have felt, that the confederation had at last totally failed, as an effectual instrument of government; that its glory was departed, and its days of labour done; that it stood the shadow of a mighty name; that it was seen only, as a decayed monument of the past, incapable of any enduring record; that the steps of its decline were numbered and finished; and that it was now pausing at the very door of that common sepulchre of the dead, whose inscription is, Nulla vestigia retrorsum.
§ 271. If this language should be thought too figurative to suit the sobriety of historical narration, we might avail ourselves of language as strongly coloured, and as desponding, which was at that period wrung from the hearts of our wisest patriots and statesmen.[1] It is, indeed, difficult to overcharge any picture of the gloom and apprehensions, which then pervaded the public councils, as well as the private meditations of the ablest men of the country. We are told by an historian of almost unexampled fidelity and moderation, and himself a witness of these scenes,[2] that "the confederation was apparently expiring from mere debility. Indeed, its preservation in its actual condition, had it been practicable, was scarcely to be desired. Without the ability to exercise them, it withheld from the states powers, which are essential to their sovereignty. The last hope of its friends having been destroyed, the vital necessity of some measure, which might prevent the separation of the integral parts, of which the American empire was composed, became apparent even to those, who had been unwilling to perceive it."[3]
