After the great civil war of 1861, generally known as the Mosquera Revolution, the sixth Constitution of government was framed and adopted. It changed the name of the country from New Granada to the "United States of Colombia," disestablished the Church, confiscated nearly all Church property, and disfranchised the clergy, but extended the suffrage to all other male persons eighteen years of age and upwards. It made all officers of government elective for short terms, abolished the death-penalty, and made ten years imprisonment the maximum punishment for the crime of murder. It guaranteed (on paper) perfect freedom of conscience, of speech, and of press, and provided for a system of non-sectarian public instruction, to be conducted under the immediate direction of the state. But it denied to the federal or general government all power to interfere in the affairs of the constituent states, even for the punishment of crime or the preservation of public order. And it expressly provided that "when one sovereign state of the Union shall be at war with another, or the citizens of any one state shall be at war among themselves, the Government of the Union is obligated to preserve the strictest neutrality," and let the belligerants fight it out, or otherwise settle their differences to suit themselves! The judiciary was a mere travesty. The federal Supreme Court had no appellate jurisdiction, nor was there any national court of appeal. A cause of action arising within the territory of any one of the particular states (and a cause of action could hardly arise elsewhere, since there were no federal districts) could be adjudged by the state courts only; and once so adjudged the case was res adjudicata. There could be no appeal, no matter how monstrously illegal the sentence, or however informal the proceedings. The dissatisfied or injured party had no recourse other

1861

than by petition to the state legislature; and the most that that body could do would be to order the judge to jail, with the certainty that he would be pardoned and restored to liberty by the executive. The judges were generally local politicians; often men of rather shady moral character, and sometimes not even lawyers by profession.1

This constitution, which was, as I have said, the sixth in chronological order, remained in force for about twenty-two years; and during that time there was as many as eleven "revolutions," or one on an average of about every two years. And yet it has been stated by a distinguished Colombian publicist that" during this period, public disorders were much less frequent than under any previous period after the dissolution of the old Union." He might have added with equal truthfulness that when suffrage became universal, fair elections ceased to be possibilities, and that a defeated candidate never thought of acquiescing in the result, provided he saw a reasonable prospect of successful appeal from ballots to bullets.

After the hopeless failure of the armed revolt against the Nuñez administration, in 1885, another Constitution was framed and adopted, making the seventh in chronological order within a period of not quite fifty years. This last Constitution, which is still in force, changed

1 I have the following story from a well-known Colombian lawyer: A small politician of local influence, but who had never pretended to be a lawyer, was elected judge in one of the interior districts. His first case was an action of ejectment. After puzzling over the papers for a while, he ordered the clerk to make the following entry on the court record: Considerando que el juez no sabe nada, ni el secretario tampoco, Resuelve que se archive estas expedientes. Publiquese. ("Whereas, since neither the judge nor the clerk knows anything, it is ordered that the case be dismissed.")

2 Dr. Manuel Murillo, President of the Republic, State Papers of

the name and title of the country from the United States of Colombia to that of "The Republic of Colombia," thereby intending to convey the idea that a consolidated Republic had been substituted for a confederation of "sovereign states." But in order to place this point quite beyond dispute, a special clause was inserted which expressly denied the "sovereignty" of the particular states; and two of the most refractory states (Panama and Cundinamarca) were reduced to the condition of mere territorial dependencies, and governed by officers appointed by the President. The suffrage was restricted to a literary and property qualification; and the clergy, who had been disfranchised for more than twenty years, were readmitted to participation in the affairs of government. The presidential term was extended from two to six years; the judiciary was taken out of party politics by making the tenure of the judges for life, or during good behavior; the Roman Catholic was declared the national religion, although perfect freedom of conscience and worship was guaranteed to all; and the press was to be free when not "seditious" to which end a national censorship was established.

Under this Constitution there have been no conflicting "sovereignties," fewer popular elections, and less public disorder. Until very recently, the country has enjoyed a season of comparative peace and prosperity; while the unification of power has made it easier to fulfil treaty obligations, and thus to avoid international complication and vexatious reclamations by foreigners. The marvel is that after so many disastrous experiments with the visionary and impracticable theories of the French democrats, Colombian statesmen did not sooner abandon those mischievous political heresies.

Nor do the three republics named afford exceptional

examples of a rich and beautiful country brought to the brink of ruin and barbarism by a plethora of utopian democracy." With some slight variations, the same scenes have been enacted in nearly all the Latin-American republics. Take the case of Gautemala, for instance. After the breaking up of the original federal Union of the five Central American states, each became an independent nation; that is to say, like Colombia, a loose confederation of petty prefectures called " sovereign states"; and when these corporations were not engaged fighting each other, the citizens of each were generally fighting amongst themselves. In Mexico there has been no general disintegration; but up to 1870 the political history of that country was little else than a record of ever-recurring internecine strifes, and the rapid and summary deposition of one president after another, with the usual alternations of anarchy and military rule. Fortunately Mexico is now past that experimental stage of Jeffersonism and is a prosperous country; and let us hope that there may be no relapse. Peru and Bolivia (two of the five Bolivian republics) have had similar experiences, and from similiar causes. The Argentine Republic and the Republics of Uraguay and Paraguay have each suffered from what Aristotle would have called "degenerate democracy," and as a consequence have oftener been military despotisms than republics. In Chili there have been fewer "revolutions," fewer constitutional changes, and less public disorder. The reason is obvious. It is precisely in Chili where the gospel of French democracy never obtained much favor. The govern

ment, though representative, has never been even professedly democratic. The President is chosen for long terms, not by universal suffrage, but by a board of qualified electors. The judicial officers are appointed for life or during good behavior. The Deputies and

Senators are elected for terms of three and nine years. And the suffrage is restricted to citizens able to read and write, who, in addition, must be property owners. Shall we then despair of republican government in Latin-America? By no means. Even if it be admitted that they were not prepared for self-government at the time of their emancipation, the question naturally arises: When or how, or under what circumstances, would they have ever become better fitted for it? Certainly not by remanding them to political slavery, as was proposed at the Congress of Verona in 1822. For, to borrow one of Macaulay's metaphors, a prisoner long accustomed to the darkness of his cell is naturally dazed and blinded when led out into the sunlight; but his blindness is certainly not cured by remanding him to his dungeon; he must become accustomed to the sunlight before he can appreciate and utilize it. So it is in self-government; there must be a beginning, and a succession of experiments. Each experiment will have its blunders; but it is only through repeated efforts that ultimate success is attainable. Moreover, good government is never made to order. It must grow; it must be evolved through the painful experiences of generations. Sooner or later, but in due course, public sentiment will grow up to higher and juster conceptions of civil and religious liberty, when there will be a readjustment of new standards and new relations. The visionary and impractical theories born of the first French Revolution, and transplanted to this continent by Jefferson and Santander, had to be given a fair trial. The trial is now over, and the experiment has taught the people of both hemispheres a wholesome lesson. Both have already entered upon a new era, and, let us hope, upon a new national life destined to fully demonstrate to the world the practicability of free representative government.