The Sun.
London, England, 1867-10-09 00:00:00

WILLIAM COBBETT.

Here we have a very distinct variety of the
Writing Man. As to poetry and philosophy, Cob-
bett held them in the most hearty and genuinek4
contempt. His ignorance of all that is highest in
literature was immense, and he was immensely
proud of it. The broad-shouldered, beetle-browed,
shrewd, indefatigable, self-esteeming, pugnacious,
obstinate man, unlearned and unimaginative,
crammed with prejudices and personal likings and
dislikings, looked upon his own practical common
sense as the final standard of everything in heaven
and earth. When he set up the Register Cobbett
was about forty years old, and he soon became a
political power in the kingdom, and a thorn, or a
whole bush of thorns, in the side of the ministry—
of every ministry in turn. He was never quiet for
a day, always fighting twenty people at a time, and
knocking them down in turn with his cudgel, like
Master Punch. In 1803 he came under two fines
of £5OO each for libels on members of the Irish
Government. Having begun as a partisan of Pitt,
he changed round (it was said under the effect of a
personal slight), attacked Pitt violently, and his
funding system; backed Sir Francis Burdett, and
became recognised as one of the leading " Radicals."
In 1810, for an article on the flogging of two
militiamen at Ely, he was prosecuted by the Crown,
fined £l,OOO, and sent to prison for two years. The
Register for July 14th is dated from " Newgate ;"
and the sturdy man is as full of courage and fight
as ever.

This work (he says), of which I now begin the
eighteenth volume, has had nothing to support it
but its own merits. Not a pound, not even a pound
in paper money, was ever expended in advertising
it. It came up like a grain of mustard, and like a
grain of mustard-seed it has spread over the
whole civilised world. And why has it spread
more than other publications of the same
kind? There have not been wanting imitations
of it. There have been some dozens of them I
believe ; same size, same form, same type, same
heads of matter, same title—all but the word
expressing my name. How many efforts have been
made to tempt the public away from me, while not
one attempt has been made by me to prevent it ;
Yet all have failed. The changeling has been dis-
covered and the wretched adventurers have then
endeavoured to wreak their vengeance on me. They
have sworn that I write badly ; that I publish no-
thing but trash ; that I am both fool and knave.
But still the readers hang on to me. One would

think, as Falstaff says, that I had given them love
powder. No ; but I have given them as great a
rarity, and something full as attractive—namely,
truth in clear language.

After his two Years-in prison, Cobbett emerged
again, pugnacious and undaunted, though not fifty
years old. He had a strong frame, perfect health,
and cheerful temperament, rose early, took plenty
of exercise, was very moderate in diet, eschewing
wine and spirits, tea and coffee, and also vegetables
(which he called " garden stuff"), and eating as
little meat and bread as he could prevail on his teeth
to be satisfied with; his drink beer, milk, and water.
He was very fond of farming, which he understood
well, and also of field sports, especially hunting•
During the middle part of his life he occupied for
some time a farm at Botley, in Hampshire. In his
family life he was one of the most fortunate of men•

I have seven children (he wrote), the greater part
of whom are fast approaching the state of young
men and young women. I never struck one of then%
in anger in my life ; and I recollect only one single
instance in which I have ever spoken to one of them
in a really angry tone and manner. And when I
had so done, it appeared as if my heart was gone
out of my body. It was but once, and I hope it
will never be again. . . . In my whole life I never
spent one evening away from my own home, and
without some part, at least, of my family, if I waS
not at a distance from that home.

COUNTRY MARKETS.