tages of the several states under the Constitution, and a virtual disfranchisement of the Slave States. In other words, every attack on slavery anywhere was to be considered unconstitutional in spirit; state-rights must be maintained for the Slave States, and the general government must be part of the police force, to give “increased stability and security” to slavery.
The vote on these resolutions, Calhoun said, would be “a test.” By rejecting them the Senate would say to the South, “come here no longer for protection.” If the Senate adopted them, “it would be a holy pledge of that body to protect the South from further aggression.” The postponement or evasion of a vote on them “must be considered a silent acquiescence in the insults offered to Southern rights and Southern feelings.”
Calhoun's instinct was correct. Slavery was in danger — indeed, it was lost — if people were permitted to attack it as “an immoral and sinful institution.” But could he force people, by a resolution adopted in the Senate, to believe that slavery was not sinful and immoral? Could he hope thus to disarm the ruling sentiment of the nineteenth century? He himself had grave doubts. “He was not sanguine,” he said, “of the success of the measure, even if it should be adopted. He had presented it as the most likely to do good, and in the desire to do anything to avert the approaching catastrophe, which he was most anxious to avoid.” He desired to preserve the Union, provided he
