One singular incident of this period is the case of Miss Taylor; a lady who had, unfortunately for herself, to give evidence of her acquaintanceship with Mrs. Clarke. She, with her sister, had kept a school, and the two were earning a respectable livelihood. There was not the slightest ground for tainting her character; but, having to admit, upon a very unnecessary and malicious cross-examination, that she was not born in wedlock, the fathers and mothers of that moral, that highly-toned age, could not brook the notion of their children being educated by a ——, whatever name offended society chose to give her. Her appearance in the inquiry was the prelude to immediate ruin, for her pupils suddenly vanished; and, as the affair got into the papers, it was felt by some of the new “patriots” that, to some extent, she was a martyr to the cause. So they got up a subscription:[8] Mr. Cobbett leading the way; and she was eventually provided for. They should get husbands, he says in one of his letters, “in spite of the Morning Post.” But with his characteristic pertinacity, he will have the money invested in no treacherous “Scrip.” Lord Folkestone suggests India Bonds as a mode of investment; but Cobbett’s answer is that not one farthing of money, the disposal of which lies with him, shall ever be laid out, for one hour, in any India or Government security.
“I am fixed as a rock never to have any hand in doing anything that shall tend to keep the Funds and the Nabobs in countenance. It would be a pretty thing indeed for me to appeal to the compassion of the public, in order to raise the means of supporting these infernal impostures. No, I will do no such thing, and besides, I do not believe that the money would be secure.”
“… From the article which appeared in the Courier of Saturday, it is beyond a doubt that one of two things must have taken place; either a copy of the Register, or of proofs, must have been gotten out of Mr. Hansard’s office; or my ‘copy’ must have been read and copied at the post-office, previously to its going to you. This latter would not at all surprise me; and, indeed, I believe it to have been so. But I wish you to speak of it to Hansard, and ask him for answer, positively, whether, to his knowledge or belief, my copy did prematurely get out of the printing-office. Because, this is a thing to state. It is another striking instance of the desperateness of our opponents.
“The news from the continent[9] is not quite so good as we thought it. That rogue, Boney, will certainly put an extinguisher upon another venerable order of things, and we shall (Lord have mercy upon us!) have another gang of kings and princes to keep. It is odd enough that we never get a queen here. We may have the Queen of Naples anon, perhaps. ‘The Archduke Charles and George Rose’ is, I hear, a toast at Southampton, which really does make me hesitate before I decidedly pray for the archduke’s further ‘success,’ and before I draw out my handkerchief again to weep for the capture of Vienna. If George Rose wishes success to the Austrians, it is, I think, a pretty good proof that their success does not tend to our good. The sheep must necessarily have wishes in opposition to those of the wolf. I must confess that this toasting of old Rose along with the archduke has tended to make me somewhat more reconciled to the fate of the continent. What is good for the wolf must be bad for the sheep; and vice versa, as the learned say, what is good for George Rose must be bad for us. No matter what it is: if it be good for George Rose, it must be bad for us. Whatever makes the public-robbers weep ought to make us laugh; and it does make me laugh. Every blow that aims at their execrable power is a blow to be applauded by us, and by the king too, who is as badly treated as we are.
“I have a fine jackass, some pointers, and some beautiful merino sheep, sent me from Spain; and they are safely arrived. As I am very desirous of stinging the robbers, I wish it to be said in some of the newspapers that Mr. Cobbett has received a present ‘from Seville, of a jackass of the real royal blood, two brace of Andalusian pointers, and some merino sheep; the whole of which are said to be the most perfect of their kind of any that have ever been seen in this country.’ I should like very much to have this inserted in a paper or two, merely to enrage the rascals.
“The ass and the pointers I must send to London, for they were carried round by mistake. The sheep I have here, and most beautiful little things they are. I intend to breed from them.”
The “rascals” were now at work over the Court-Martial. As related in an early chapter of this history (vol. i. p. 63), a garbled account of the affair was being circulated broadcast over the country. Thousands of copies were sent into Hampshire; and bales of them were brought down by people from London, in their carriages, and tossed out to the passers-by.
For once in a while, then, Mr. Cobbett thinks it proper to notice the current calumny. Although it is obvious that the object of the attack is to discredit him, and thus endeavour to destroy the effect of his weekly writings, the story can be told in a different way when it is discovered that part of it has been suppressed; whilst the motive can, at the same time, be exposed and expounded. Here are Mr. Perceval and Lord Castlereagh conniving at the sale of seats in Parliament,[10] and being exposed to the world: is it any wonder that they should retaliate? Is it any wonder that they also find a story to tell?
But the Weekly Political Register having devoted twenty columns to a version of the story, which has truth and manliness in every sentence, and which throws still more light upon the meanness of its opponents: the thing drops out of sight and hearing! If anybody does bring it up again, it is only the exulting accused himself, who has found one more opportunity, at their own hands, of disconcerting his antagonists.