ch, indeed, no somnambulist is
bound to recollect. Ought Mr. Sayers to be honored for being brave, or
punished for being naughty? By the shade of Brutus the elder, I don't
know.

In George II.'s time, there was a turbulent navy lieutenant (Handsome
Smith he was called--his picture is at Greenwich now, in brown velvet,
and gold and scarlet; his coat handsome, his waistcoat exceedingly
handsome; but his face by no means the beauty)--there was, I say, a
turbulent young lieutenant who was broke on a complaint of the French
ambassador, for obliging a French ship of war to lower her topsails to
his ship at Spithead. But, by the King's orders, Tom was next day made
Captain Smith. Well, if I were absolute king, I would send Tom Sayers
to the mill for a month, and make him Sir Thomas on coming out of
Clerkenwell. You are a naughty boy, Tom! but then, you know, we ought
to love our brethren, though ever so naughty. We are moralists, and
reprimand you; and you are hereby reprimanded accordingly. But in case
England should ever have need of a few score thousand champions, who
laugh at danger; who cope with giants; who, stricken to the ground, jump
up and gayly rally, and fall, and rise again, and strike, and die rather
than yield--in case the country should need such men, and you should
know them, be pleased to send lists of the misguided persons to the
principal police stations, where means may some day be found to utilize
their wretched powers, and give their deplorable energies a right
direction. Suppose, Tom, that you and your friends are pitted against an
immense invader--suppose you are bent on holding the ground, and dying
there, if need be--suppose it is life, freedom, honor, home, you are
fighting for, and there is a death--dealing sword or rifle in your hand,
with which you are going to resist some tremendous enemy who challenges
your championship on your native shore? Then, Sir Thomas, resist him to
the death, and it is all right: kill him, and heaven bless you. Drive
him into the sea, and there destroy, smash, and drown him; and let
us sing Laudamus. In these national cases, you see, we override the
indisputable first laws of morals. Loving your neighbor is very well,
but suppose your neighbor comes over from Calais and Boulogne to rob you
of your laws, your liberties, your newspapers, your parliament (all of
which SOME dear neighbors of ours have given up in the most self-denying
manner): suppose any neighbor were to c