They would look on him as an
interloper, to whom their compassion permitted a residence. He would
be no more than the Mungo of a farce; and if he disliked that, he must
set off. It would be a station of degradation, debased by our pity,
and despised by our pride, and would place England in a more
contemptible situation than any she has yet been in during the war. We
have too high an opinion of ourselves, even to think of yielding again
the least obedience to outlandish authority; and for a thousand
reasons, England would be the last country in the world to yield it
to. She has been treacherous, and we know it. Her character is gone,
and we have seen the funeral.
Surely she loves to fish in troubled waters, and drink the cup of
contention, or she would not now think of mingling her affairs with
those of America. It would be like a foolish dotard taking to his arms
the bride that despises him, or who has placed on his head the ensigns
of her disgust. It is kissing the hand that boxes his ears, and
proposing to renew the exchange. The thought is as servile as the
war is wicked, and shows the last scene of the drama to be as
inconsistent as the first.
As America is gone, the only act of manhood is to let her go. Your
lordship had no hand in the separation, and you will gain no honor
by temporising politics. Besides, there is something so exceedingly
whimsical, unsteady, and even insincere in the present conduct of
England, that she exhibits herself in the most dishonorable colors.
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