Hard pressed on the instructions to Mr. Crittenden—prostrate and defenceless there—the gentlemen on the other side take refuge under the letter to Mr. Fox, and celebrate the harmony of its periods, and the beauty of its composition. I grant its merit in these particulars. I admit the beauty of the style, though attenuated into gossamer thinness and lilliputian weakness. I agree that the Secretary writes well. I admit his ability even to compose a prettier letter in less than forty days. But what has all this to do with the question of right and wrong—of honor and shame—of war and peace—with a foreign government? In a contest of rhetoricians, it would indeed be important; but in the contests of nations it dwindles into insignificance. The statesman wants knowledge, firmness, patriotism, and invincible adherence to the rights, honor, and interests of his country. These are the characteristics of the statesman; and tried by these tests, what becomes of this letter, so encomiastically dwelt upon here? Its knowledge is shown by a mistake of the law of nations—its firmness, by yielding to a threat—its patriotism, by taking the part of foreigners—its adherence to the honor, rights and interests of our own country, by surrendering McLeod without receiving, or even demanding, one word of redress or apology for the outrage upon the Caroline!
The letter, besides its fatal concessions, is deficient in manly tone—in American feeling—in nerve—in force—in resentment of injurious imputations—and in enforcement of our just claims to redress for blood spilt, territory invaded, and flag insulted.
The whole spirit of the letter is feeble and deprecatory. It does not repel, but begs off. It does not recriminate, but defends. It does not resent insult—not even the audacious threat—which is never once complained of, nor even alluded to.
This letter is every way an unfortunate production. It does not even show the expense and trouble we took to prevent our citizens from crossing the line and joining the Canadian insurgents. It does not show the expense we were at in raising a new regiment of infantry expressly for that service (several voices said yes, yes, it mentions that). Good, let it be credited accordingly. But it does not mention the appropriation of $650,000 made at one time for that object; it does not mention the numerous calls upon the militia authorities and the civil authorities along the line to assist in restraining our people; it does not mention the arrests of persons, and seizures of arms, which we made; it does not mention the prosecutions which we instituted; it does not show that for two years we were at great expense and trouble to restrain our people; and that this expense and trouble was brought upon us by the excitement produced by the affair of the Caroline. The British brought us an immense expense by that affair, for which they render us no thanks, and the Secretary fails to remind them. The letter does not repel, with the indignant energy which the declaration required, that we had "permitted" our citizens to arm and join the insurgents. It repels it, to be sure, but too feebly and gently, and it omits altogether what should never be lost sight of in this case, that the British have taken great vengeance on our people for their rashness in joining this revolt. Great numbers of them were killed in action; many were hanged; and many were transported to the extremities of the world—to Van Diemen's Land, under the antarctic circle—where they pine out a miserable existence, far, far, and for ever removed from kindred, home and friends.
The faults of the letter are fundamental and radical—no beauty of composition, no tropes and figures, no flowers of rhetoric—can balance or gloss over. The objections go to its spirit and substance—to errors of fact and law—to its tameness and timidity—and to its total omission to demand redress from the British government for the outrages on the Caroline, which that government has assumed. She has now assumed that outrage for the first time—assumed it after three years of refusal to speak; and in the assumption offers not one word of apology, or of consolation to our wounded feelings. She claps her arms akimbo, and avows the offence; and our Secretary, in his long and beautiful letter, finds no place to insert a demand for the assumed outrage. He gives up the culprit subject, and demands nothing from the imperious sovereign. He lets go the servant, and does not lay hold of the master. This is a grievous omission. It is tantamount to a surrender of all claim for any redress of any kind. McLeod, the culprit, is given up: he is given up without conditions. The British government assume his offence—demand his release—offer us no satisfaction: and we give him up, and ask no satisfaction. The letter demands nothing—literally nothing: and in that respect again degrades us as much as the surrender upon a threat had already degraded us. This is a most material point, and I mean to make it clear. I mean to show that the Secretary in giving up the alleged instrument, has demanded nothing from the assuming superiors: and this I will do him the justice to show by reading from his own letter. I have examined it carefully, and can find but two places where the slightest approach is made, not even to a demand for redress, but to the suggestion of an intimation of a wish on our side ever to hear the name of the Caroline mentioned again. These two places are on the concluding pages of the letter, as printed by our order. If there are others, let gentlemen point them out, and they shall be read. The two paragraphs I discover, are these:
"This government, therefore, not only holds itself above reproach in every thing respecting the preservation of neutrality, the observance of the principle of non-intervention, and the strictest conformity, in these respects, to the rules of international law, but it doubts not that the world will do it the justice to acknowledge that it has set an example not unfit to be followed by others, and that, by its steady legislation on this most important subject, it has done something to promote peace and good neighborhood among nations, and to advance the civilization of mankind.
