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armed with a rusty cutlass, and was placed in the centre of a circle made by the crew, right in front of the Captain and other officers.

"So, you poor miserable-looking good-for-nothing devil," exclaimed Captain Switchem, with a most brilliant display of teeth," you must get drunk, must you-and you love it so well that you will even steal for it. Very good, Mister Crockfort, very pretty work, indeed, and mighty well deserving its reward. There is drunkenness for one thing-and there is theft-and by Gad, sir, both of the very worst description-hem-all very good, to be sure.-I believe, my lads, I've told you repeatedly already, that I never will forgive either of these crimes, even when singly committed; now, here is a rascal who dares me to a proof of my words, by committing both at one and the same time, aggravated most heinously by an open and a daring breach of that trust his masterreposed in him-I am glad, however, I have caught him-he shall feel, and all of you shall see, that I am not to be trifled with, but can as readily perform as make a promise.-Quartermasters, seize him up-Strip, you drunken scoundrel!-strip in an instant!"

Surrounded by so numerous an attendance, the unfortunate shaver was stripped to the buff, and stood lashed to the grating, in a few moments. He now began to whimper, and "Oh! my dear good sir, pardon me!-God bless your honour, just this one time!Dear, dear, Mr Fyke, Heaven bless you, do speak a good word for me!" were all he could articulate 'mid the suffocating heavings of his throbbing heart. But Captain Switchem was inexorable, and the barber's fearful plaints seemed to serve no other purpose than that of adding fuel to his rising fury. Dis playing his well-formed teeth with a prominence that could only be exceeded by an angry cur, he smiled, or rather exultingly grinned, over this unfortunate lover of alcohol, with what appeared to our hero to be the ferocity of a fiend-" Boatswain's-mate!" he exclaimed, "Where's Bird ?-ayhere, Bird, take your station, sir, and stand by to bang that rascal soundly. You've the thief's cat-ay, just so Now let me see you acquit yourself like a man; and let the scoundrel feel what it is that a thief and a drunkard VOL. XV.

deserves.-Hark ye, Fudgeforit, hand me the Articles of War-D'ye hear, sir-come, quick, quick!"

"Off hats!" bawled the first Lieutenant.

"Any officer, mariner, or soldier," read Captain Switchem, combining two articles in one," who shall be guilty of drunkenness when on duty, or shall steal and purloin any stores committed to his charge, shall suffer death-D'ye hear that, you rascal?

shall suffer death, or such other punishment as they or he shall be deemed worthy to deserve-D'ye hear that, I say, you drunken thieving blackguard? Don't you hear, that were you worth my labour, or the value of a halter, I could run you up this minute to the yard's arm?-But I'll take another way with you-Boatswain's-mate, go on.-D-n your puling-there was none of that in your head when you were robbing your master.-Serjeant, attend to your glass, and mind me, you see it stiffly run out;--and you, Bird, mind what I say, I'll have no feints nor shuffling-do you your duty, and do it well, or God pity you."

After such repeated exhortations, it need hardly be doubted that Tom Bird gave his first lash in the most stylish mode of nautical costume, and that with such hearty good will, as to call forth a succession of shrieks from the hapless sufferer.

"One!" sung the serjeant of marines, and turned his quarter minute glass.

Bird, after threading the tails of his cat through his fingers, now watched the glass in the serjeant's hand with their ends in his left, then making them spin round his head, while he whirled on his heel, he gave his second lash, echoed as before by the fearful yells of the barber, now completely alive to the horrors of his situation.

"Two!" cried the serjeant, as cool as a cucumber, again turning his glass.

But enough of this ;-for, true it is, that though we are anxious to be impartial historians, we confess we shrink with horror from this Thurtell-like guzzling in blood. Not that we wish to appear sentimental, or make the slightest pretension to the possession of those very delicate and tremblingly alive feelings so much the rage in the dandy school of the present day. Far from it. We thank God we are made of commoner and firmer metal-ge28

nuine home-spun gear-that can both take and lose a trifle of what is called the claret on occasions without wincing -and that never had nor ever will have the smallest objection to see it flow, however liberally, when it flows in fair and honest even-handed fighting, either in the cause of honour, or the more glorious one of King and Country. We would rather be understood to make it from a mingled feeling of the utmost hatred and detestation ; because, in all our experience, we know to a certainty it never made a bad man good, but vice versa-because it is an old tottering wreck of the days of barbarism, now, thank God, nearly exploded, whose utter ruin we would gladly accelerate-and, lastly, because in every shape, and in all its bearings, we think it a cool, cowardly, contemptible waste of human blood, which might be spent to far better purpose in other and equally degrading situations.

