unscrupulous opposition in Congress, and to face a war in a foreign land, almost unknown to us, with a handful of regulars commanded by Whigs—was extremely difficult; but he steered his course firmly to the end, set an example of honest, faithful administration, established a fiscal system under which the country enjoyed a period of great prosperity, effected with England an adjustment that in essence had been refused, enjoyed a series of uniform triumphs in the field, and obtained from our enemy the peace and the territory he desired.[9]

Indeed, he achieved a still more surprising triumph, for he disproved the favorite American axiom: “Nothing succeeds like success.” His lack of commanding qualities, his inability to win admiration and sympathy, and his resorting to small methods because he lacked the power to wield great ones, made him seem legitimate prey. He became the dog with a bad name, for which any stick or stone was good enough. Other men in public life could misrepresent the facts—as many were doing all the time—and still be honored; but if Polk “put the best foot forward,” if he allowed men to draw inferences from their wishes, if—wittingly or not—he colored things, if—even by accident—he made an incorrect statement, he was promptly denounced as a villain.

And when he had supported his tremendous burden loyally, if not with éclat; when denunciations had failed, threats crumbled, taunts miscarried, hostile predictions fallen to the ground; when our people had not risen up against the war, our treasury had not collapsed, our armies had not withered away; when our sword had been wielded with honor, our territory and commercial field been extended far to the west, our international status been elevated—after all these triumphs the bitter tongue of a partisan spit out on the floor of our national House the famous nickname, “Polk the Mendacious,” the President left office under a leaden cloud of disparagement and contempt, and later authors delighted to dip their pens in the gall of his enemies. Truly, however little we feel inclined to go into raptures over Polk, we can admire his traducers even less.

GENERAL TAYLOR

Next, in view of the civil as well as military fame gained from the war by Taylor, one thinks of him. In reviewing his operations we must beware of judging him by mere professional standards, for he was more, as well as less, than a technical soldier. The most essential qualities for a general, says the Baron de Jomini, are physical and moral courage; and in these respects the head of our army of occupation was flawless. Indeed almost all the moral qualifications of an eminent commander were his. He was a born fighter and born leader. He could think best in danger and excitement. He could inspire confidence and win devotion. The fact that one so plain could be a paladin made even the ordinary feel capable of heroism. Like all undisciplined men of great force he possessed large reserves of strength, and when an emergency stimulated these, he displayed a power that compelled those on the ground to imitate and those at a distance to admire him.[10]

On the other hand, most of the intellectual qualifications of the commander were largely wanting. To be sure he possessed a great deal of practical shrewdness, and he used moral force with a broad sort of calculation that enabled him to produce effects which a mere educated soldier could scarcely have obtained. But he did not understand the aims or the art of war, lacked initiative, failed in prevision, neglected preparation, ignored details, took little care to gather information, misunderstood the intentions of the enemy, and underestimated their strength. He preferred swinging an axe at a door to conducting the battle sagaciously from a distance. He would chat with soldiers about home, and then sacrifice their lives.

His “victories” made him famous, but the true test of generalship, observes Henderson, is “the number of mistakes”; and every stage of Taylor’s progress was marked with grave errors. Besides, “however brilliant an action may be,” remarks La Rochefoucauld, “it ought not to pass for great when it is not the result of a great design”; and not only were none of Taylor’s exploits deliberately planned, but he never understood the risks he was braving. Some ironical but loving god seemed to attend him. The life he carelessly, improvidently ventured was guarded; and insubordination, both toward the President and toward the general-in-chief, made him the successor of the first and the superior of the second. “Old Zack is the most lucky man alive,” said Colonel Campbell.[11]

GENERAL SCOTT