The Virginia Gazette

Nov. 29. The farcical mummery of state is now become so disgusting to the sensible, and obnoxious to the good, that the one behold it with superlative contempt, the other with extreme abhorrence. Of what avails the meeting of a new Parliament, when we suspect the influence through which the members have been chosen? Of what avails the farce of division, when a numerous majority are ready, at the Minister's command, to vote away the salvation of the human species? Is there more of good to be expected from this Parliament than the last? If some of those iniquitous edicts which were passed by the late House of Commons should be repealed, the preservation of the Minister's head, not a regard for the interests of this country, will dictate the repeal. If a change of men should, for certain state reasons, be thought advisable, there is not the least degree of probability that, in a reign like this, a change of measures should take place; yet the one, without the other, would be show without substance. Is anything to be expected from the parties in opposition? Lord Chatham is the only man whose towering genius soars to the intellectual sun, and finds an universe of too small circumference for his vast mind to range in. Is there a chance that Lord Chatham should be Minister? No until this country shall be ingulphed in perdition; then, as to the last refuge from despair, will the people fly to Lord Chatham for political salvation. The advice of a skilful Physician is seldom taken until empiricks have endangered the life of the patient; a Jacobite junto must first destroy the commerce, abridge the liberty, lessen the dignity, and overturn the jurisprudence of England, before the King's stubborn virtue will be prevailed on to separate himself from the enemies of his crown. There seems, however, one consolation left; the King's friends wither like autumnal leaves, they drop off apace, they die, though not by the hands of public justice. Dyson's putrid remains are about to furnish rich manure for a churchyard soil; the owl (significant emblem of his sprightly genius) will shortly perch on his tombstone, and mope as chief mourner over his solitary virtues. But Bute, indeed, still skulks in a corner of life's theatre, and Jenkinson, his footman, yet puts manhood to the blush, by wearing its form; but Bradshaw found the friendship of his gracious master so insupportable that he preferred suicide to the intimacy, and cut his throat to get honourably rid of the connexion.