We will, therefore, gladly leave it to the imagination of our readers to form an idea of the unfortunate barber at the conclusion of his third dozen-his back, as it were, invested with a cross-belt of the deepest crimson-bleeding, breathless, speechless, almost giving up the ghost." But, courage, my lad!-there is a vast deal sometimes shouldered in betwixt the cup and the lip,”so sung the

"Sweet little cherub that sits up aloft," and never was it more forcibly exemplified than on the present occasion, to the infinite satisfaction of all hands.

Captain Switchem, naturally a severe disciplinarian, seemed seriously determined to have his five dozen out of the scoundrel, as he termed his halfsenseless delinquent, when, just as he had pronounced the words, "Another, boatswain's-mate!" to commence his fourth dozen, the man at the mast head sung out, "On deck there!"

em.

"Hilloah!" echoed Captain Switch

[March,

"A sail to windward!" replied the lookout.

the captain.-" Young Pinafore, jump "What does she look like?" rejoined for my glass."

is square rigged!" bawled down the "A ship, or a brig at the least-She lookout.

Captain, leaping on the forecastle, glass "Point to her, my lad!" cried the in hand.

the desired direction, the Captain's opThe man stretched out his arm in tics caught the object, and that instant the feast of blood was at an end.

"Hark'ee, Fyke," cried the Captain, and that with as much speed as you hurrying aft, "make sail, if you please, can.-Master Fireball, get your gear in readiness.-Come, come, hurry that go look after him.-You carpenters, scoundrel below; and do you, Doctor, forit, take this hanger and these things away with your trumpery.-Fudgehead?-ay-that's a good boy-northbelow.-Quarter-master, how lies her lad-keep her full-steady, there's a west and by north-steady, steady, my good fellow !"-Such were now the exclamations of Captain Switchem, whose whole thoughts appeared to run in a fresh channel from this fortunate occurrence, and the poor barber seemed completely forgotten.

By the able directions of Lieutenant Fyke, and the most strenuous exertions of her lively ship's company, the Tottumfog was speedily put to her utmost stretch, under every inch of canvass she could carry and no long period of time elapsed before she made ground rapidly on her chase, which it evidently appear, that she gained deck, bearing away under a heavy press was now to be plainly seen from the of sail. In this situation we will leave them, and call a halt, referring such of our readers as please, for a particu lar detail of their meeting, to our Twelfth Chapter.

S.

THE EDINBURGH REVIEW. NO. LXXVIII.

ARTICLES 1. AND IX.

The State of Europe, and the Holy Alliance.

ENGLAND is an inexhaustible source of wonders. If the philosopher wish to know what stupendous miracles human nature is capable of accomplishing, and to what amazing heights of virtue it can ascend, he must look at England;-if he wish to know the utmost extent of folly that it can display, and the lowest depth of profligacy that it can sink to, he must still look at England. If he wish to know how glorious splendid talents can become, and how guilty and infamous they can make themselves-how devoutly merit can be worshipped, and how unrelentingly it can be immolated -how wisely earthly blessings can be used, and how foolishly they can be abused-how nicely truth and honour can be scrutinized, and how blindly falsehood and infamy can be followed -and how far knowledge and ignorance, sagacity and foolishness, worth and worthlessness, and purity and wickedness, can exist together, he must find the knowledge in our extraordinary country.

The Edinburgh Review ostensibly exists as one of the supreme censors of the British press. Its avowed object is to sit in judgment upon the literature of the country-to take cognizance of every work that is published, worthy of notice, not merely with regard to its literary execution, but also with respect to the opinions which it inculcates, moral and political. It thus plainly tells the world, whether the world will believe it or not, that the press ought not to be free, that the people are not capable of judging for themselves, and that the country ought to be guided by it, in determining what works ought to circulate, what principles ought to be taught, and what creeds ought to be believed in. It proclaims itself to be an exclusive director of public opinion, which in this country directs or drives before it everything else; and it likewise proclaims itself to be the inquisitor general of the literary race, anxious and able to protect and cover with glory all who shall write what it wishes to be written; and equally anxious and able to break on the wheel all who shall dare to

publish-not what is contrary to truth and wisdom-but what it decides ought not to be published. The familiars and other functionaries of this inquisition are nameless and irresponsible; and its victims, to whatever extent they may be robbed and tortured, are left altogether without means of redress.

That such a tribunal should dispense justice, or anything but the grossest injustice, is morally impossible. One rival, or else one friend, is to decide upon the merits of another. Brougham must be the judge of Canning's oratory-Byron, of Southey's poetry-Jeffrey, of Brougham's politics. All must be done upon this principle; and, of course, personal hostility or friendship must have the chief hand in drawing up the sentence, more especially when the name is concealed, and the sentence goes forth to the world as that of a body. That such a tribunal should produce anything but the worst consequences, is impossible. The railings of jealousy, envy, and hatred; the falsehoods of mercenary ambition, and the ravings of drunken fanaticism, assume the garb of sober truth and impartiality, and go forth to mankind as the judg ments of a court, disinterested, upright, and unerring. The doctrines of this tribunal are before the eyes of all, and however false and baleful they may be, writers know, that if they dare to dispute, and do not conform to them, their works must be in a great degree suppressed, and their feelings placed under the harrow. Whatever, therefore, conscience may say, interest and terror compel a large portion of the writing world to propagate the doctrines of this tribunal, or to remain silent; and the liberty of the press becomes only a name, or the means of establishing a literary tyranny of the worst kind. Speak of a government censorship!-Such a censorship would be a blessing to authors, compared with that which is exercised by a Review like this.

We rail against censorships-protest that the liberty of the press is one of our greatest blessings-lavish the

most sickening praises on literary genius-clamour for the pure administration of justice-execrate all invaders of individual rights-and still we tolerate, and even reverence, these Reviews! This is one of the remarkable things that are to be met with in this country.

The Edinburgh Review was established by, and is wholly in the hands of, men who proclaim themselves to be the exclusive champions of the liberty of the press, and who declaim every hour of their lives against the Attorney General, the laws against libel, and all who would enforce these laws; and yet, at the very moment when they are doing this, these canting, hypocritical wretches are crushing some struggling son of genius-suppressing his work-torturing him blasting his fair fame-snatching away the bread from the lips of his starving family and destroying his hopes, merely because he dares to differ from them in religious and political opinions. This is not done in a corner, but the declamation and the foul crime are displayed to the world by the very same sheet of paper! Yet the Edinburgh Review is still endured, and its writers are still thought by some to be the friends of the liberty of the press, and even to be honest men. This is another of the wonderful things that are to be found in England.

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The Edinburgh Review, during the late terrible war, was the unprincipled apologist and champion of the enemies of England. It fought not merely against the ministry, but against the nation, in that momentous contest for national existence. It avowed principles and feelings wholly alien to everything English, and actually loathsome to the English heart. Every assertion, argument, and prediction, that it ventured to put forth, was decisively refuted to the conviction of all men living, and it was overwhelmed with scorn and ignominy; yet this Review still exists! This is another of the singular things that may be observed in this country.

The Edinburgh Review calls itself a champion of national freedom, a philanthropist, a defender of the rights of mankind; and yet, since the peace, it has been the brazen-faced eulogist of Buonaparte. It has extenuated, and even justified his deeds of blood and ra

pine-his robberies and usurpationsthe grinding tyranny which he established, and his relentless war against all that can elevate and bless human nature. It has allied itself with the Rump of the French Jacobins-laboured to light up civil war in every country in Europe-zealously fanned the discontent and disaffection at home

and ceaselessly attacked some of our most sacred constitutional principles, and best national institutions; yet it is still read, and, according to report, is even countenanced by certain British peers and senators. This is another of the amazing wonders which England exhibits.

