Here I recognize the voice of a British plenipotentiary: I begin to feel proud of my country. But, alas! the short date of human elevation! The accents of dignity died upon his tongue. This author will not assure us of his sentiments for the whole of a pamphlet; but, in the sole energetic part of it, he does not continue the same through an whole sentence, if it happens to be of any sweep or compass. In the very womb of this last sentence, pregnant, as it should seem, with a Hercules, there is formed a little bantling of the mortal race, a degenerate, puny parenthesis, that totally frustrates our most sanguine views and expectations, and disgraces the whole gestation. Here is this destructive parenthesis: "Unless some adequate compensation be secured _to us_." _To us!_ The Christian world may shift for itself, Europe may groan in slavery, we may be dishonored by receiving law from an enemy,--but all is well, provided the compensation _to us_ be adequate. To what are we reserved? An _adequate_ compensation "for the sacrifice of powers the most nearly connected with us";--an _adequate_ compensation "for the direct or indirect annexation to France of all the ports of the Continent from Dunkirk to Hamburg";--an _adequate_ compensation "for the abandonment of the independence of Europe"! Would that, when all our manly sentiments are thus changed, our manly language were changed along with them, and that the English tongue were not employed to utter what our ancestors never dreamed could enter into an English heart!