"And now, Dannie, mend the fire with another Christmas log. You, Willie, open the windows at top and bottom, to let out the smoke the young historian will be sure to raise. Laura, my dear, trim the lamp; and you, Ella,—will you have the kindness to put a little sugar in your uncle's cider?—there's a darling! Ned, my boy, just tumble sleepy-headed Charlie there out of his comfortable nap, and touse him into his waking senses again. All right? Now I would have every one of you put your thinking-caps square and tight upon your heads, and keep all your ears about you; for, depend upon it, what I am now going to tell you is so full of hard points and tough knots, that, should you but lose the crossing of a 't,' or even the dotting of an 'i,' thereof, all the rest will be to you as so much hifalutin transcendentalism." (Here Uncle Juvinell took a gigantic swallow of cider, and pronounced the sugar a decided improvement; while the little folks wrote something on their slates, very long, and which no two of them spelt alike. Uncle Juvinell smacked his lips, and then resumed.)

Now, you must know, my dear children, that Great Britain, at the time of which we are speaking, was, and for many years had been, and, in fact, still is, and, in all human likelihood, will ever continue to be, burdened with a mountain-load of debt, which has already given her a frightful stoop in the shoulders, and may, in time, grow to such an enormous bulk as to break her sturdy old back outright. She had, as you have seen, added all French America to her dominions; but with this increase of power and glory, that made her king and nobles smile and sing with joy, came also an increase of debt and trouble, that made her common people scowl and growl with want and discontent. The expenses of the late war with France had added the weight of another Ætna or Sinai to the already staggering load that chafed her back; and, sorely grieved thereat, she began casting in her mind what might be done to lighten it a little.

"My young Colonies," said our mother to herself, "which were planted by my love so many years ago, have grown to a goodly size, and prospered in a wonderful manner, under my fostering care, for which they owe me many thanks; and, being quite old and strong enough, must now repay it by taking their due share of my heavy burden."

Now, in all this, our mother did but deceive herself: for these Colonies had been planted by her oppression, not by her love; they had grown by her neglect, not by her fostering care. Therefore, they did not, as she pretended, owe her either love or thanks, although they gave her both; and she had no right to make them carry her burden without their consent. Strange as it may appear, these infant Colonies loved their mother to distraction, in spite of her unmotherly treatment of them; and would have gone any length to serve her,—even to the extent of bearing double the burden she would have laid on them,—had she been wise enough to consult their wishes about the matter, and suffer them to lay it on their own shoulders, in their own fashion, and of their own free will. To this the perverse old mother would not listen for a moment; and, without pausing to reflect what might be the consequences, took an Ætna or a Sinai from the load on her own shoulders, and clapped it on those of her children, who sat down under it plump, and sturdily refused to budge until they should be allowed to put it there themselves. Whereupon, this stiff-necked, wrong-headed old Britannia (for such was her Christian name) was exceeding wroth, made an outlandish noise among the nations, and even went so far (you will be shocked to hear) as to swear a little. Seeing there was no help for it but to remove this Ætna, she did so with as good a grace as could be expected in a family-quarrel; but was so indiscreet and short-sighted as still to leave a very small burden,—a mere hillock indeed,—just by way, as she said, of showing that she had the right to load and unload them when and how it suited her sovereign pleasure best.

Now, be it known, it was not the burden they had to carry of which these generous and high-spirited Colonies complained so bitterly; but that they should be denied the right of freely judging when and how and wherefore they were to be taxed,—a right that had been the pride and boast of Englishmen time out of mind. As for the matter of the burden, had that been all, they could have danced, ay, and blithely too, under Ætna and Sinai both, had the load but been of their own choosing, of their own putting-on, and of their own adjusting.

To add to their distress and humiliation, this hardest and unnaturalest of mothers now set over them judges, who were strangers to them, and loved them not; who were to hold their places, not, as theretofore, during good behavior, but at her will and pleasure. Another right, as dear to Englishmen as life itself, was taken from them,—to wit, the right of trial by jury; which gave every person, great or small, suspected or known to be guilty of any crime against the laws of the land, the privilege of a speedy trial, in open court, in the place where the crime may have been committed, and by a jury of honest and impartial men. Instead of this, the person accused was to be taken aboard some ship-of-war, likely as not a thousand miles from Christian land, and there tried by some authorities of the navy, who would know but little, and must needs care still less, concerning the person under trial, or his offence.

Under these and many other oppressions and injuries, the young Colonies groaned grievously. But, for all that, they were not to be subdued or broken. Time and again, they sent petitions to this unkindest and wilfulest of mothers, beseeching her, in humble and loving and dutiful terms, to remove this degrading burden from their shoulders, and once more receive them as children into her maternal bosom; warning her, at the same time, of what must be the melancholy consequences, if she hearkened not to their prayers. Then was the time, if ever, when, by a few kind words betokening a desire for reconciliation, she might have secured and made fast the love of these devoted and affectionate children for ever; and, had she been as wise as she was powerful, even so would she have done. But, like the Egypt of olden times, she did but harden her heart against them all the more, even to the hardness of the nether mill-stone; and only sought how she could the more easily grind them into obedience and submission. She had grown to be mighty among the nations, this Britannia. Her armed legions told of her power by land; her ships of war and her ships of commerce whitened a hundred seas. The great sun, that set on every kingdom of the known earth, she boasted never went down on her dominion. Wherefore was she swollen and big with pride, and from a high place looked haughtily down upon the little nations at her feet. What height of presumption was it, then, in these insignificant young Colonies, struggling for bare existence off there on the uttermost edges of the civilized earth, thus to lift themselves against her sovereign will, and dare dispute her high decrees! It was not to be borne: she would humble them for this presumption, chastise them for their disobedience, and show them what a terrible thing it was to provoke her wrath. Her heart thus steeled to mercy, she stayed not her hand, but sent her hosts of armed men in her fleets of armed ships, to lay her heavy yoke, and fit it firm and fast on the necks of her rebellious children.

Beholding this, and that it were vain to hope for reconciliation, the Colonies, with one voice, with one indignant voice, exclaimed, "Now, since our mother seems bent on treating us as slaves and strangers, and not as children, then are we compelled, in our own defence, to treat her, not as our mother, but as a stranger and our enemy. And bear us witness, O ye nations! how long and humbly and earnestly we have prayed that there should be love and peace between us and this our mother; and bear us witness also, that, although we now lift our rebellious hand against her, there is no hatred in our hearts, even now, but rather sorrow unspeakable, that she should at last have driven us to this saddest, this direfulest of alternatives." Then, moved with one spirit (that of the love of freedom), and bent on one purpose (that of the defence of their sacred rights), they rose in their young strength, and, commending their just cause to the God of hosts, made that last appeal,—which, to a brave and virtuous people, has ever been the last,—the appeal to arms. And so they did, while the nations looked on in wonder and applause.