I see no exception to the respect that is paid among nations to the law of good faith.  If there are cases in this enlightened period when it is violated, there are none when it is decried.  It is the philosophy of politics, the religion of governments.  It is observed by barbarians—­a whiff of tobacco smoke, or a string of beads, gives not merely binding force, but sanctity to treaties.  Even in Algiers a truce may be bought for money; but, when ratified, even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and annul its obligation.  Thus, we see neither the ignorance of savages nor the principles of an association for piracy and rapine, permit a nation to despise its engagements.  If, sir, there could be a resurrection from the foot of the gallows, if the victims of justice could live again, collect together and form a society, they would, however loath, soon find themselves obliged to make justice, that justice under which they fell, the fundamental law of their state.  They would perceive it was their interest to make others respect, and they would therefore soon pay some respect themselves to the obligations of good faith.

It is painful, I hope it is superfluous, to make even the supposition, that America should furnish the occasion of this opprobrium.  No, let me not even imagine that a republican government, sprung as our own is, from a people enlightened and uncorrupted, a government whose origin is right, and whose daily discipline is duty, can, upon solemn debate, make its option to be faithless—­can dare to act what despots dare not avow, what our own example evinces, the states of Barbary are unsuspected of.  No, let me rather make the supposition that Great Britain refuses to execute the treaty, after we have done everything to carry it into effect.  Is there any language of reproach pungent enough to express your commentary on the fact?  What would you say, or rather what would you not say?  Would you not tell them, wherever an Englishman might travel, shame would stick to him—­he would disown his country.  You would exclaim, England, proud of your wealth, and arrogant in the possession of power—­blush for these distinctions, which become the vehicles of your dishonor.  Such a nation might truly say to corruption, Thou art my father, and to the worm, Thou art my mother and my sister.  We should say of such a race of men, their name is a heavier burden than their debt.

I can scarcely persuade myself to believe that the consideration I have suggested requires the aid of any auxiliary.  But, unfortunately, auxiliary arguments are at hand.  Five millions of dollars, and probably more, on the score of spoliations committed on our commerce, depend upon the treaty.  The treaty offers the only prospect of indemnity.  Such redress is promised as the merchants place some confidence in.  Will you interpose and frustrate that hope, leaving to many families nothing but beggary and despair?  It is a smooth proceeding to take