Have you ever had the curiosity to investigate the causes of this
disaster? It is a curiosity which can be easily gratified. The
Democratic party was killed in cold blood by Southern traitors. There
never was a more causeless, malicious, or malignant murder. The fool in
the fable who gained an unenviable notoriety by killing the goose which
laid golden eggs, Balaam, who, but for angelic interposition, would have
slain his faithful ass, were praiseworthy in comparison. Well might any
one of the Northern victims of this cruel outrage have exclaimed, in the
language of Balaam's long-eared servant, "Am not I thine ass, upon which
thou hast ridden ever since I was thine unto to this day? was I ever
wont to do so unto thee?" And the modern, like the ancient Balaam, must
have answered, "Nay."
But, alas for Northern manhood, alas for human nature corrupted by long
possession of political power, after a short-lived, though, let us hope,
sincere outburst of indignation, followed by protests and remonstrances,
growing daily milder and more moderate, the Northern Democracy now begs
permission to return once more to its former servitude, and would gladly
peril the permanence of the Union, to hug again the fetters which it has
so patiently and so profitably worn.
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