the ardor of revolution that filled the world in those first days of our national life—the fact that one of the rulers of the world's mind in that generation was Rousseau, the apostle of all that is fanciful, unreal, and misleading in politics.
To be ruled by him was like taking an account of life from Mr. Rider Haggard.
And yetr. Perceval, and, happily, much sympathy also, though little justification, for such as caught a generous elevation of spirit from the speculative enthusiasm of Rousseau.
For us who stand in the dusty matterof-fact world of to-day, there is a touch of pathos in recollections of the ardor for democratic liberty that filled the er of our politics.
If we are suffering disappointment, it is the disappointment of an awakening: we were dreaming.
For we never had any business hearkening to Rousseau or consorting with Europe in revolutionary sentiment.
The government which we founded one hundred years ago was no type of an experiment in advanced democracy,