In this situation of confusion and despair, their present councils
have no fixed character. It is now the hurricane months of British
politics. Every day seems to have a storm of its own, and they are
scudding under the bare poles of hope. Beaten, but not humble;
condemned, but not penitent; they act like men trembling at fate and
catching at a straw. From this convulsion, in the entrails of their
politics, it is more than probable, that the mountain groaning in
labor, will bring forth a mouse, as to its size, and a monster in
its make. They will try on America the same insidious arts they
tried on France and Spain.
We sometimes experience sensations to which language is not equal.
The conception is too bulky to be born alive, and in the torture of
thinking, we stand dumb. Our feelings, imprisoned by their
magnitude, find no way out- and, in the struggle of expression,
every finger tries to be a tongue. The machinery of the body seems too
little for the mind, and we look about for helps to show our
thoughts by. Such must be the sensation of America, whenever
Britain, teeming with corruption, shall propose to her to sacrifice
her faith.
But, exclusive of the wickedness, there is a personal offence
contained in every such attempt. It is calling us villains: for no man
asks the other to act the villain unless he believes him inclined to
be one. No man attempts to seduce the truly honest woman. It is the
supposed looseness of her mind that starts the thoughts of
seduction, and he who offers it calls her a prostitute.
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