"Weel, it's a pity—it's a great pity—it is bringing disgrace and guilt upon a glorious cause. But knives shouldna be put into the hands o' bairns till they ken how to use them. If the sun were to rise in a flash o' unclouded glory and dazzling brightness in a moment, succeeding the heavy darkness o' midnight, it wad be nae wonder if, for a time, we groped more blindly than we did in the dark. Or, if a blind man had his sight restored in a moment, and were set into the street, he would strike upon every object he met more readily than he did when he was blind; for he had neither acquired the use o' his eyes nor the idea o' distance. So is it wi' our neighbours in France: an instrument has been put into their hands before they ken how to use it—the sun o' liberty has burst upon them in an instant, without an intermediate dawn. They groaned under the tyranny o' blindness; but they hae acquired the power o' sight without being instructed in its use. But hae patience a little—the storm will gie place to the sunshine, the troubled waters will subside into a calm, and liberty will fling her garment o' knowledge and mercy owre her now uninstructed worshippers."
"Weel! that's grand, James!—that's really famous!" said one of the coterie of Levellers to whom it was delivered; "odd! ye beat a'thing—ye're a match for Wheatbread himsel."
"James," said another, "without meaning to flatter ye, if Billy Pitt had ye to gie him a dressing, I believe he wad offer ye a place the very next day, just to keep yer tongue quiet."
James was one of those who denounced, with all the vehemence and indignation of which he was capable, Britain's engaging in a war with France. He raised up his voice against it. He pronounced it to be an unjust and an impious attempt to support oppression, and to stifle freedom in its cradle.
"But in that freedom they will find a Hercules," cried he, "which, in its very cradle, will grip tyranny by the throat, and a' the kings in Europe winna be able to slacken its grasp."
When the star of Napoleon began to rise, and broke forth with a lustre which dazzled the eyes of a wondering world, the Levellers of Britain, like the Republicans of France, lost sight of their love of liberty, in their admiration of the military glories and rapid triumphs of the hero. James Nicholson was one of those who became blinded with the fame, the splendid success, and the daring genius of the young Corsican. Napoleon became his idol. His deeds, his capacity, his fame, were his daily theme. They became the favourite subject of every Leveller. They did not see in him one who laughed at liberty, and who made it his plaything, who regarded life as stubble, whose ambition circled the globe, and who was the enemy of Britain: they saw in him only a hero, who had burst from obscurity as a meteor from the darkness of night—whose glory had obscured the pomp of princes, and his word consumed their power.
The threatened invasion, and the false alarm, put the Leveller's admiration of Napoleon, and his love of his native land, to a severe trial; but we rejoice to say, for the sake of James Nicholson, that the latter triumphed, and he accompanied a party of volunteers ten miles along the coast, and remained an entire night, and the greater part of a day, under arms, and even he was then ready to say—
"Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave,
We'll gie them a welcome, we'll gie them a grave."
But, as the apprehension of the invasion passed away, his admiration of Napoleon's triumphs, and his reverence for what he termed his stupendous genius, burned with redoubled force.
"Princes are as grasshoppers before him," said James; "nations are as spiders' webs. The Alps became as a highway before his spirit—he looked upon Italy, and the land was conquered."