U.S. Senator Calls For Military Defeat Of Invading U.S. Army:
(from G.I. Resistance)
Supporting Resistance, Corwin Says “If I Were A 
Mexican I Would Tell You, ‘Have You Not Room In 
Your Own Country To Bury Your Dead Men?  If You 
Come Into Mine We Will Greet You With Bloody 
Hands, And Welcome You To Hospitable Graves”

[Corwin, along with many others, understood the 
war on Mexico was initiated by slaveholders 
controlling the U.S. government to grab more 
territory for slavery.  Therefore, he, along with 
many others, made very clear which side he was 
on, as in this speech.  The biographical 
information below is based on data from 
Wikipedia.  He and this speech deserve to be well remembered.

[Thanks to Fabian Bouthillette, Iraq Veterans 
Against The War & Military Resistance 
Organization, for copying from a very old book.  T]

***************************************

By THOMAS CORWIN, of Ohio.  Speech opposing the 
U.S. war on Mexico delivered February 11, 1847.

(Corwin served in the U.S. Senate from March 4, 
1845 to July 20, 1850.  He was again elected to 
the House of Representatives in 1858, and 
returned to that body as a Republican and served 
from March 4, 1859 to March 12, 1861. He resigned 
only a few days into the 37th Congress after 
being appointed by the newly inaugurated 
President Abraham Lincoln to become Minister to 
Mexico, where he served until 1864. Corwin, 
well-regarded among the Mexican public for his 
opposition to the Mexican War while in the 
Senate, helped keep relations with the Mexicans 
friendly throughout the course of the Civil War, 
despite Confederate efforts to sway their allegiances. Born 1794.  Died 1865.)

*********************************
What is the territory, Mr. President, which you propose to wrest from Mexico?

It is consecrated to the heart of the Mexican by 
many a well-fought battle, with his old Castilian master.

His Bunker Hills, and Saratogas, and Yorktowns 
are there. The Mexican can say, “There I bled for 
liberty!  and shall I surrender that consecrated 
home of my affections to the Anglo-Saxon invaders?

What do they want with it?  They have Texas 
already.  They have possessed themselves of the 
territory between the Nueces and the Rio Grande.

What else do they want? To what shall I point my 
children as memorials, of that independence which 
I bequeath to them, when those battlefields shall 
have passed from my possession?

Sir, had one come and demanded Bunker Hill of the 
people of Massachusetts, had England’s lion ever 
showed himself there, is there a man over 
thirteen, and under ninety, who would not have 
been ready to meet him — is there a river on this 
continent that would not have run red with blood 
— is there a field but would have been piled high 
with the unburied bones of slaughtered Americans 
before these consecrated battlefields of liberty 
should have been wrested from us?

But this same American goes into a sister 
republic, and says to poor, weak Mexico, “Give up 
your territory — you are unworthy to possess it — 
I have got one-half already — all I ask you is to give up the other!”

England might as well, in the circumstances I 
have described, have come and demanded of us 
“Give up the Atlantic slope — give up this 
trifling territory from the Allegheny mountains 
to the sea; it is only from Maine to St. Mary’s — 
only about one- third of your Republic, and the 
least interesting portion of it.”

What would be the response?

They would say, “We must give this up to John Bull.”  Why?

“He wants room.”

The Senator from Michigan says he must have 
this.  Why, my worthy Christian brother, on what principle of justice?

“I want room!”

Sir, look at this pretense of want of room.

With twenty millions of people, you have about 
one thousand millions of acres of land, inviting 
settlement by every conceivable argument — 
bringing them down to a quarter of a dollar an 
acre, and allowing every man to squat where he 
pleases. But the Senator from Michigan says we 
will be two hundred millions in a few years, and we want room.

If I were a Mexican I would tell you, “Have you 
not room in your own country to bury your dead 
men?  If you come into mine we will greet you 
with bloody hands, and welcome you to hospitable graves.”

Why, says the chairman of this Committee of 
Foreign Relations, it is the most reasonable 
thing in the world!  We ought to have the Bay of 
San Francisco.  Why? Because it is the best harbor on the Pacific!

It has been my fortune, Mr. President, to have 
practiced a good deal in criminal courts in the 
course of my life, but I never yet heard a thief, 
arraigned for stealing a horse, plead that it was 
the best horse that he could find in the country!

We want California.  What for?  “Why,” says the 
Senator from Michigan, “we will have it;” and the 
Senator from South Carolina, with a very mistaken 
view, I think, of policy, says, “You can’t keep 
our people from going there.”  I don’t desire to 
prevent them.  Let them go and seek their 
happiness in whatever country or clime it pleases them.

All I ask of them is, not to require this 
Government to protect them with that banner 
consecrated to war waged for principles — eternal, enduring truth.

Sir, it is not meet that our old flag should 
throw its protecting folds over expeditions for lucre or for land.

But you still say, you want room for your 
people.  This has been the plea of every 
robber-chief from Nimrod to the present hour.

I dare say, when Tamerlane descended from his 
throne built of seventy thousand human skulls, 
and marched his ferocious battalions to further 
slaughter, I dare say he said, “I want 
room.”  Bajazet was another gentleman of kindred 
tastes and wants with us Anglo-Saxons — he “wanted room.”

Alexander, too, the mighty “Macedonian madman,” 
when he wandered with his Greeks to the plains of 
India, and fought a bloody battle on the very 
ground where recently England and the Sikhs 
engaged in strife for “room,” was, no doubt, in 
quest of some California there.  Many a Monterey 
had he to storm to get “room.”