"The President instructs the undersigned to say, in conclusion, that he confidently trusts that this and all other questions of difference between the two governments will be treated by both in the full exercise of such a spirit of candor, justice, and mutual respect, as shall give assurance of the long continuance of peace between the two countries."
This is all I can see that looks to the possible contingency of any future allusion to the case of the Caroline. Certainly there could not be a more effectual abandonment of our claim to redress. The first paragraph goes no further than to "trust" that the grounds may be presented which "justify"—a strange word in such a case—the local authorities in attacking and destroying this vessel; and the second buries it all up by deferring it to the general and peaceful settlement of all other questions and differences between the two countries. Certainly this is a farewell salutation to the whole affair. It is the valedictory to the Caroline. It is the parting word, and is evidently so understood by the British ministry. They have taken no notice of this beautiful letter: they have returned no answer to it; they have not even acknowledged its receipt. The ministry, the parliament, and the press, all acknowledge themselves satisfied—satisfied with the answer which was given to Mr. Fox, on the 12th of March. They cease to speak of the affair; and the miserable Caroline—plunging in flames over the frightful cataract, the dead and the dying both on board—is treated as a gone-by procession, which has lost its interest for ever. Mr. Webster has given it up, by deferring it to general settlement; and in so giving it up, has not only abandoned the rights and honor of his country, but violated the laws of diplomatic intercourse. Outrages and insults are never deferred to a general settlement. They are settled per se—and promptly and preliminarily. All other negotiations cease until the insult and outrage is settled. That is the course of Great Britain herself in this case. She assumes the arrest of McLeod to be an offence to the British crown, and dropping all other questions of difference, demands instant reparation for that offence. Mr. Webster should have done the same by the offence to his country. It was prior in time, and should have been prior in settlement—at all events the two offences should have been settled together. Instead of that he hastens to make reparation to the British—does it in person—and without waiting even to draw up a letter in reply to Mr. Fox! and then, of his own head, defers our complaint to a general settlement. This is unheard of, either in national or individual insults. What would we think of a man, who being insulted by an outrage to his family in his house, should say to the perpetrators: "We have some outstanding accounts, and some day or other we may have a general settlement; and then, I trust you will settle this outrage." What would be said of an individual in such a case, must be said of ourselves in this case. In vain do gentlemen point to the paragraph in the letter, so powerfully drawn, which paints the destruction of the Caroline, and the slaughter of the innocent as well as the guilty, asleep on board of her. That paragraph aggravates the demerit of the letter: for, after so well showing the enormity of the wrong, and our just title to redress, it abandons the case without the slightest atonement. But that letter, with all its ample beauties, found no place to rebuke the impressment and abduction of the person claimed as a British subject, because he was a fugitive rebel. Whether so, or not, he could not be seized upon American soil—could not even be given up under the extradition clause in Mr. Jay's treaty, even if in force, which only applied to personal and not to political offences. But that letter, was for Buncombe: it was for home consumption: it was to justify to the American people on the 24th of May, what had been done on the 12th of March. It was superscribed to Mr. Fox, but written for our own people: and so Mr. Fox understood it, and never even acknowledged its receipt.
