and we have seen, with delight, a mob chase him through the streets of
London and threaten his very life. But we have not only pardoned, but
even praised, our favourite wit for far worse conduct than this. Even if
we allow, which we do not, chat the queen was one half as bad as her
enemies, or rather her husband's parasites, would make her out, we
cannot forgive the men who, shielded by their incognito, and perfectly
free from danger of any kind, set upon a woman with libels, invectives,
ballads, epigrams, and lampoons, which a lady could scarcely read, and
of which a royal lady, and many an English gentlewoman, too, were the
butts.

The vilest of all the vile papers of that day was the 'John Bull,' now
settled down to a quiet periodical. Perhaps the real John Bull, heavy,
good-natured lumberer as he is, was never worse represented than in this
journal which bore his name, but had little of his kindly spirit. Hook
was its originator, and for a long time its main supporter. Scurrility,
scandal, libel, baseness of all kinds formed the fuel with which it
blazed, and the wit, bitter, unflinching, unsparing, which puffed the
flame up, was its chief recommendation.

No more disgraceful climax was ever reached by a disgraceful dynasty of
profligates than that which found a King of England--long, as Regent,
the leader of the profligate and degraded--at war with his injured
Queen. None have deserved better the honest gratitude of their country
than those who, like Henry Brougham, defended the oppressed woman in
spite of opposition, obloquy, and ridicule.

But we need not go deeply into a history so fresh in the minds of all,
as that blot which shows John Bull himself upholding a wretched
dissipated monarch against a wife, who, whatever her faults, was still a