Sir, he made quite as much of that sort of history as you ever will.

Mr. President, do you remember the last chapter 
in that history?  It is soon read.  Oh!  I wish 
we could but understand its moral.  Ammon’s son 
(so was Alexander named), after all his victories, died drunk in Babylon!

The vast empire he conquered to “get room” became 
the prey of the generals he had trained; it was 
disparted, torn to pieces, and so ended.  Sir, 
there is a very significant appendix; it is this: 
the descendants of the Greeks — of Alexander’s 
Greeks — are now governed by a descendant of Attila!

Mr. President, while we are fighting for room, 
let us ponder deeply this appendix.  I was 
somewhat amazed, the other day, to hear the 
Senator from Michigan declare that Europe had 
quite forgotten us till these battles waked them 
up.  I suppose the Senator feels grateful to the 
President for “waking up” Europe.

Does the President, who is, I hope, read in civic 
as well as military lore, remember the saying of 
one who had pondered upon history long — long, 
too, upon man, his nature and true 
destiny?  Montesquieu did not think highly of 
this way of “waking up.”  “Happy,” says he, “is 
that nation whose annals are tiresome.”

The Senator from Michigan has a different view of this.

He thinks that a nation is not distinguished 
until it is distinguished in war; he fears that 
the slumbering faculties of Europe have not been 
able to ascertain that there are twenty millions 
of Anglo-Saxons here, making railroads and 
canals, and speeding all the arts of peace to the 
utmost accomplishment of the most refined civilization.  They do not know it!

And what is the wonderful expedient which this 
democratic method of making history would adopt 
in order to make us known?  Storming cities, 
desolating peaceful, happy homes, shooting men — 
aye, sir, such is war — and shooting women, too!

Sir, I have read, in some account of your battle 
of Monterery, of a lovely Mexican girl, who, with 
the benevolence of an angel in her bosom, and the 
robust courage of a hero in her heart, was busily 
engaged, during the bloody conflict, amid the 
crash of falling houses, the groans of the dying, 
and the wild shriek of battle, in carrying water 
to slake the burning thirst of the wounded of either host.

While bending over a wounded American soldier, a 
cannon ball struck her and blew her to atoms!

Sir, I do not charge my brave, generous-hearted 
countrymen who fought that fight with this.

No, no!  We who send them — we who know that 
scenes like this, which might send tears of 
sorrow “down Pluto’s iron cheek,” are the 
invariable, inevitable attendants on war— we are accountable for this.

And this — this is the way we are to be made known to Europe.

This — this is to be the undying renown of free, republican America!

“She has stormed a city — killed many of its 
inhabitants of both sexes — she has room!”

So it will read.

Sir, if this were our only history, then may God 
of his mercy grant that its volume may speedily come to a close.

Why is it, sir, that we of the United States, a 
people of yesterday, compared with the older 
nations of the world, should be waging war for 
territory — for “room?”   Look at your country, 
extending from the Allegheny mountains to the 
Pacific ocean, capable itself of sustaining, in 
comfort, a larger population than will be in the 
whole Union for one hundred years to come.  Over 
this vast expanse of territory, your population 
is now so sparse that I believe we provided, at 
the last session, a regiment of mounted men to 
guard the mail, from the frontier of Missouri to 
the mouth of the Columbia; and yet you persist in 
the ridiculous assertion, “I want room.” One 
would imagine, from the frequent reiteration of 
the complaint, that you had a bursting, teeming 
population, whose energy was paralyzed, whose 
enterprise was crushed, for want of space.

Why should we be so weak or wicked as to offer 
this idle apology for ravaging a neighboring 
republic?  It will impose on no one at home or abroad.

Do we not know, Mr. President, that it is a law 
never to be repealed, that falsehood shall be short-lived?

Was it not ordained of old that truth only shall abide forever?

Whatever we may say to-day, or whatever we may 
write in our books, the stern tribunal of history 
will review it all, detect falsehood, and bring 
us to judgment before that posterity which shall 
bless or curse us, as we may act now, wisely or otherwise:

We may hide in the grave (which awaits us all), 
in vain; we may hope there, like the foolish bird 
that hides its head in the sand, in the vain 
belief that its body is not seen, yet even there, 
this preposterous excuse of want of “room,” shall 
be laid bare, and the quick-coming future will 
decide that it was a hypocritical pretense, under 
which we sought to conceal the avarice, which 
prompted us to covet and to seize by force that which was not ours.

Mr. President, this uneasy desire to augment our 
territory has depraved the moral sense, and 
blunted the otherwise keen sagacity of our people.

What has been the fate of all nations who have 
acted upon the idea that they must advance?

Our young orators cherish this notion with a 
fervid, but fatally mistaken zeal.  They call it 
by the mysterious name of “destiny.”

“Our destiny,” they say, is “onward,” and hence 
they argue, with ready sophistry, the propriety 
of seizing upon any territory and any people that 
may lie in the way of our “fated” advance.

Recently, these progressives have grown 
classical; some assiduous student of antiquities 
has helped them to a patron saint. They have 
wandered back into the desolated Pantheon, and 
there, among the Polytheistic relics of that 
“pale mother of dead empires,” they have found a 
god whom these Romans, centuries gone by, baptized “Terminus.”



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