These, gentlemen, are poor words and barren thoughts upon the great European question of the time. A question which America in her own name, and for herself, must meet at some future day, if now she shall fail to meet it firmly, upon well settled principles of national law, for the protection and assistance of other States.
I have done. The exiled patriot shall speak for himself. Not for himself only, nor for the land and people of Hungary he loves so well, but for Europe, and America even, he speaks. Before you he pleads your own cause. It is to a just tribunal I present a noble advocate. And to him it shall be a bright spot in the dreary waste of the exile's life, that to-night he pleads the cause of Hungary and humanity, where once Otis and Adams, and Hancock and Quincy, pleaded the cause of America and liberty.
I present to you Governor Kossuth of Hungary.
In reply to Governor Boutwell, when the tumultuous applause had subsided, Kossuth spoke, in substance as follows:—
He apologized for profaning Shakespeare's language in Faneuil Hall, the cradle of American liberty. Yet he ventured to criticize that very phrase; for liberty ought not to be American, but human; else it is no longer a right, but a privilege; and privilege can nowhere be permanent. The nature of a privilege (said he) is exclusiveness, that of a principle is communicative. Liberty is a principle: its community is its security; exclusiveness is its doom.
What is aristocracy? It is exclusive liberty; it is privilege; and aristocracy is doomed, because it is contrary to the destiny of men. As aristocracy should vanish within each nation, so should no nation be an aristocrat among nations. Until that ceases, liberty will nowhere be lasting on earth. It is equally fatal to individuals as to nations, to believe themselves beyond the reach of vicissitudes. By this proud reliance, and the isolation resulting therefrom, more victims have fallen than by immediate adversities. You have grown prodigiously by your freedom of seventy-five years; but what is seventy-five years as a charter of immortality? No, no, my humble tongue tells the records of eternal truth. A privilege never can be lasting. Liberty restricted to one nation never can be sure. You may say, "We are the prophets of God;" but you shall not say, "God is only our God." The Jews said so, and their pride, old Jerusalem, lies in the dust. Our Saviour taught all humanity to say, "Our Father in heaven," and his Jerusalem is lasting to the end of days.
"There is a community in mankind's destiny"—that was the greeting which I read on the arch of welcome on the Capitol Hill of Massachusetts. I pray to God, the Republic of America would weigh the eternal truth of those words, and act accordingly; liberty in America would then be sure to the end of time; but if you say, "American Liberty," and take that grammar for your policy, I dare to say the time will yet come when humanity will have to mourn a new proof of the ancient truth, that without community national freedom is never sure.
However, the cradle of American Liberty is not only famous from the reputation of having been always on the lists of the most powerful eloquence; it is still more conspicuous for having seen that eloquence attended by practical success. To understand the mystery of this rare circumstance one must see the people of New England, and especially the people of Massachusetts.
In what I have seen of New England there are two things, the evidence of which strikes the observer at every step—prosperity and intelligence. I have seen thousands assembled, following the noble impulses of a generous heart: almost the entire population of every town, of every village where I passed, gathered around me, throwing flowers of consolation on my path. I have seen not a single man bearing that mark of poverty upon himself which in old Europe strikes the eye sadly at every step. I have seen no ragged poor—have seen not a single house bearing the appearance of desolated poverty. The cheerfulness of a comfortable condition, the result of industry, spreads over the land. One sees at a glance that the people work assiduously, not with the depressing thought just to get through the cares of a miserable life from day to day by hard toil, but they work with the cheerful consciousness of substantial happiness. And the second thing which I could not fail to remark, is the stamp of intelligence impressed upon the very eyes and outward appearance of the people at large. I and my companions have seen them in the factories, in the workshops, in their houses, and in the streets, and could not fail a thousand times to think "how intelligent this people looks." It is to such a people that the orators of Faneuil Hall had to speak, and therein is the mystery of success. They were not wiser than the public spirit of their audience, but they were the eloquent interpreters of the people's enlightened instinct.
No man can force the harp of his own individuality into the people's heart, but every man may play upon the chords of his people's heart, who draws his inspiration from the people's instinct. Well, I thank God for having seen the public spirit of the people of Massachusetts, bestowing its attention on the cause I plead, and pronouncing its verdict. In respect to the question of national intervention, his Excellency the high-minded Governor of Massachusetts wrote a memorable address to the Legislature; the Joint Committee of the Legislative Assembly, after a careful and candid consideration of the subject, not only concurred in the views of the Executive government, but elucidated them in a report, the irrefutable logic and elevated statesmanship of which will for ever endear the name of Hazewell to oppressed nations; and the Senate of Massachusetts adopted the resolutions proposed by the Legislative Committee. After such remarkable and unsolicited manifestations of conviction, there cannot be the slightest doubt that all these Executive and Legislative proceedings not only met the full approbation of the people of Massachusetts, but were the solemn interpretation of public opinion. A spontaneous outburst of popular sentiment tells often more in a single word than all the skill of elaborate eloquence could; as when, amidst the thundering cheers of a countless multitude, a man in Worcester greeted me with the shout: "We worship not the man, but we worship the principle." It was a word, like those words of flame spoken in Faneuil Hall, out of which liberty in America was born. That word reveals the spirit, which, applying eternal truth to present exigencies, moves through the people's heart—that word is teeming with the destinies of America.