Consul - in American politics, a person who having failed to

Hear now the sharp tongue and wit of Ambrose Bierce, the satirist who wielded words like daggers, unmasking the vanities of his age. He wrote: “Consul—in American politics, a person who having failed to secure an office from the people is given one by the Administration on condition that he leave the country.” At first, the phrase is clothed in humor, but beneath its laughter lies the iron of truth. Bierce, in his Devil’s Dictionary, sought to reveal the corruption and absurdities of politics, and here he tells us that positions of power are not always given for merit or service, but as consolation prizes to failures, meant to remove them from the battlefield of ambition.

This saying speaks of political patronage, that ancient practice where rulers reward loyalty not with honor, but with offices—often offices far from the heart of the people. The consul, in theory, is the representative of a nation abroad, a dignified post meant to carry the banner of the homeland into foreign lands. Yet Bierce reminds us that in practice, such posts were too often bestowed not upon the worthy, but upon those who had lost the trust of the people. To fail at home was no obstacle; the Administration would simply send you away, cloaked in titles, to keep you useful yet distant. Thus, politics becomes not the art of service, but the marketplace of consolation.

History bears this out. In the United States of the 19th century, appointments to consular positions were frequently given as rewards for loyalty to the ruling party. Men who could not win the favor of voters were dispatched to distant ports—Cairo, Lisbon, Calcutta—not to defend the nation’s honor, but to remove their ambition from domestic quarrels. Abraham Lincoln himself, though revered for wisdom, engaged in this practice, giving offices to political allies or defeated rivals to keep his coalition intact. Thus, Bierce’s jest was rooted in bitter reality: to “leave the country” was less an act of diplomacy and more an act of exile disguised as honor.

The ancients, too, understood this truth. Rome, that great republic, often exiled troublesome men under the guise of noble assignments. A senator too bold or a rival too ambitious might find himself sent as governor to a far province, there to be both honored and contained. It was a subtle art of survival: remove the rival, reward him with titles, and keep him far from Rome. Bierce, wise in satire, saw that American politics had inherited this same habit, though wrapped in the gentler cloak of diplomacy.

The deeper meaning, then, is this: politics often seeks not the good of the people, but the management of ambition. Offices are traded, not for virtue, but for convenience. Failure before the people does not always mean disgrace; it may mean being carried off to a distant land with a stipend and a seal. Thus the machinery of government, instead of lifting up the worthy, is bent to contain the dangerous and to soothe the disappointed. Bierce laughs at this, but his laughter is edged with sorrow, for such a system robs politics of honor.

The lesson for us is not only to laugh at such practices, but to guard against them. For when political office becomes mere reward for failure, both the people and the nation suffer. A consul who does not serve with merit dishonors the land he represents, and a government that uses offices to dispose of rivals weakens itself from within. True service must be founded upon competence and integrity, not upon consolation and exile.

What then shall you do, O listener? First, be vigilant. Watch closely how offices are bestowed, not only how votes are won. Demand accountability, not only at home but abroad. Ask not merely who represents you in your city, but who represents your nation beyond its borders, and why. Do not allow the machinery of patronage to pass as diplomacy. Second