Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin, Bobbachy Bahawder," and an etc,, which the reader may fill at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments with which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these little festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did, Beckey's power over the baronet must have been extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Beckey's habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends: going to this one in tears with an account that there was an execution in the house; falling on her knees to that one, and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol, or commit suicide, unless such and such a bill could be paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many hundreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of the -th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers), and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable life, was also cited as one of Beckey's victims in the pecuniary way. People declared that she got money from various simply disposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidential appointments under government. Who knows what stories were or were not told of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is, that if she had had all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed, or stolen, she might have capitalized, and been honest for life, whereas-but this is advancing matters.

The truth is, that by economy and good management-by a sparing use of ready money, and by paying scarcely anybody-people can manage, for a time at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it is our belief that Beckey's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cook presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Beckey, and I warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her. If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and cannot pay-if we are to be peering into everybody's private life, speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure-why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would be. Every man's hand would be against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our houses would become caverns and we should go in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs, Louisquatorze gimcracks and old china, park hacks and splendid high-stepping carriage horses-all the delights of life, I say, would go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles, and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough we may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal unhung-but do we wish to hang him therefore? No; we shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good, we forgive him, and go and dine with him; and we

expect he will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes-civilization advances : peace is kept; new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.

[WILLIAM COBBETT, the son of a farmer at Farnham, in Surrey, was born in 1762. He died in 1835. Regarded almost universally as the bitterest and most unscrupulous of political partisans, he is acknowledged by all as having possessed a mind of extraordinary vigour, with a power of adapting his expressions to the comprehension of all in a manner that has never been surpassed. The following passages in which he speaks of himself are full of interest. It is now simply amusing to see how the fierceness of political hatred pervades all his writings.]

After living within a few hundred yards of Westminster Hall, and the abbey church, and the bridge, and looking from my own windows into St. James's Park, all other buildings and spots appear mean and insignificant. I went to-day to see the house I formerly occupied. How small! It is always thus: the words large and small are carried about with us in our minds, and we forget real dimensions. The idea, such as it was received, remains daring our absence from the object. When I returned to England in 1800, after an absence from the country parts of it for sixteen years, the trees, the hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small ! It made me laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called rivers! The Thames was but a 'creck!' But when in about a month after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully small! I had to cross in my postchaise the long and dreary heath of Bagshot. Then at the end of it, to mount a hill called Hungry Hill: and from that hill I knew that I should look down into the beautiful and fertile vale of Farnham. My heart fluttered with impatience, mixed with a sort of fear, to see all the scenes of my childhood; for I had learned before the death of my father and mother. There is a hill not far from the town, called Crooksbury Hill, which rises up out of a flat in the form of a cone, and is planted with Scotch fir-trees. Here I used to take the eggs and young ones of crows and magpies. This hill was a famous object in the neighbourhood. It served as the superlative degree of height. 'As high as Crooksbury Hill,' meant, with us, the utmost degree of height. Therefore the first object that my eyes sought was this hill. I could not believe my eyes! Literally speaking, I for a moment thought the famous hill removed, and a little heap put in its stead; for I had seen in New Brunswick a single rock, or hill of solid rock, ten times as big, and four or five times as high! The post-boy, going down hill, and not a bad road, whisked me in a few minutes to the Bush Inn, from the garden of which I could see the prodigious sand-hill, where I had begun my gardening works. What a nothing! But now came rushing into my mind all at once my pretty little garden, my little blue smock-frock, my little nailed shoes, my pretty pigeons that I used to feed out of my hands, the last kind words and tears of my gentle, and tender-hearted, and affectionate mother! I hastened back into the room. If I had looked a moment longer I should have dropped. When I came to reflect, what a change! I looked down at my dress. What a change! What scenes I had gone through! How altered my state! I had dined the day before at a secretary of state's in company with Mr. Pitt, and had been waited upon by men in gaudy liveries! I had had nobody to assist me in the world. No teachers of any sort. Nobody to shelter me from the consequence of bad, and no one to counsel me to good behaviour. I felt proud. The distinctions of rank, birth, and wealth, all became nothing in my eyes; and from that

moment (less than a month after my arrival in England) I resolved never to bend before them.

The landlady sent her son to get me some cream, and he was just such a chap as I was at his age, and dressed just in the same sort of way, his main garment being a blue smock-frock, faded from wear, and mended with pieces of new stuff, and, of course, not faded. The sight of this smock-frock brought to my recollection many things very dear to me. This boy will, I dare say, perform his part at Billinghurst, or at some place not far from it. If accident had not taken me from a similar scene, how many villains and fools, who have been well teazed and tormented, would have slept in peace at night, and have fearlessly swaggered about by day! When I look at this little chap; at his smock-frock, his nailed shoes, and his clean, plain and coarse shirt, I ask myself, will any thing, I wonder, ever send this chap across the ocean to tackle the base, corrupt, perjured republican judges of Pennsylvania? Will this little lively, but, at the same time, simple boy, ever become the terror of villains and hypocrites across the Atlantic?

