WILLIAM COBBETT.

William Cobbett, the raciest of all English political writers, was born in 1762. He was a soldier, a farmer, and a man of letters, a kind of Radical and a kind of Tory, a thinker of much shrewd sense and much absurd prejudice. He died in 1835. The directness and vigour of his expression are delightful.

THE WICKED BOROUGH-MONGERS.

AND, then, think of the tithes ! I have talked to several

farmers here about the tithes in England; and, they laugh. They sometimes almost make me angry; for they seem, at last, not to believe what I say, when I tell them, that the English farmer gives, and is compelled to give, the parson a tenth part of his whole crop, and of his fruit and milk and eggs and calves and lambs and pigs and wool and honey. They cannot believe this. They treat it as a sort of romance. I sometimes, God forgive me! almost wish them to be farmers in England. I said to a neighbour the other day, in half anger: "I wish your farm were at Botley. There is a fellow there, who would soon let you know, that your fine apple trees do not belong to you. He would have his nose in your sheep-fold, your calf-pens, your milk-pail, your sow's bed, if not in the sow herself. Your daughters would have no occasion to hunt out the hen's nests : he would do that for them." And then I gave him a proof of an English parson's vigilance by telling him the story of Baker's peeping out the name, marked on the sack, which the old woman was wearing as a petticoat. To another of my neigh

bours, who is very proud of the circumstance of his grandfather having been an Englishman, as, indeed, most of the Americans are, who are descended from Englishmen ; to this neighbour I was telling the story about the poor woman at Holly Hill, who had nearly dipped her rushes once too often. He is a very grave and religious man. He looked very seriously at me, and said, that falsehood was falsehood, whether in jest or earnest. But, when I invited him to come to my house, and told him, that I would show him the acts which the borough-villains had made to put us in jail if we made our own soap and candles, he was quite astounded. "What!" said he, "and is old England really come to this! Is the land of our forefathers brought to this state of abject slavery! Well, Mr. Cobbett, I confess, that I was always for King George, during our Revolutionary war; but, I believe, all was for the best; for, if I had had my wishes, he might have treated us as he now treats the people of England." "He," said I, "it is not he; he, poor man, does nothing to the people, and never has done anything to the people. He has no power more than you have. None of his family have any. All put together, they have not a thousandth part so much as I have; for I am able, though here, to annoy our tyrants, to make them less easy than they would be; but, these tyrants care no more for the Royal Family than they do for so many posts or logs of wood." And then I explained to him who and what the borough-mongers were, and how they oppressed us and the king too. I told him how they disposed of the church livings, and, in short, explained to him all their arts and all their cruelties. He was exceedingly shocked; but was glad, at any rate, to know the truth.

Letter to the People of Botley.

P. 266, I. 4. The story turns on the fact that rushlights could be made with out interference by the Excise, but candles could not. An exciseman, probably in joke, had told the woman that if she had given her rushes one dip more she must have gone to jail.

D.

ANNE RADCLIFFE.

Anne Ward, who married a journalist named Radcliffe, was born in London in 1764, and died there in 1823. Her famous novels, once extolled to the skies, then ridiculed, now respected but little read, were all published in less than ten years, and she never wrote herself out. They show real power, marred chiefly by prolixity, and by repetition of dubious means of impressing.

EMILY'S MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE.

URING the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubts and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt, and anxiety for herself, alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she had decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike eleven-twelveand yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now come, when she could hesitate no longer and then the interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly still, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars, and by the catching lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some person moving in the distant obscurity of

the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and, charging Annette not to quit it, and to keep it a little open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which she did not dare to take herself, because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Everything was so still, that she feared lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through the gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, through which he had entered the terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was certain that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately recollected a former conversation of Annette, con

cerning it, with very unpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the roof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific. Emily's heart sank; but she still followed him, and he turned out of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. Down these steps, lady, said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous tone, whither he was conducting her.

To the portal, said Barnardine.

Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal? said Emily.

No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to unlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.

Emily still hesitated: fearing not only to go on, but, since she had gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go farther.

Come, lady, said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the flight, make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.

Whither do these steps lead? said Emily, yet pausing.

To the portal, repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone; I will wait no longer. As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing to provoke him by farther delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews; and the vapours, that crept along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find his way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he then rested against a pair of iron gates that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and near her, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround