“They thought that this savage sentence would break my heart, or at least silence me for ever. It was, indeed, a bloody stab. They thought they had got rid of me. Just after the verdict of _guilty_ was found, Perceval met his brother-in-law Redesdale, at the portal of Westminster Hall. They shook hands, and gave each other joy!… Curtis[1] met Tierney in the Hall: ‘Ah! ah! we have got him at last,’ said Curtis. ‘Poor Cobbett! let him be bold now!’ The old place-hunter answered, ‘D--n him! I hope they’ll squeeze him!’ They did squeeze indeed; but their claws, hard as they were, did not squeeze hard enough.… The ruffians put me into prison in lucky time for me--put me into prison, and tied me to the stake of politics.” But let that pass. A prison is a prison. A convicted libeller is a convicted libeller. And, a convicted libeller having made his bed, let him lie upon it! The wretch should have taken into the account, when he made his stab at a merciful but just executive, that he ran the risk of being thrown into the enforced companionship of other villains. He had made his choice: it was not for him to complain that the logic of events had left him in jail, and that folks outside were laughing at him. Yes, let that pass, it is no concern of ours. That which it behoves us to consider--that which is infinitely more interesting to us--is this question, _What came of it all_? In the first place, before Mr. Cobbett was released, flogging had become so discredited as to be nearly in desuetude, as regards the British army. Secondly, the degrading practice was totally abolished in the United States army, by Act of Congress of April 10th, 1812. As was observed in a previous chapter, this topic was now uppermost in the public mind. And, as though sufficient warning had not been derived from the fate of Cobbett, a reckless provincial editor must needs court a similar martyrdom. This was Mr. Drakard, of the _Stamford News_, who admitted into his paper, of the 24th August, a bitter paragraph concerning “ONE THOUSAND LASHES;” a paragraph “of a nature so infamous, so seditious, and so dangerous, that no good man who heard it read could restrain his resentment,” &c. Of course. So, as Mr. Drakard had made his bed, he might lie upon it; which he did, for the space of eighteen months in Lincoln jail,[2]--for the sake of dear good men, who could not “restrain their resentment” at being told, that punishment and merciless barbarity were not convertible terms. Those were, indeed, good old times. If there is anything, more than another, which stamps mediocrity upon the governing men of that day (not excepting the “first gent.” himself), it is their persistent disregard of the affections of the people, as displayed in the measures entertained by the Legislature;[3] the callosity of heart and mind with which they faced any appeal to the better feelings of human nature, on behalf of the unnumbered and unwashed.