The Edinburgh Review calls itself a censor of the British press-a pure and impartial judge-the scourge of every man who may dare to make the press subservient to his personal animosity, his party interests, or anything but the cause of truth and justice; yet it is a blushless, lawless, furious, fanatical party publication, and it constantly sacrifices everything, belonging either to itself or others, to the interests of its party. The bloodhounds of faction have lately gathered round the Lord Chancellor a man eminent, almost above all others, for splendid talents, prodigious learning, spotless virtue, length and importance of public services, and everything else that can give pre-eminence -a man who, almost above all others, ought to have his last hours gilded by the united homage of all parties, and the affection and reverence of the nation at large. This attack is understood to have originated in feelings which men of honour cannot act upon. The Edinburgh Review has opened its columns to the personal enemies of this spotless and venerable nobleman; it has become the minister of coolblooded private pique and revenge, to deprive the country of his services, to deprive him of his country's esteem, and to bind him, in the last moments of his existence, on the blood-stained altar of party malignity and madness; yet this Review has still, not merely one reader, but some hundreds! This is another of the astonishing things that are to be met with in England.

It is because this Review, contrary to every feeling which ought to influence English bosoms, is still read in some quarters, that we notice the two articles of the last number, which

are specified at the head of this paper. They are, in effect, both on one subject; they relate to matters which involve the best interests both of this country and of all Europe, and they will enable us to give such farther illustration of the character and tendency of the work, as will, we would fain hope, induce every honest and publicspirited man to cast it from him for

ever.

Our readers, we are sure, will well remember the soul-stirring moments which concluded the war. For the honour of our country, we fervently trust that there is scarcely a man in it, whose breast does not yet throb with transport when he dwells upon the enthusiasm, not more fervid and universal, than holy-the efforts not more gigantic than virtuous-the triumphs alike stupendous and spotless -and the rapture equally boundless and pure, of that glorious and hallowed period. It seemed to be indeed the Millennium. The tyranny which had so long filled a quarter of the globe with blood, and tears, and devastation, and misery, was crushed; and the foul principles which had engendered it, and by which it had scourged all nations, were trampled in the dust. Extinguished countries-razed altars destroyed thrones-proscribed creeds, and banished dynasties, sprung, as by the command of Omnipotence, from the blazing fragments of this tyranny, to carry peace where it was sighed for, and to fill Europe with unmingled happiness. Subline were the triumphs of the arm, but far more sublime were the triumphs of the heart; the armies, battles, and victories, though surpassing all that the earth had ever seen, still exceeded not the admitted capabilities of mankind; but the gigantic array of virtue and wisdom the magnificent show of everything that proves the heavenly origin of mansurpassed all that mankind was thought capable of displaying. Religion was led back to her temple, not by priests, but by laymen; not by kings, but by people; not by one country, but by all Europe; and all nations prostrated themselves before her, to solemnly abjure the creed of the French Revolution, and to declare that the world could only be rendered happy by practising her precepts. Public faith and individual probity

were recalled, and re-invested with their lost reputation and authorityinjuries were repaid with bountiesvengeance only sought to enrich and bless its object-ambition, cupidity, and the kindred passions, seemed to be deprived of existence-and Europe only presented a splendid overflow of glory, virtue, and joy. Even the Buonapartean Whigs, with the Liberal Edinburgh Review dangling at their skirts, borne down and swept involuntarily away by the tide, were among the loudest, in lauding all that was done, and in chaunting the praise of the British Ministers and the Continental Monarchs—the dethroners of Buonaparte, and proscribers of liberal opinions. Never before did the world exhibit, and never perhaps will it again exhibit, a spectacle so grand and affecting. Two hundred millions of men were seen linked together in the bonds of brotherly affection, rivalling each other in the display of godlike actions, and partaking, in common, of felicity. One individual only of the number was, at Elba, enslaved and wretched-cursing the scene before him-and employing every moment that he could snatch from agony and frenzy, in framing schemes for again involving Europe in blood and hor

rors.

Our readers, we are sure, well remember the ground on which the High Allied Powers went, from first to last, at that memorable epoch. They never for a moment separated the tyranny and crimes of Buonaparte, from the principles which had produced them: their war was throughout directed, as much against the one, as the other. In their proclamations, they again and again traced the deeds of the tyrant to their source; and proved, both by deduction, and by pointing to the experience of thirty years, that a governinent founded on the revolutionary principles on which that of Buonaparte stood, could only exist to be a curse to the world. They inscribed the most opposite ones on their banners; their rallying cry was

Old feelings, opinions, and institutions!-the very objects that Liberalism had been so long labouring to destroy-and this alone marshalled millions around them. In the decisive hour of victory, they called on Europe to renounce revolutionary opinions for

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