But gentlemen point to a special phrase in the letter, and quote it with triumph, as showing pluck and fight in our Secretary: it is the phrase, "bloody and exasperated war"—and consider this phrase as a cure for all deficiencies. Alas! it would seem to have been the very thing which did the business for our Secretary. That blood, with war, and exasperation, seems to have hastened his submission to the British demand. But how was it with Mr. Fox? Did it hasten his inclination to pacify us? Did he take it as a thing to quicken him? or, did the British government feel it as an inducement, or stimulus to hasten atonement for the injury they had assumed? Not at all! Far from it! Mr. Fox did not take fright, and answer in two days! nor has he answered yet! nor will he ever while such gentle epistles are written to him. Its effect upon the British ministry is shown by the manner in which they have treated it—the contempt of silence. No, sir! instead of these gentle phrases, there ought to have been two brief words spoken to Mr. Fox—first, your letter contains a threat; and the American government does not negotiate under a threat; next, your government has assumed the Caroline outrage to the United States, and now atone for it: and as to McLeod, he is in the hands of justice, and will be tried for his crimes, according to the law of nations. This is the answer which ought to have been given. But not so. Instant submission on our part, was the resolve and the act. Forty days afterwards this fine letter was delivered. Unfortunate as is this boasted letter in so many respects, it has a further sin to answer for, and that is for its place, or order—its collocation and connection—in the printed document which lies before us; and also in its assumption to "enclose" the Crittenden instructions to Mr. Fox—which had been personally delivered to him forty days before. The letter is printed, in the document, before the "instructions," though written forty days after them; and purports to "enclose" what had been long before delivered. Sir, the case of McLeod is not an isolation: it is not a solitary act: it is not an atom lying by itself. But it is a feature in a large picture—a link in a long chain. It connects itself with all the aggressive conduct of Great Britain towards the United States—her encroachments on the State of Maine—her occupation of our territory on the Oregon—her insolence in searching our vessels on the coast of Africa—the liberation of our slaves, wrecked on her islands, when in transition from one part of the Union to another—her hatching in London for the Southern States, what was hatched there above forty years ago for San Domingo: and the ominous unofficial intimation to our aforesaid Secretary, that the federal government is bound for the European debts of the individual States. The McLeod case mixes itself with the whole of these; and the success which has attended British threats in his case, may bring us threats in all the other cases; and blows to back them, if not settled to British liking. Submission invites aggression. The British are a great people—a wonderful people; and can perform as well as threaten. Occupying some islands no larger than two of our States, they have taken possession of the commanding points in the four quarters of the globe, and dominate over an extent of land and water, compared to which the greatest of empires—that of Alexander, of Trajan, of the Caliphs—was a dot upon the map. War is to them a distant occupation—an ex-territorial excursion—something like piracy on a vast scale; in which their fleets go forth to capture and destroy—to circumnavigate the globe; and to return loaded with the spoil of plundered nations. Since the time of William the Conqueror, no foreign hostile foot has trod their soil; and, safe thus far from the ravages of war at home, they are the more ready to engage in ravages abroad. To bully, to terrify, to strike, to crush, to plunder—and then exact indemnities as the price of forbearance—is their policy and their practice: and they look upon us with our rich towns and extended coasts, as a fit subject for these compendious tactics. We all deprecate a war with that people—none deprecate it more than I do—not for its dangers, but for its effects on the business pursuits of the two countries, and its injury to liberal governments: but we shall never prevent war by truckling to threats, and squandering in douceurs to the States what ought to be consecrated to the defence of the country. The result of our first war with this people, when only a fifth of our present numbers, shows what we could do in a seven years' contest: the result of the second shows that, at the end of two years, having repulsed their fleets and armies at all points, we were just ready to light upon Canada with an hundred thousand volunteers, fired by the glories of New Orleans. And in any future war with that nation, woe to the statesman that woos peace at the repulse of the foe. Of all the nations of the earth, we are the people to land upon the coasts of England and Ireland. We are their kin and kith; and the visits of kindred have sympathies and affections, which statutes and proclamations cannot control.