(by the ghost of John Beauchamp Jones)
Another day, and the storm has not ab
ated, though the streets are quieter under arms. Soldiers stand sentinel at every approach to the Capitol, their rifles slung, their helmets stark in the winter sun. Barricades rise where open avenues once welcomed the citizen, and patrols pace the marble steps as if guarding a fortress against siege. Thus is liberty’s house preserved, but at the cost of liberty’s ease.
In every paper and proclamation, the nation’s shame is rehearsed. The images of the invaders, some now captured, others still at large, circulate through the land. Their painted faces, their coarse attire, their crude gestures within the sacred chamber, are held up as tokens of disgrace. And yet, among a portion of the multitude beyond these walls, there remains a spirit of justification, as though the outrage were no outrage, but some desperate act of patriotism. Such delusion is more grievous than the deed itself, for it portends repetition.
The President, censured yesterday, now finds his platform stripped away by the very instruments he once wielded. His messages, which fanned the flames, are silenced by decree of the companies that govern the new channels of discourse. Here is a spectacle strange to my eyes — private consortia exercising a censorship more sudden than any edict of state. It is said to be done in the name of order, yet I cannot but note the precedent: the arbiters of communication now sit not in Congress, but in mercantile halls of immense fortune.
Meanwhile, whispers of impeachment grow into open demand. Members speak of urgent proceedings, lest further mischief be contrived in the waning days of his term. The republic, once so proud of its peaceful transfers, now staggers toward an end of administration like unto a trial by combat.
Thus the city waits, anxious and watchful. The people tremble between hope and dread, and the world looks on astonished, that a nation so mighty in arms should be brought so low by discord within its own bosom.