as inciting to disunion and anarchy?
And who could expect that half a century of such utter perversion of the plainest, least equivocal, most obvious terms, should not bear bitter fruit?
The inebriate, who fancies the square in which he lives revolving about him, and gravely holds his latch-key in hand, waiting till his door shall in due order present itself, labors under substantially the same hallucination, and is usually certain to cherish it until he awakes to prosaic realities — to bruises, self-reproach, headache, and remorse.1
Nearly forty years ago, the great and good Channing
, after listening to Benjamin Lundy
, wrote to Mr. Webster
in apprehension that the South
would regard and resent any attempt at the North
to promote or hasten the removal of her giant curse as impelled by hostility or ill-will, though nothing was further from our intention.2
The good Doctor
can scarcely have read with adequate attention, or at least not with the utmost profit, the urgent, impassioned adjurations of the demoniacs to the Saviour of mankind, for forbearance and “non-intervention.”
“Let us alone,” was their habitual entreaty: “What have we to do with thee?”
“Art thou come to torment us before the time” No delicacy of handling, no gentleness of treatment, could have pacified them: they must be left undisturbed and unobserved, or irritation and excitement were unavoidable.
Twenty or thirty years ago, there existed in Charleston, S. C.
, an association for social and intellectual enjoyment, known as “The Wistar