The following extracts are from the Rural Rides':—

At Bower I got instructions to go to Hawkley, but accompanied with most earnest advice not to go that way, for that it was impossible to get along. The roads were represented as so bad, the floods so much out; the hills and bogs so dangerous; that, really, I began to doubt; and, if I had not been brought up among the clays of the Holt Forest and the bogs of the neighbouring heaths, I should certainly have turned off to my right, to go over Hindhead, great as was my objection to going that way. "Well then," said my friend, at Bower, "If you will go that way, you must go down Hawkley Hanger;" of which he then gave me such a description! But, even this I found to fall short of the reality. I inquired simply whether people were in the habit of going down it; and the answer being in the affirmative, on I went through green lanes, and bridle ways till I came to the turnpike-road from Petersfield to Winchester, which I crossed, going into a narrow and almost untrodden green-lane, on the side of which I found a cottage. Upon my asking the way to Hawkley, the woman at the cottage said, "Right up the lane, sir: you'll come to a hanger presently: you must take care, sir: you can't ride down; will your horses go alone?"

On we trotted up this pretty green lane, and, indeed, we had been coming gently and generally up hill for a good while. The lane was between highish banks, and pretty high stuff growing on the banks, so that we could see no distance from us, and could receive not the smallest hint of what was so near at hand. The lane had a little turn towards the end, so that out we came, all in a moment, at the very edge of the hanger. And never in all my life was I so surprised and so delighted. Ι pulled up my horse, and sat and looked; and it was like looking from the top of a castle down into the sea, except that the valley was land, and not water. I looked at my servant, to see what effect this unexpected sight had upon him; his surprise was as great as mine, though he had been bred amongst the North Hampshire hills. Those who had so strenuously dwelt on the dirt and dangers of this route, had said not a word about the beauties, the matchless beauties, of the scenery. These hangers are woods on the sides of very steep hills. The trees and underwood hang, in some sort, to the ground, instead of standing on it. Hence these places are called hangers. From the summit of that which I had now to descend, I looked down upon the villages of Hawkley, Greatham, Selborne, and some others.

From the south-east, round, southward, to the north-west, the main valley has cross valleys running out of it, the hills on the sides of which are very steep, and

in many parts covered with wood. The hills that form these cross valleys run out into the main valley like piers into the sea. Two of these promontories of great height, are on the west side of the main valley, and were the first objects that struck my sight when I came to the edge of the hanger, which was on the south. The ends of these promontories are nearly perpendicular, and their tops so high in the air, that you cannot look at the village below without something like a feeling of apprehension. The leaves are all off, the hop-poles are in stack, the fields have little verdure; but, while the spot is beautiful beyond description even now, I must leave to imagination to suppose what it is when the trees, and hangers, and hedges are in leaf, the corn waving, the meadows bright, and the hops upon the poles.

From the south-west, round, eastward, to the north, lie the heaths, of which Woolmer Forest makes a part, and these go gradually rising up to Hindhead, the crown of which is to the north-west, leaving the rest of the circle (the part from north to north-west) to be occupied by a continuation of the valley, towards Headley, Binstead, Frensham, and the Holt Forest; so that even the contrast in the view from the top of the hanger is as great as can possibly be imagined. Men, however, are not to have such beautiful views as this without some trouble. We had had the view, but we had to go down the hanger: we had, indeed, some roads to get along as we could, afterwards, but we had to get down the hanger first. The horses took the lead, and crept down partly upon their feet and partly upon their hocks. It was extremely slippery too, for the soil is a sort of marle, or, as they call it here, maume, or mame, which is, when wet, very much like gray soap. In such a case it was likely that I should keep in the rear, which I did, and I descended by taking hold of the branches of the underwood, and so letting myself down.

361.-RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods;
The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters,

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors:

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;

The grass is bright with rain-drops ;-on the moors

The hare is running races in her mirth;

And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a traveller then upon the moor;

I saw the hare that raced about with joy;

I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy :
The pleasant season did my heart employ :
My old remembrances went from me wholly ;

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
As high as we have mounted in delight

WORDSWORTH.

In our dejection do we sink as low,

To me that morning did it happen so ;

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;

Dim sadness—and blind thought, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the skylark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare :
Even such a happy child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call,

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;

Of him who walked in glory and in joy

Following his plough, along the mountain side:
By our own spirits are we deified:

We poets in our youth begin in gladness :

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given,

Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven

I saw a man before me unawares :

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie,

Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,

By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself.
Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep-in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,

Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood:

And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood